My name is Beth! I hope you will join me on my adventures as I share my thoughts and writings on coziness minimalism, and life. So grab a cup of tea, mug of coffee, or glass of wine and let’s talk cozy!
On my last visit to the American Museum of Natural History, a year and a half ago, I arrived at the Hall of Ocean Life just as the security staff was closing it to the public to set up for a private event. So much for saving the best for last, I’d thought, feeling disappointed. This time around, I made sure to make it my first priority.
I stroll along the mezzanine level of the gallery, my boots silent on the carpet, taking a good long look at my old friend, the big blue whale. Suspended from the arched ceiling in simulated mid-swim, this giant will never fail to impress me. A bench beneath a model of a, relatively, small squid with razor-sharp tentacles beckons me toward it. I oblige, already sure my feet will be giving me hassle by the time the day’s exploring is through. That’s what poor planning will do though, what coming on a whim to a sprawling museum in New York City in inappropriate shoes will do, that is.
I take my time sitting here on the squid’s bench, with the whale for company. I make wary eye contact, my imagination immersing us both in the ocean with the help of the muted lighting and the adventurous soundscape emanating from the speakers nearby. You look tired today old friend, I think, but maybe I’m just projecting.
A mom walks past with her little kids. “Ooh, look at the jellyfish!” she says to her daughter.
To be small and full of imagination in such a place of many wonders as this one. One of life’s greatest adventures, to be sure.
I abandon my bench after a while and visit the Antarctic Ocean Bottom diorama nearby which houses the aforementioned jellyfish, which is enormous. I read that due to the extreme cold temperatures and slower metabolisms, creatures living in this environment can grow to be many times larger and live many times longer than their warm water counter parts. For instance, a sea spider which may be invisible to the naked eye in a coral reef environment, could be the size of a dinner plate in Antarctic waters. Fun.
My eyes dart to Big Blue every couple of minutes. My mission is to take my time with the place on this visit. I complete the mezzanine loop and head down the stairs to the lower gallery. The manatee draws me in, my spirit animal, as Mike and I have joked in the past.
I pause at each display on my way to join a small crowd that has formed in the back corner, where a museum staff member is shining a flashlight on a dark, glassless display case. The Squid and the Whale. The scene portrays a fight to the death in the dark depths of the ocean. I’m happy not to have to stand here by myself.
Before heading onto my next stop, which is yet to be determined, a video on a large screen grabs my attention. It is about blue whales and how these creatures, the most massive animals living on the planet today, are able to thrive because of their efficiency in feeding. I learn that the lines on the creatures throat mark an expandable pouch that they fill with water and prey as they swim, unable to take another mouthful until the water filters out and they have swallowed back their meal. I wouldn’t want to find myself too near one in the ocean, I decide. With one last wary look, I move on.
I’m working my way up to facing a particular display case in the Hall of Biodiversity, but I’m not ready just yet. Instead, I wander past the magnified Life of the Forest Floor display that used to terrify me as a kid with its giant millipede, daddy long legs, and ant, each enlarged to 24 times their natural size, and into The North American Forests permanent exhibit. This one has never really captivated my attention until now. There’s a first time for everything though.
I explore the intricate forest dioramas, sweeping my gaze between the tree trunks, the wild brush and along the forest floor, up into the branches that hide little elusive creatures, and to the painted backdrops beyond. I take a seat on a wooden bench beside a diorama depicting a Northern Spruce and Fir environment, a safe distance from a mosquito that is attempting to rival the creatures in the Antarctic Ocean Bottom case in its enormity.
Sitting here, among the trees, I feel a sense of calm. I look up and spot a marten in the branches and remember a Scottish Highlands episode of Escape to the Country which I’ve watched more times than is socially acceptable probably. I am living in my head and I am at peace with it.
I wind through the rest of the exhibit. Two women are reading half of a plaque that pertains to a gargantuan slice of a Giant Sequoia’s trunk on display.
“This tree is a thousand years old,” one says with awe, “Amazing.”
I read the plaque when they are gone and two more women come up.
“It’s all about the rings,” says one to the other. She’s out of breath from rushing about.
Circle, circle, circle. Tap, tap, says her finger decisively on the picture on the plaque before she darts on to whatever she plans to breeze through next, not noticing that encased along with the description of the sequoia is a slice of a much smaller tree trunk that was 1500 years old when it was cut.
I decide the meteorite room doesn’t have the same nostalgia pull for me since the museum redid it, changing the fun, carpeted stair pit that once was a makeshift playground in my childhood to a more refined gallery space befitting of the bright gems it houses within. It can wait till next time, I think.
There’s a more pressing matter at hand for now. It’s time to face a big fear of mine… in the wimpiest way I can think of.
On my last visit to the museum, as I looked among the massive backlit wall of shadowbox displays of crabs, lobsters, and insects in the Hall of Biodiversity, I should have expected the spiders. As soon as my eyes processed what they were seeing, imposing hairy creatures the size of my hands, girthy bulbous bodies sprouting with legs and fuzzy pincers, I could hear my pulse in my ears, feel the pounding in my chest, the sweat dampening my hairline at the back of my neck. I felt the static heat of irrational panic and hurried away.
Not this time.
Guarded by a full-sized tiger for protection, I look from far away at first, shortening the distance little by little until I am about three feet away from the case. I do not look away this time. I focus on my breathing. I read the plaque on chelicerates and am interested to learn that horseshoe crabs, a creature of which I have no fear, are more closely related to spiders than to crabs. I imagine how I’d feel if the hand-sized spiders were moving and my heartbeat quickens.
This DIY exposure therapy is necessary in my mind as my phobia is threatening to keep me from experiencing an important life experience, the upcoming wedding of two friends in South America where there is a non-zero chance of seeing a spider of substantial size. There is a much greater chance of me not being able to sleep due to my irrational fear, both during the trip and leading up to it, so I need to learn to face this before it potentially gets worse.
I leave the spiders when I am ready to move on, pleased enough for now with my brain’s ability to prevent itself from overriding my nervous system to the point of complete uselessness. I remind myself that allowing fear to dictate life can lead to missing out on experiences that enrich and enhance it. I’ve decided I’m not willing to let fear rob me of living fully, of living well.
The North American Mammals exhibit calls me next. The wolves and the brown bears, the grizzlies, and the buffalo. I pause by the diorama titled Fisher and Porcupine, recalling the time this summer when Mike and I saw a family of fishers while hiking the Mt. Tammany trail. The plaque tells me that the porcupine is the fisher’s favorite meal. Seems like it’s probably an acquired taste.
I wander upstairs to the Hall of African Peoples to face a former fear that I have already overcome. My feet aren’t aching yet, but I park myself on a bench near a case entitled Science and Faith. People come and go from this dark little alcove of the exhibit, glancing at the glass case of artifacts with half interest before moving on. I watch them as they do not think to look up, where, just above their heads is a life-sized diorama of a man in a trance, perched on the limb of a tree, his face shrouded in the skin of a leopard, the whites of his eyes shining through, as he fixes his perpetual sights on his unsuspecting prey, below.
I first noticed The Leopard Man on a visit to the museum in my early twenties. I had been to the museum multiple times before on trips with my family or school or summer camp. Never before had the man perched on the limb caught my attention. When he finally did, it scared the Hell out of me.
Reading the Leopard Man Societies information plaque on the wall offers no comfort. To summarize the description on the plaque, the practice of Leopard Man Societies was born in response to times of tribal crisis. The members of this secret, esteemed, anyota (Leopard Society) would enter into dissociative trances as a means of communicating with the spirits of their ancestors for guidance. During these trances, they would adopt the behavior of leopards, an animal representative of death in the community of the Baali people of the Congo, attacking random victims from above and cannibalizing them as a ritual sacrifice to ward off conflict and avert disaster for the tribe.
As I sit on my bench, I wonder if any of the passing visitors will look up, but no one does. On my previous visit, a few women had parked their strollers beneath this diorama and tried to soothe and shush their babies as the babies wailed. They were completely unaware of the predator perched just above.
I bid farewell to The Leopard Man and continue on, following my intuition as it guides me up to the third floor and down a bare corridor to the Hall of Pacific Peoples. I pause briefly on my way in to listen to Barbara Walters singing the praises on a small screen of someone named Margaret Mead before perusing the exhibit.
The speakers in this exhibit pump out a soundscape of instruments and songs traditional of various rural communities in the Pacific Islands. I attempt to read a plaque beside a replica of an Easter Island Moai statue’s head, but there is a clump of people waiting to take pictures with the statue so I can’t get close enough. I loop around the back of the Moai and stop by a case on the other side, recognizing a black and white photo that was shown in the video on the small screen at the entrance to the exhibit. Margaret Mead as a budding anthropologist on her first field visit to Samoa in 1926, clad in traditional ceremonial dress.
I decide I am fascinated by this twenty-three year old anthropologist’s determination to travel to Samoa in 1925 and observe of the lives of its people for the purpose of better understanding Americans’ place within their own culture when it came to child rearing and young adult advancement. I pull up my library app and request three books to read more about her life and her wave-making first study, Coming of Age in Samoa.
I watch the whole video on Margaret Mead before heading out of the exhibit, but I do not leave her behind. She is going to be the primary source of resonance from my day’s adventure, I can already tell.
I backtrack to the Mexico and Central America exhibit, then the South American Peoples exhibit. My feet are aching and my steps have slowed. I have been here for over two hours, about my usual museum quota for a day.
The park is whispering through the walls from across the street, with its collection of meandering paths, towering trees, birds, lakes, explorers and inviting reading benches.
I wind my way back to The Rotunda and take a last look at the towering Barosaurus skeleton replica on display before heading out into the sunshine and across the street to Central Park where the trees and the animals are living, where the people-watching is abundant and accessible, and where the air feels as fresh as it gets in the city that never sleeps.
I leave behind the fossils and the dioramas, the Moai and The Leopard Man, the spiders and the big blue whale, carrying only intrigue of Margaret Mead and her adventurous spirit with me as my sole souvenir from my day’s adventure in the place of many wonders.
When we landed at Denver International Airport after flying from Paris, via Chicago, jetlag was weighing on my eyelids, trying to remind me that it was 4:00AM Paris time rather than 8:00PM MDT, which was the time showing on my phone’s lock screen after turning off airplane mode. We’d had a feeling that this rapid time zone switch would try to snaggle our plans for the next day, but were we going to let it? No siree, thank you very much, but more on that in a little bit.
As the flight attendants strolled the aisles of our international flight, offering complimentary alcohol and sugary drinks, we said, “Just water, please,” because when you’re jumping time zones like a pioneering, turbo cricket, not to mention, going to a place that is located at a higher altitude than you’re used to, staying hydrated is your best asset for success.
On the hotel shuttle from Denver International to the Staybridge Suites, the shuttle driver decided it was trivia time. Our shuttle mates, a family of six, were game to partake, their flight to Milwaukee delayed until the morning.
“What’s the coldest letter in the alphabet and why?” said the shuttle driver.
I could not care less, I thought.
The Milwaukee-bound family, a mother and father and four daughters, seemed like geniuses as they threw out guess after guess from the seats in front of and behind us. Compared to us with our mushy brains fixed only on the concept of sleep just within our grasp, they were, at least.
“Nope…nope…nope…” said the driver, responding to one guess after the next, after the next.
Eventually, after the Milwaukee crew was all guessed out, he said, “You give up?”
Yes. Milwaukee agreed.
“The answer is B… because it’s always surrounded by AC.”
Ok. That’s pretty good, actually, I thought. Maybe I’ll even remember it.
We checked into the airport hotel and crashed after the minimum level of settling in. Showers could wait until the morning. Laundry too. We’d accomplished our goal. We’d stayed awake until roughly 5:00AM Paris time to get on Colorado time and make sure we’d be able to stay up even later the next night. The bed was the most comfortable airport hotel bed I’ve ever had the pleasure of sleeping in.
After a leisurely breakfast at the complimentary buffet the next morning, laundry, showers, and some strategic repacking, we picked up our rental car and hit the road, bound for our first stop of the day, Denver’s Washington Park neighborhood, known to locals simply as “Wash Park”.
Since we had ambitious plans for later that evening (ambitious only when framed by the aforementioned time zone swap), the plan for the day was to take it easy, do some exploring, and squeeze in a nap somewhere along the way.
As we strolled past a pretty garden along the north end of Grassmere Lake Loop in Wash Park, we learned to steer clear of the squirrels, these being larger and more aggressive than those we were accustomed to. These are mountain squirrels, I thought. Put the word mountain in front of anything and it instantly becomes more, more impressive, more intimidating, more majestic; don’t you think?
I spotted two googly eyes looking up at us from just under the surface of the lake and took a picture for Gemini to tell me what it was. Carp. He has eyes, I thought, Paris still so fresh on my mind.
After our stroll, we stopped by a stationary store on South Gaylord Street so I could stock up on some cards for a few fall birthdays and then continued up the block for some lunch at Wash Park Social. We sat out on the front terrace, trying to keep “café culture” alive in our hearts for as long as we could, wishing it was more of a thing in the US, like it is in Paris.
We ordered a strawberry salad with grilled chicken and an appetizer called The Trio to share. Soon, our food was brought to our table and I marveled at the vibrant, colorful display of The Trio- hummus, pepita muhammara, and almond green ricotta with fresh baked bread. Mountain beautiful, not to mention mountain delicious too.
Our bellies full and our next hotel check-in time approaching, we headed back on the road, this time north towards Boulder. As we got out of the area of Colorado that I think looks like Kansas (though I’ve only ever flown over Kansas, so who am I to judge), the scenery started to become more exciting.
The mountains grew as we drove north and so did my excitement for what was to come later that evening.
We settled in at our next hotel and squeezed in that nap that was on the agenda. I slept about half as much as I’d hoped to, but you get what you get, right? We packed up our rain jackets and water bottles then hit up our hotel’s complimentary happy hour social for some light bites before the evening’s main event.
We’d been to Red Rocks Amphitheatre once before, two years ago, just to see the place. This time, we were going to get to see it in action.
We took the short hike from the Lower North Lot to the venue entrance slowly, taking in the incredible scenery, surrounded by ancient sandstone monoliths, each of them sculpted by the elements over time. We stopped every few stretches of stairs to catch our breath and swig some water. If there is one thing to remember about acclimating to a high altitude, it is that you need to stay hydrated. You’re going to need that extra oxygen; I promise.
I continued up beyond the level of our row to snag some pictures while the dregs of daylight were still available before meeting Mike back down at our seats, passing by the merch line that stretched halfway down the stairs of the venue on my way, sweating in my excess layers.
“I’m so excited!!!” I said, settling into my designated spot on the long concrete bench, shedding my sweater, “Bleachers at Red Rocks!!! Can you take my picture?”
Have you ever had something influence your happiness so much that you feel like it found you just when you needed it most? I’m talking right place, right time kind of serendipity. That’s what the band Bleachers is for me.
I’m a writer. It’s more of a hobby at this point, than anything else I guess, but hey, it’s what “I do” and that means something to me. Writing can be a lonely pursuit sometimes, unfortunately. Writers tend to spend a lot of time in their heads, guided by creative pathways of their own making. Sometimes the pathways are lit by full daylight. Sometimes, by fading dusk. Sometimes only the streetlights are on. And that’s when you’re lucky.
There was a time, years ago, while I was working on a novel, when I’d written myself into a corner yet again and those streetlights went out and a dense, unnavigable dark was what I could see ahead of me.
Music was a guide to the circuit breaker, a flashlight beam in the dark.
Bleachers found me after I’d canceled my Amazon Music Unlimited subscription, instead choosing to go with the sub included with my Prime account. How it worked was I’d plug Vampire Weekend song titles into the search bar and get one or two, followed by suggestions for other songs and bands that were totally new to me. Guess who popped up? It starts with the coldest letter in the alphabet.
It started with Dream of Mickey Mantle, a homing beacon, if I may. I followed it blindly, a spark that set me on a path that would lead me to feeling enlightened in more ways than one. Monumental changes in my physical and mental wellbeing, re-sculpting of my perception of success, and clarity for what my writing voice and style would become.
Now that we’ve gotten that little personal history out of the way, we’ve got a show to reminisce about! A truly incredible one, at that.
As the opener, American Football, was nearing the end of their set, it started to rain. We knew there was a good chance it would, but fear not! We came prepared. We weren’t gonna let a little water get in the way of a good time. We zipped up our rain jackets and pulled our hoods up.
While we waited as the crew turned the stage over, Mike took my picture in my rain gear and we decided that I looked like a big, happy, slug lady and as a slug lady, what I choose to “cling” to from that description most is happy, right? Not slug. Definitely not slug…
Jack Antonoff and the boys took the stage to Frank Sinatra’s My Way and I could feel my smile testing the limits of my face. On a normal day, my smile is bigger than most out there. My friend once described it as seeing every tooth in Beth’s head. From the roar of the crowd, I’m sure I wasn’t the only one experiencing a sense of sheer joy.
Live music is one of my “whys“, I think. When I’m at a live show for a band that I love, I get a major sense of this is why I exist, to be here and to experience this. There are other “whys”, of course, but since we’re talking about music, I just thought I’d mention it.
The boys opened with Sideways from their latest album, Everyone for Ten Minutes, jumping into The Van next, followed by one of our favorites, the high energy Modern Girls. The crowd knew all the words, older stuff, newer stuff, it didn’t matter.
At one point, Jack reminded the audience that he was from New Jersey, which is unnecessary since his music evokes the home state that we share in so many songs, one of the reasons why Bleachers resonated so strongly with me in the first place, I think. He called out to the audience.
Jack: Who came from really, really far away to be here tonight?
Most of the audience: Woooo!
Jack: Who came from around the corner?
Rest of the audience: Woooo!
Red Rocks Amphitheatre draws crowds from across the world to Morrison, CO, in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. It makes for an incredible concert-going experience. Pretty much everyone in the crowd is a massive fan and it gives a pulse to being in the audience like no other venue I have experienced before.
Boulders, sky, rain, music, and joy. Pure bliss; I’m telling you.
Jack tested out an acoustic version of one of the band’s first hits, I Wanna Get Better, transforming what is usually an energetic, pop rock jam into a confessional folk ballad that did perhaps a better job at highlighting the song’s themes of grief and recognizing when you’ve gone a bit off the rails and need help outside yourself to get back on track. He told the audience he wanted to perform it as he’d written it. There is plenty of space in the world for both versions, in my opinion.
Ricky Antonoff, Jack’s dad, joined the band onstage to perform one of my absolute favorites, How Dare You Want More. I love this one for its insane energy, guitar/saxophone duel, drum beat, sax solo, and the sense of community it evokes. I particularly love the second chorus on this one.
The boys went on to play the song that started it all, the first song Jack ever wrote for Bleachers, Rollercoaster, a full on crowd pleaser at every Bleachers show we’ve ever been to, following it with Tiny Moves, Don’t Take the Money, and I Wanna Get Better– as recorded.
The show ended with the song from one of my favorite music videos ever, Stop Making this Hurt. The video for this song was shot at the Bendix Diner on Route 17 in Hasbrouck Heights, New Jersey and features all the members of the band as well as Jack’s sister, Rachel Antonoff.
As a Jersey girl who divided my non-school hours, growing up, between the shore, goofing around at my friends’ houses, my sister’s soccer games, various diner booths, and concerts, the video felt all kinds of nostalgic for me (and maybe got me craving some fries with gravy too, just a little bit).
The altitude cut the regular Bleachers concert outro short, the only possible negative of the night. By the time the lights came on and most of the crowd had filtered out, I turned to Mike and said, “I don’t want to leave.”
We took our time heading back to the car, taking the stairs out of the venue slowly, soaking up every last possible second of the experience and location that we could of our night in the foothills of the Rockies with the band that starts with the coldest letter in the alphabet, experiencing pure joy in the rain and the sound, under the open sky.
It was 6:30AM Paris time, but we were powered by our lingering excitement, not wanting to come down from that high.
The day after the show, we did a little exploring on Boulder’s Pearl Street Mall. We stopped for some lunch at Pizza Alberico and ordered a panini and a pizza to share. I opted to pair the Grand Teton Brewing Amber Ale with my meal and it was malty and delicious. Fall fans, rejoice!
We strolled the pedestrian street and set our sights on Boulder Bookstore where I bought myself a little souvenir which I’ve since started into.
We headed to Chautauqua Park next for a walk at the foothills of The Flatirons and take in the scenery. We even met this soul-staring bear outside the General Store.
“What’s the brewery called again?” I said as we got back in the car.
“Upslope Brewing,” said Mike.
I plugged it into Google Maps and we were on our way.
We ordered a flight to share (to start) and grabbed a table outside to enjoy the view of the mountains, because, you know, café culture and all that. That, and mountains, of course. We really enjoyed all the different brews we tried at Upslope. My particular favorite was their Spruce Tip IPA which tasted like a forest, if that makes sense.
On our last day in Colorado, we got an early start and drove up to Estes Park with an 8:00-10:00AM timed-entry reservation for Bear Lake Road in Rocky Mountain National Park. Because of a nor’easter set to hit back home, we’d moved up our flight by one day, so we were pretty short on time, but there was still one last must-see of mine before we headed home. We set Dream Lake in our sights, and, though a little cloudier than on our last visit, it was no less impressive.
We stocked up on some souvenirs in Estes Park for a couple kiddos we know before heading back towards the airport, through the part of Colorado that looks like Kansas, the mountains shrinking in the rearview mirrors of our rental car.
Until next time, we thought, before heading back home.
On our last morning in Paris, I popped into a little toy shop near the Luxembourg Gardens to pick out un petit cadeau to bring home to our niece. As I waited in line by the register, I stood behind a woman and her daughter. The daughter set her selection down on the counter, a little crocheted bear that was wearing a polished outfit.
“Ahhh,” said the shop manager to the mother with a fond smile, “She has eyes.”
The mother looked confused. I was confused too, all told. Was she talking about the bear? A strange comment, if so, as the bear’s eyes were just two stitched, curved lines that made it look like the creature was sleeping.
“She has eyes,” said the shop manager again, as though repetition alone would offer sufficient explanation. This time, her statement was met with deeper expressions of confusion from the mother and daughter.
“Anglais?” said the shop manager to them, then, “Non?”
The mother shook her head apologetically. The shop manager then turned to me as if I could be of help interpreting, for her own sake it seemed, above anyone’s.
“She has eyes?” she said to me, “Euh… euh… I don’t know how to say.”
I didn’t understand what she was trying to say either though. I did, however, understand that feeling of being misunderstood. I had been in her shoes, after all, for four days already, fumbling my way through little interactions and exchanges across Paris, only partially confident in my rusty French speaking and comprehension skills. I’d been met with my own share of equally puzzled expressions over the days there.
“Je suis désolée,” I said. I’m sorry.
The shop manager then rested a hand on the crocheted bear, looked at the little girl, and then to the girl’s mother, in one final attempt.
“She has eyes,” she said, “For… beautiful things.”
Ahhhh, I realized then. She has a good eye. She has good taste. I smiled and nodded, agreeing.
“Ah, oui,” I said, “Très bon.”
The shop manager seemed relieved that someone finally understood her meaning. I’m sure the little girl in the shop had an exquisite eye for beautiful things, though I think perhaps it helped that she was surrounded by the landscape of Paris. Paris is, after all, a city abundant with beautiful things. From its Haussmannian architecture to its manicured parks, to the winding Seine, mouthwatering cuisine, legendary art, impeccable style, and graceful inhabitants, you need only open your eyes within Paris’ city limits to spot something of notable beauty.
When my mother in law first told us that she had a dream of renting an apartment in Paris for one month, once she retired, and having us all come to visit, it seemed like nothing more than that. A dream. A year later, that dream turned into a reality.
Day 1: The Latin Quarter, The Arc de Triomphe, Dinner in Ternes.
As our Uber driver struggled to maneuver the narrow, winding streets of the Latin Quarter in Paris’ 5th arrondissment, we took in our first glimpses of the city from up close. The sandy walls of the Haussmannian apartment buildings and shops glowed golden, compressing the cobbled, heavily pedestrian-trafficked streets in between them. The driver dropped us off around the corner from the apartment where Mike’s parents were staying and Mike’s mom met us down on the ground floor.
She explained that the elevator was very small so only one person could go up with the bags. She was right. Mike and I would actually be staying in hotels for the duration of our trip, but it was too early in the day to check into our first hotel, located in a different part of the city. Still, we were looking forward to seeing the place where my in laws were, quite literally, living their dream. I took the stairs up with Mike’s mom while Mike sardined himself into the elevator with our carry-ons.
As we entered the apartment, daylight poured through the large, open window in the living room. The place was older, but not lacking in charm. It gave off a distinct sense of authentic Parisian living.
“So, you guys are like locals now?” I joked to my in laws as we cluttered their small hallway with our bags.
My mother in law took us through the adventures they’d already had during their first two and a half weeks in the city. Trips to The Louvre, dinner at the Eiffel Tower, all things Monet at Giverny, and the bohemian wanderings on the hill in Montmartre. She’d written a list down in a little lined notebook so as not to forget anything. They’d made a habit of picking up dinner from their local market and dining in- rotisserie chicken is big here, they said. They offered us brioche they’d made at a breadmaking class the day before, gone a little stale, but still good to us after hours of nothing but airplane meals. It all felt very relaxed, very Parisian in the sense of gathering and the enjoyment of everyday life, and making sure to reserve attention for sharing and savoring simple moments.
After catching up for a bit at the apartment, Mike and I headed out to check into our hotel and get some rest before we were set to rendezvous with everyone again later at the Arc de Triomphe. We hopped on the 21 bus and took in the streets of Paris along the journey up to Batignolles.
After some much needed rest after our red eye flight, we reluctantly roused ourselves from our nap to go meet up with everyone again. As we walked toward the Arc de Triomphe, we cut through Parc Monceau, an enchanting patch of nature within the 8th arrondissement with lush gardens, impressive statues, architectural structures, and excellent people-watching.
The 360 degree views from the observation terrace at the top of the Arc de Triomphe were worth the 284 step climb. You could even call them breathtaking, in more than one sense. It felt surreal to see the Eiffel Tower in person, the rooftops of Paris spread out all around us, adorned with clay chimneypots and TV antennas, just as I’d imagined.
Tree-lined avenues stretched outwards from the very circle atop which we were perched. We were confounded by the intuitive traffic etiquette that seemed to make sense to the Parisian drivers, though it was baffling to us. All I could keep thinking as we surveyed our surroundings was this is so cool, which is my lame American way of having eyes for beautiful things.
As golden hour approached, the crowds grew, waiting to catch a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower sparkling at the top of the hour for the first time that evening. I held fast to my spot to claim stake on my own view, surrounded by people speaking in all different languages, each voice animated with inflections of excitement and anticipation.
And then the magic began.
At eight o’clock sharp, the Eiffel Tower began to glitter all over with white sparkles as though covered in diamonds all catching the light at once. As if Paris wasn’t already enchanting enough.
Our next stop of the evening was dinner at a restaurant in Ternes called La Grange. We sat outside on the terrasse along the quiet street and immersed ourselves in the very Parisian practice of sharing a slow meal and good conversation as a group. I did my best to only speak French to the server and was surprised when she seemed to understand everything I said. I was even more surprised when I could understand everything she said to me as well. I found I really enjoyed using my French while in Paris, though granted, it is a bit rusty.
I ordered the salmon which was served with a lemon cream sauce and seasonal vegetables. The meal was simple, yet delicious. For dessert, I ordered the apple tart. As I broke off a piece of the tart with my fork, the flaky crust emitted a crispy crackle so satisfying that I have chosen to permanently commit the sound to memory for all the childish joy that it evoked for me in that moment.
We ended day one with a slow walk back to our hotel in Batignolles, Hôtel du Théâtre, a simple, yet comfortable spot where the keys were so ornate that the concierge staff asked guests to leave them with the front desk whenever going out. I fell asleep that night dreaming of the crispy crackle of cutting into my apple tart.
Day 2: Pont Alexandre III, Versailles, Montmartre
As we waited for Mike’s brother to meet us at the Invalides RER station to head to Versailles for the day, we took in some views of Pont Alexandre III, probably Paris’ most iconic bridge spanning the Seine, a beautiful piece of artistry amongst Paris’ incredible surrounding architecture.
Paris’ public transit is a breeze once you have a handle on it. Their bus and train system is one of the best I’ve used and I used to live in New York City. It only took us missing two RER trains to figure out the Bonjour RATP app in the station after the ticket machine decided it didn’t actually want to print the passes we had purchased. C’est la vie. We live and we learn and we get the show on the road.
The train ride to Versailles was easy (once we figured out the app, like I said) and the town of Versailles was picturesque and pleasant with a walkable downtown comprised of quaint shops and cafés. Before making our way to the grounds of the château and gardens, we were in the mood for some galettes. Carré aux Crêpes seemed to be a popular spot. We were seated inside and soon placed our orders. I opted for the tomate/champignons galette which had egg, tomatoes, mushrooms, and ham in a buckwheat crêpe, a satisfying and perfect way to begin the day, if you ask me.
The Palace of Versailles is an opulent marvel, both from without and within. Originally built under the instruction of King Louis XIII as a country hunting lodge, the palace was greatly expanded by his son, Louis XIV, who intended it as a new permanent residence for the French Court. It was meant to be extravagant and impressive and it is. The palace was also home to, perhaps its most famous, or infamous, residents, Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette.
As we followed the herd through the palace’s wings of apartments, I found myself disappointed in the lack of furniture. My brother in law agreed with me. The interior of the palace is more like a really fancy art gallery. The walls, papered and painted in materials like velvet and gold, housed many paintings of landscapes and people, but the rooms were sparsely furnished, some with no furniture at all. Only two rooms seemed to be fully furnished as they might have been while Versailles was inhabited, King Louis XIV’s bedchamber and Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette’s bedchamber.
This said, Versailles is a place where it seems imperative to purchase the audio guide. While that certainly would have helped in our understanding of the palace, it was the crowds that made me feel like I wanted to escape at the earliest possible moment. Shuffling through Louis XIV’s red bedchamber, crammed in among multiple tour groups, was giving me flashbacks to our visit to the Sistine Chapel. By this, I mean it was too crowded to actually be present and reflect on the wonder of the setting and enjoy it in the moment.
“So why do they call it the Hall of Mirrors?” said Mike’s brother as we entered the famous corridor. I laughed, appreciating his dry humor. Along the lefthand side of the corridor is a long line of mirrors that match up with the windows lining the righthand wall. The room is bright with daylight and allows far reaching views of the fountains and reflecting pool in the sprawling gardens behind the château.
Just a little further along was Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette’s bedchamber. The crowd was a little thinner here, the famed Hall of Mirrors still occupying a majority of the crowd’s attention, being the main draw for most visitors to the palace in the first place. I paused for a moment to admire Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun’s 1787 portrait of Marie Antoinette and her children, an empty bassinette prominent in the piece, representative of a mother’s grief after losing her youngest child in infancy. I couldn’t help but fixate my gaze on Marie Antoinette’s long, elegant neck and wonder if she had any notion of what was to come in the near future.
The gardens were a respite from the stifling palace walls. First, we took in the Orangerie with its intricate lawns, gravel paths, and orange trees in planter boxes. How strange, I thought.
We wandered further down the gardens, along the outskirts of the Latona Fountain, on a curved, pebbled path lined with quirky, sculpted hedges, our next destination still a long walk away, as its inhabitant most likely intended.
When I first set eyes on the whimsical, pastoral fantasy that was once Marie Antoinette’s Hamlet (Hameau de la Reine), I wished that we had skipped our visit to the main palace, altogether. This was more where my interests lay, I thought, this is why I am here.
Built as an escape from Versailles for France’s doomed queen, I got a sense for how out of touch Marie Antoinette must have been with the reality of her countrymen and women’s suffering preceding the horrific events of the French Revolution. Only a person with a head full of dreams and no sense of the depth of her pockets would have such a place built with public funds while the people in her kingdom were living in severe poverty, partially at the expense of her whims. Complete with a pastoral palace, working farm, mill, lighthouse, pond, and streams, walking the grounds of the Hameau felt like walking in a dream that was too good to be true, a nightmare in disguise, lurking unseen, just beyond the outer walls of the garden.
The gardens closed early the day of our visit so we followed the herd of people along the exterior streets, back to the center of town. The train back to Paris was packed and we stood on aching feet, tired and ready for rest and some dinner.
After getting off our feet for a bit at our hotel, Mike and I headed back out, Montmartre in our sights for the evening, the bohemian town on the hill. We grabbed some dinner at a café called Adélaïde, eating on the terrasse and taking in the views and people-watching in the area around Place des Abbesses. After our meal, we strolled over to get a glimpse of Le Sacré-Coeur, the imposing limestone basilica perched atop Montmartre hill. We were approaching the top of the hour and I wanted to see the Eiffel Tower sparkle again so we climbed one of Montmartre’s many staircases to get a better view and scoped out a spot on Rue Saint-Éleuthère for the show.
For our final stop of the evening, we sat down for a drink at Le Saint Jean for some cold beers and second hand smoke, allowing the end of the day to wind down at its own pace.
Day 3: Seeing the Sights
I wanted to see Montmartre in the daytime, so we headed back there with the intention of finding a cozy spot for brunch, a spot so cozy, in fact, that it’s in the name, Kozy. Well, turns out Kozy isn’t some well-kept secret. The line for the restaurant stretched around the square, so we decided to continue on with our exploration of the neighborhood and try to find a brunch place near our next stop, later in the morning. We climbed some more stairs, took in some street art, and some of the neighborhood’s iconic structures like La Maison Rose and Le Moulin Rouge before we decided that we’d had enough of the area’s crowds and climbs for one morning.
We walked to the bus and took it up to the Opera House, Palais Garnier. As our hunger increased, we wandered in search of a place for brunch. It was getting closer to mid-afternoon and the options we were finding weren’t quite satisfying what we were hoping for or were simply closed. In Paris, there is a noticeable structure to mealtimes. Outside of these traditional mealtimes, restaurants, bakeries, and cafés may close until the late afternoon, or sometimes won’t reopen until dinner. Breakfast is from about 7am until 11:30 or noon. Lunch is from noon till 2pm. Snack, or le goûter, is from 4pm and dinner is from 7:30pm. Outside of these mealtimes, our go-to was to go into a local market and get some fruit and nuts or pop into a touristy bakery for a decent, though perhaps not Paris’ finest, pastry. As we wandered around the 9th and 2nd arrondissements, this is just what we did.
Fueled with a tarte au framboises (raspberry tart) from a chain bakery and some cashews and bananas, we explored one of Paris’ covered passages in a better mood than before. Passages des Panoramas is a covered alley lined with cafés and tiny shops selling antiques, artisan goods, postage stamps, and vintage postcards. It was a quirky escape from the neighborhood’s wide, bustling streets, and I enjoyed leafing through the boxes of postcards.
Next, we wandered back to the 9th to Galeries Lafayette Haussmann, a shopping mall known for its expensive wares and its impressive architectural elements such as the web-like glass-paned dome ceiling with balconies overlooking the open interior of the building, like opera boxes. There is a glass walkway that you can walk out on if you choose to, but we decided to skip this “opportunity” and instead, went up to the rooftop terrace to take in what I’d read was an incredible view of the city.
The rooftop terrace of Galeries Lafayette was my favorite view of Paris after that from the Arc de Triomphe. One difference between the two is that the view from the Arc de Triomphe will run you about 22 euro a piece, while Galeries Lafayette’s view is free to take in. From the rooftop, you will catch an amazing view of the beautiful Palais Garnier as well as the Eiffel Tower, in the distance. Despite the clouds, the day was only getting better.
Still craving a leisurely café experience, we headed back up to Batignolles and sat down at a café that we had walked by a couple of times, Le Dôme Villiers. We ordered some drinks and a meat and cheese board to share. It takes a while to be served in Paris, but that’s just a suggestion to enjoy the experience even more, take in your surroundings, the architecture, the people, and simply partake in the enjoyment of living.
When our food arrived, we sampled everything. My favorites were surprising to me. Rillettes- a pork fat spread, gooey, melty Camembert, and a flavorful Roquefort with a suspiciously fuzzy patch of greenish gray mold. Yum! Yes? No?
We returned to Hôtel du Théâtre to collect our bags and check into our next hotel, Hôtel Elysa, near the Luxembourg Gardens. Following Hôtel du Théâtre’s simple, yet comfortable functionality, Hôtel Elysa seemed luxurious. Being just around the corner from what I would soon find was one of my favorite spots in Paris already seemed like a bonus, plus, we were much closer to my in laws’ apartment and my sister in law had just arrived in town, earlier that morning.
Mike’s family met us outside our hotel and we took the bus up to Notre Dame together. I valued the opportunity to see this beautiful, iconic cathedral without its being shrouded by scaffolding as it had been for almost five years, following a devastating fire in April 2019.
The restoration work on the cathedral was truly amazing and I spent a little while trying to take in the details, the sculpture work, the intricately carved archways and the melodic toll of the bells as they echoed, commanding attention from all in the square. As we hung around before our dinner reservation at Chez Suzette, golden hour struck and bathed the cathedral in golden light.
We walked back along the Seine in the direction of dinner, capturing views of the bend in the river and one of the city’s many unique bridges.
After dinner at Chez Suzette, Mike, his sister, and I took the bus over to the Eiffel Tower Gardens to see the old gal glow and sparkle up close. As we waited, we watched the elevators traveling up and down the sculpturesque structure, each of us saying that we much preferred our view from the ground to the idea of being inside one of those elevators.
Day 4: The Luxembourg Gardens, Le Louvre, Le Marais, Le Calife
To start our day off right on our fourth day in Paris, we planned to pick up some breakfast treats from a boulangerie to eat in Luxembourg Gardens. Boulangerie Moderne was a short walk from our hotel and gave us our first taste of authentic bakery culture in Paris. You may think it ridiculous, but what I found most stressful about our trip to Paris was deciding what to order from the bakery.
There is no taking time to think of what you want to order from the offerings in the bakery cases in an authentic boulangerie. If you want to think it over, it’s probably best to excuse yourself in to take a picture of the options and then study them out of line before getting back in line to actually place your order and pay. It’s also best to use French in this setting as well, which I feel like helped us out a little, at least.
We floundered for about thirty seconds, to the irritation of the bakery staff and the man behind us. Thirty seconds is about twenty-nine seconds too long in the bakery line. Nous sommes désolés, bakery patrons of Boulangerie Moderne! Still, we walked out with our bounty of a croissant, a tarte framboise, and a brioche au chocolat.
The croissant was the best I’ve ever had. There is no debate. Crispy, flaky, buttery. A total mess, but a delicious one that I’m sure the pigeons in Luxembourg Gardens were grateful for.
The tarte framboise had a buttery, crumbly crust and a smooth, thick custard to balance out the light, tart, sweetness of the raspberries. An absolute delight.
The brioche was a little outshone by the other two, to be honest, though still wonderful in its own right, doughy and swirled with a chocolate paste and little chunks of chocolate.
We ate near the fountain and took a stroll around the park’s gravel paths. We soon learned that the gardens are home to a series of twenty statues of queens of France and famous French women. According to further research, the sculptures were commissioned by King Louis-Philippe I between 1843 and 1846. I really enjoyed stopping to highly regard these powerful women on their pedestals and wondering what life was like for them in their own times.
The gardens were a peaceful and colorful oasis within the busy 6th arrondissement. From the flowerbeds to the manicured trees to the girl power statues, I was a pretty happy tourist.
Mike and I took a little stroll through the pretty streets of Saint Germain des Prés after our visit to the gardens.
Next, it was across the Seine and to Le Louvre.
I was amazed when I saw just how massive The Louvre is. I had seen it in pictures and movies and textbook-associated videos in French class in high school. I had read about it in Dan Brown’s thrilling novels. But my goodness gracious me, to see it in person for the total behemoth of a fortress that it is, my jaw was on the cobblestones.
About three times the size of the Palace of Versailles and taking up approximately twenty percent of the 1st arrondissement, this former palace and fortress not only houses marvelous works of art, but is an absolute marvel itself. I wandered the portion of the courtyard nearest the main entrance, the one with the three pyramids, the one that I thought was the entire courtyard, but is actually only about a third of it.
The architecture and sculpture work of The Louvre are a definite must-see, in my opinion, even if you do not have plans to go inside. Personally, I didn’t go in and see The Mona Lisa or Winged Victory, but is it terrible to say that the way tourists are expected to experience these famed works of art could not have held a candle to my experience of exploring the artwork that is the building’s exterior in my own time, at my own pace, and with my own space. Ahhh. Just magnificent, really.
We headed over to the Hôtel de Ville (City Hall) next and then met up with Mike’s sister in Place des Voges to do a little exploring in Le Marais and get a drink at a café. The parts of Le Marais that we saw were mostly shopping areas with high end stores with familiar names and unattainable wares, for us at least, so if you are taking a trip to Paris, I suggest starting your adventure in Le Marais in the northern part of the neighborhood, rather than the southern part, if you’re not into that sort of thing.
With aching feet and tired legs, we slowly made our way back to our hotel for some much needed time off our feet before our next, more leisurely activity.
Le Calife is a floating historic monument on which dinner cruises are offered for tourists who wish to experience the Seine and its adjacent landmarks in a setting emulating the lavish, art deco style of the Orient Express. From the moment we met up with Mike’s family and boarded the vessel, we were transported to a 1920s style setting with stained glass lampshades, paneled wooden walls, and pristine white tablecloths. We were offered welcome cocktails and non-alcoholic alternatives and perused our three-course menu options.
I ordered a glass of rosé, pumpkin squash soup, duck confit with mashed potatoes and seasonal vegetables in a morel sauce, and a chocolate lava cake for dessert. Everything was absolutely delicious.
The whole experience was touristy, of course, but magical all the same, and offered an excellent vantage point for spectacular views of some of the city’s best known sights and landmarks such as Le Louvre, La Conciergerie, Notre Dame, The Eiffel Tower, The Statue of Liberty, Musée D’Orsay, Pont Alexandre III and many other beautiful bridges of Paris. We even saw ballroom dancers along the banks of the river at Quai Saint-Bernard, adding to the magic of the evening.
After disembarking from our journey on Le Calife, we said goodbye to Mike’s family, as we were heading to the airport the next morning. Mike’s mom was in disbelief that her month in Paris had only eight days remaining. All good things…
Before heading back to our hotel, there was one last place we were hoping to see. We walked from the banks of the Seine to Église Saint-Étienne-du-Mont in search of some cinematic steps. We’ve been fans of the film Midnight in Paris since before… well, you know. It was around 11:30pm and I wanted to live some movie magic, if only in my imagination.
We took turns sitting on the steps where Owen Wilson’s character, Gil Pender, waits for the Peugeot to come and bring him to the past, the likes of Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, and T.S. Eliot already onboard to accompany him for the whirlwind ride. If only movie magic could be real. But, hey, there’s no harm in dreaming, is there?
With our last stop complete, we made our farewells to the City of Light at its best time, in the glow of the streetlamps, along the cobbled streets, the sounds of sirens in the distance, the café managers turning out lights and closing up shop before taking a much craved draw on a late night cigarette. The city was saying its own good night to us.
“Vous parlez français!” said the shop manager of the toy shop near the Luxembourg Gardens. You speak French!
I was already past the time Mike and I agreed we’d leave for the airport, but this was my last interaction in the city and my last opportunity to use my language skills for what might be a long time.
“Oui, un peu, mais, je ne suis pas très bon.” Yes, a little, but I’m not very good.
She laughed.
I explained in French that I had taken the language for ten years in school.
“How are you finding using it?” she said in English.
“It’s difficult to understand when I have to listen,” I said in French.
“Moi aussi, me too,” she replied, “For English. Tout le monde parlent vite, vite, vite.”
Everyone speaks fast, fast, fast.
“Exactement,” I said. Exactly.
She wrapped up the gift for my niece and decorated it with colorful ribbon, literally putting a little bow on the last moment of my Paris adventure.
“Merci beaucoup,” I said, “Bonne journée.”
Thank you very much! Have a good day.
“Bon voyage!” she replied.
Until next time, I thought. And until that next time comes, I will remember Paris well and think of it often, in the savoring of simple moments and everyday joys of living, in the practice of having eyes for beautiful things.
One Wednesday night, this past February, my cousin sent a Telegram message in our family’s shore house management thread saying that the thermostat app was showing the furnace as on a constant run, an atypical readout, for sure. She asked if someone would be able to go by the house to check on the thermostat and see if anything looked “funny”. Mike and I offered to swing by.
On the drive to the house that evening, I felt unusually calm. It was cold. Freezing, really, though warmer than earlier in the week when lows dropped to as little as three degrees (F) in our area, after multiple weeks of consistent, below freezing temps. On the way to the house, the car was rattling so we pulled into a parking lot and found there to be ice thoroughly frozen into one of the tire spokes. We chipped the ice out with our bare fingers, too clunky in our gloves, and a windshield scraper and continued on in pursuit of ascertaining the root of our greater uncertainty.
We parked at the curb in line with the front porch steps, the ground still coated in long-frozen snow, remnants from January’s relentless winter storms. Once we reached the porch, I felt suddenly light-headed. My insides contracted. It was the sound of rain that caused this reaction, the sound of rain when it was dry outside.
I unlocked the door with the leopard print key copy that Arlene made for me a long time ago and we stepped into the entry hall. My heart started to beat light and fast.
“Where is it coming from?!” I said, or maybe I didn’t. From the volume, it could have been coming from everywhere. Panic was bombarding every fiber of my consciousness.
The first floor of the house can be walked in a circle, always a great feature as a kid running around with my cousins, or lately, running around with my cousin’s son. I can’t remember now if I went left toward the kitchen or right toward the dining room. It doesn’t really matter, I guess. It was raining in both directions, after all.
“We should turn the water off,” I said.
We went down to the basement where we found it raining as well. The water rose above the bottom step; we estimated it was about a foot high where we could see it. And here I once thought of indoor home swimming pools as the epitome of luxury.
Looking at the water accumulation, I could feel my pulse in my ears. My heart raced. All logic turned off and my adrenaline kicked into overdrive. I fully acknowledge my stupidity in this next action. Don’t try this at home, kids.
The water was icy cold and crystal clear as I stepped into it, not to mention mercifully un-electrified. Thank you, Nana. In the glow of my phone flashlight, I waded the twenty-five or so feet to the main water-shutoff in the corner, the water rising higher on my leather boots with the sloped grade of the floor (for proper drainage toward the sump pump). I reached for the shutoff handle and willed it to turn. I worried it wouldn’t for a moment. Then, thank all the gods and angels and spaghetti monsters in the universes, it did. I made it back to the steps, my jeans and wool socks completely soaked through inside my knee-high, squelching boots.
Once back upstairs, we wandered the dark rooms with our phone flashlights, sweeping the lights from corner to corner, like amateur ghost hunters. We waited as the downpour reduced to a drizzle and then to a drip, drip, drip. Dark streaks bled from the dining room ceiling and moldings, down the walls, agonized mascara tears- wood stain and over a century’s worth of rafter-buildup freed from their confines by water. The ceiling, the floor, the furniture- everything reflected the light with a slick sheen.
The rooms appeared to have been victims of a violent attack.
“We should take pictures,” I said.
The storm had raged worst in the dining room, which makes sense. That’s where the plumber ended up finding two burst pipes in the ceiling a couple of days later.
We called a few 24-hour emergency water remediation companies and plumbers that had exaggerated their hours and left a few frantic voicemails feeling increasingly less hopeful that we’d get someone out that night. There was a water remediation company’s van parked down the street addressing a neighbor’s water damage. I ran over to the van and asked the two workers if they knew what we could do in the meantime. One of the men pointed at the phone number on the side of the van and read it out to me. I called and left a voicemail. I never heard back.
Mike said he’d update the family. My gut reaction was to hold in the trauma, keep it to ourselves until we knew exactly what we were dealing with. My gut reaction was illogical and protective. It was frightened and guilty and unsure. Thank goodness for Mike who is impervious to stress and stupidity.
“It’s not great guys…” read the start of his message.
You can say that again.
I tried to mop up the water on the kitchen floor with paper towels, but it just kept refilling which led me to find some of the lower cabinets filled with water as well.
Ever since Mike and I helped to take on managing the house from my aunt and uncle during the spring of 2020, and then recruiting the help of my cousins and sister the following summer, the house and I have had our share of run-ins. My attachment to the place quickly devolved from seeing it as the haven I once did in childhood and when I lived in New York to seeing it as an increasingly unpredictable opponent. I always told myself I was doing it for my family, doing what I could to keep the place going for everyone. Somewhere along the way, I forgot to enjoy the place for myself.
A few weeks before discovering the water damage, Mike had asked me what I most enjoyed about spending time at the house. I answered that my favorite recent memories were playing Five Crowns in huge groups at the dining room table and when people are cooking in the kitchen like Nana and Arlene used to. Finding these two rooms assaulted by water felt personal.
When the house pulls a harrowing stunt, I get a craving for whiskey. Whether it’s 3:00pm on a sunny Friday afternoon and I’m drenched with spray from a hose with a faulty water shutoff as the renters are pulling up, or I’m sweeping remnants of storm seepage from the corners of the basement with thirty minutes till the next renter arrives because the previous ones left an hour late, the sump pump broke during a storm, and the miraculous emergency plumbing repair just finished up. As I stood in the emo version of my family’s house, I could almost taste that sweet, sharp elixir on my tongue.
We texted some of the pictures to Maureen and her husband, Chris. Chris texted back, “Dining room all like ‘I’m ok. Trust me,” along with multiple gifs of mascara-teared characters. I laughed in the hysterical way that precedes crying.
We decided we’d come back in the daylight to assess the damage and take more photos. I had my gym stuff in the car and changed out of my jeans, socks, and boots. We left the house to its dripping, to its settling.
We drove to a pub in Asbury Park. Maureen Venmo’d me $20 for a drink. I ordered an Old Fashioned. I remembered Danielle and Corey’s Old Fashioneds, plentiful and shared in the dining room at the house, just a few summers before. Would that happen again?
The idea that the house could be brought back to a livable state in three months, the repairs- covered by insurance, didn’t seem in the realm of possibility that night. The uncertainty was a big stressor. As we worked with my uncle to set up the insurance claim and adjuster walkthrough, I felt less alone along the path to the place’s resurrection.
My uncle brought a crowbar and a tin of sardines the day of the claims adjuster walkthrough. My sister and my cousins came. I braced myself as my uncle was the first to arrive, after me. I had brought tissues in anticipation of everyone’s arrival, their first in-person look at the damage. My uncle walked in and looked at a big, white recliner that sits in the dining room-side corner of the living room, a source of ongoing family debate.
He said something like, “It’s too bad that chair survived, huh?”
I laughed. He hugged me for a long time and said, “Thank you.”
We ordered pizza on the porch and didn’t eat the sardines. I showed everyone my pictures of the china cabinet with the glasses inside filled with water. We followed the adjuster around from room to room, listening, asking questions, confusing him with our matching dark hair, black coats, black pants, and snow boots.
“I’m the one with the glasses,” I said, trying to help him differentiate.
We formed a “Calamity Consortium”.
We settled in for the “marathon, not a sprint” that the insurance adjuster kept assuring us the process would be. The plumber came and tore apart the dining room wall and ceiling and fixed the burst pipes.
I continued to snap photos with each change of each scene over multiple return visits.
The water remediation company took days to come and even more to get started. It turned out that pipes had been bursting all over New Jersey due to the cold. When the remediators came, they demolished and dried. They dissected the rooms right down to their bones.
As the kitchen demolition was in progress, Nic and I were at the house and the demo team called us into the kitchen to show us some notes they had found on the wall behind where the cabinets had been mounted. Notes from the Keltys and the Kavanaghs, family and friends, looked back at me. Notes from when something similar happened back in 1978 or 1979.
“Academy of St. Aloysius Class of 1983,” read one.
“There’s Nothing Better than a Vetter. Grand Ma says,” read another.
There were declarations of love to “Alan” and “Derek” in rough handwriting, pencil on plaster.
As I read the notes, I felt the past community of the house building around us as though confirming we might actually come out of this ok. Theresa and Billy and Robert and Corine had documented their having been through this before with their signature dose of good humor. Maybe Grand Ma was right.
Since the damage happened, I think of times when someone has knocked over a glass and someone says, “It’s ok; it was only water.”
I don’t know if I’ll ever view that phrase the same way again.
Julia and Nic went to work at bringing the house back to life. Over the weeks, the floors transformed. The walls. The moldings. The window frames. Fresh paint covered the seams and the scars. New furniture was bought and delivered and assembled. We put Nana’s little houses and tchotchkes back on the reconstructed plate rail. Boats and birds and light houses.
It looked like our home again, but better.
We carried the old chandelier to the alley and set it on the grass by the trash. It looked like a cursed relic exorcised from a haunted house.
Fast forward to last week, which I spent at the house. I played with my cousin’s son at the new dining room table, getting crushed at Paw Patrol Uno and creating comic book and non-comic book drawings. We created “Ralph, the couch ghost” out of one of the white chair’s throw pillows, a beach towel, and my sunglasses. We watched fireworks on the beach. I enjoyed sitting on the porch in the evening with my cousins and my aunt, sipping rose and dodging the big dumb beetles that have a tendency to fly right at the window screens, drawn to the cozy glow, within.
I had moments of laughing in the way where it’s hard to stop, a common occurrence in the company of my cousins. I woke up to the birds and watched TV with Eric in the living room. I got a kick out of him immersing himself in his Sonic iPad game on the porch. “OH YEAH!”
Over the week, my relationship with the place started to transform back to its former state with each nostalgic little moment. I felt conscious that the house was for me too and that I enjoy it, that I can do it for me and that, dare I say it, I want to, I think. This place is good, I thought. Sure, it may throw a couple punches now and then, but what old house doesn’t?
Nostalgia is a curious beast. It cuddled up around my feet while I was sipping Wedgewood mugs of tea on the couch and the porch. It glowed reassuringly from the hall, beneath the door of the room my cousins and I always slept in, growing up. It chirped in the tree down the street in the mornings and blew through the whistles on the lifeguard stands. It transported and comforted and fed me. It fueled my relaxation.
Finding the water damage this winter was among the most stressful moments in my life. Enjoying the house again once it was fixed back up felt just as significant though. I know in my head it’s not a person, but I don’t know, it’s comfort and coziness and its gathering us together in a positive way felt pretty personal to me.
When we approached the Appalachian Trail access a couple of weeks ago, ready for the rocky trek up one of New Jersey’s excuses for a mountain, we were met with a group of three young men exiting the woods.
“Be careful,” warned the leader of the posse, “We saw some rattlesnakes on the trails.”
One of the other young men behind him snickered in response, which assured me they were just messing with us.
“Oh, ok. Thanks,” we said.
We continued on our way into the cover of the trees, boots in dirt, digital trail map in hand, the idea of seeing rattlesnakes on such a well-traveled route too unlikely in our minds to actually be afraid. We pushed the thought deep to the bottom of our mental daypacks. It wasn’t until later that it dawned on me that laughter is an often employed mask for nerves.
But more on that to come.
The Appalachian trail led us for a short while along the shallow, meandering Dunnfield Creek. The creek was dammed in spots with fallen tree trunks and boulders. On previous sweltering hikes, the creek has been a draw for people wanting to cool down in its babbling waters, falls, and pool basins interspersed throughout the water’s winding path. We did not encounter any bathers as we covered this beginning part of our route in the forest.
The trail forked just after a small waterfall, continuing flat along the creek on the left or upwards on the Blue Dot Trail to the Mount Tammany summit. We continued up, following All Trails with slight confusion, painting our own blue path upon the digital topography, slightly off kilter to the dotted trail line mapped out.
Mount Tammany is neighbor to the Appalachian Trail without actually being part of the far stretching, eastern range. The little mountain holds its own though, in our opinion at least, and boasts some impressive views of the serpentine Delaware River, the Delaware Water Gap, and the broad, sturdy Mount Minsi, across the water.
Little as it may be, compared to “real” mountains we have visited, Mount Tammany challenges hikers with a steep climb no matter how you approach it. In the past, we have opted to do the trail as a loop, Red to Blue to Appalachian, then connector back to Red. We have come to learn that the Red Dot Trail ascent is abundant with steep boulder scrambles, the rock faces painted with trail arrows that point straight up to the sky. Hiking the Red Dot Trail requires frequent stops to catch our breath and and ease our heart rates. This time, we thought we’d go a little easier on our bodies and take the Blue Dot Trail as an out and back instead, making our route closer to 4.6 miles instead of the 3.7 the loop would be.
After a couple of water and Gatorade breaks, we continued up along the trail, chatting as our breathing allowed, sweating as is only acceptable while exercising in the great outdoors. The trail turned from rocks to dirt and roots in shades of gray for a brief stretch. I was slow to process an odd sound I was hearing. Is that cicadas? I thought. Something pulled a warning from the back of my mind and the memory came into full consciousness just as my gaze fell upon the creature slithering across the path, just steps in front of us.
“Hang on,” I said, stopping ahead of Mike, “Rattlesnake.”
We took instinctive steps backwards and watched as the timber rattler, about four feet long and three inches wide finished crossing the path, the markings and tone of its skin the perfect match to the dusty landscape. The rattle at the end of its tail vibrated rapidly in warning.
We skirted wide and hurried along the path, stealing a few wary glances behind us.
“I thought those guys were just messing with us,” I confessed to Mike with a little laugh to downplay my apprehension, more vigilant for slithering bodies as we climbed the next steep stretch.
“You know? I’ve seen two rattlesnakes in the wild in my whole life,” I said, “And both were in this area, the Delaware Water Gap.”
“Really?” said Mike.
I remembered the ancient looking rattler my camp group came across hiking on some trail in the Delaware Water Gap when I was a kid. We didn’t realize it was there until we were right beside it. It didn’t rattle, just rested, coiled on a dead tree stump. I don’t think Miss Rochelle liked it much at all. A hiker’s dog had joined us on the trail at some point and stayed with us until the end, making us all feel a little safer and lighter.
I don’t remember how old I was in this particular memory. I don’t remember being scared. I just remember the green of the forest and a light mist and that wise looking snake as Miss Rochelle led us cautiously past it.
To tell the truth, I thought I’d be a lot more shaken encountering a rattlesnake than I was this time around. I kept an eye out as we hiked on, thinking just be careful where you step and keep your ears open for that warning like a shaker full of glass beads.
We reached the summit of the mountain which doesn’t have much of a view at all and hiked a little ways beyond to access the vista point further down the trail. We hiked down the rocks a bit to better take in the view once we got there, but chose not to descend to the lowest rocks of the vista point which have the most unobstructed views but feel the most treacherous.
Mt. Tammany Vista Point
We could see the river well from where we stood, as well as the beach where we waited over an hour in sweltering heat last fourth of July to be shuttled back to our car from our kayaking trip downriver.
I remembered the view from Mount Minsi across the river, looking upon where I stood now.
I remembered taking in the view from Mount Tammany’s vista point on a cold day in March 2021 when the trees were bare, the views expansive and toasted in winter’s varying hues of brown. I remember being on the mountain two hours from home and feeling like the hike was as exhilarating an adventure as any amid the Covid lockdowns, precautions, and hierarchical vaccination availability.
I remembered the struggle to climb up the mountain’s Red Dot Trail back then with more weight on my body.
I remembered that picture from Chicago and that feeling of luck to have a switch flip in my head after thirty-two years in the dark when it came to knowing how to be kind to my body.
I took a deep breath of fresh air, filling my lungs with the good stuff, and held it before letting it out. We took a few pictures to bookmark the memories of this particular journey up the mountain, reflected on the view a little longer, and turned to make our way back down the mountain.
We navigated the rocky trail back down, our stabilizer muscles earning their keep as we balanced on the loose rocks and knobbly roots underfoot.
“This is about where we saw that rattle snake,” I said when we reached the brief, flat stretch of trail.
We continued down, down, down.
Just before we reached the fork by the little waterfall, Mike pointed something out up ahead and said, “What is that?”
“What is what?” I said, looking up.
A dark creature crossed the trail ahead.
“There’s another one in that tree,” said Mike, pointing.
I looked.
“What is that?” I said, “It’s like some kind of weasel almost.”
Mike wondered if it was an otter. I wondered if otters can climb. Fun fact, turns out they can, but it’s irrelevant information to this creature.
“They’re not bears, are they?” said Mike.
The fear hit then at the suggestion, looking at the creatures, about five of them, each with dark fur and 3 feet or so long. Baby bears? I thought. Mom’s nearby if they are.
“Maybe they’re bears,” I echoed, “We need to be careful.”
They didn’t look like bears though, but when you see an animal you can’t quite make sense of in the wilderness, maybe it’s good to err on the side of bear. Know what I mean? I started backing up the trail.
“No way,” said Mike. His confidence was enough to disperse my fear.
I suggested weasel. Mike was still on otter. Whatever they were, they continued across the path and into the trees out of view and we continued on our way back down to the little waterfall and along the Appalachian trail and Dunnfield Creek. Our research later on yielded the answer to be fishers which sort of look like what you might get if you were to combine the genetic makeup of a weasel, otter, and bear.
The bathers were out now in the creek, seeking a reprieve from the day’s heat in the cool water. We swatted at clouds of insects as we traversed rocks and roots and mud on our way back to the trailhead. We stepped onto the pavement of the parking lot and took the connector back to our car where others were waiting to park and were eager to stake their claim on our spot.
We had our next destination ready in mind as the dirt from our boots nestled into the floormats of our car. I plugged in Shawnee Craft Brewing into the GPS and was already looking forward to a crisp, cold beer and some pizza in air conditioning, the rewards of exertion and wildlife encounters on Mount Memory. We headed across the river to the rustic yet civilized reprieve of the Poconos.
We left Mount Tammany behind, but we’ll be back. I’m certain. And next time we reach the top, we will have more to pile on the cairn of memories on that rocky face overlooking the river as it slithers through the gap between the little mountains we keep choosing to climb.
New York City on a sweltering evening evokes a sense of truth and camaraderie that isn’t always evident in the city’s boroughs. In the heat, the city’s truest self emerges from its facade of splendor and grit, too warm to layer on the wanderlust a minute longer. It cranks up the AC, adopts a loose, languid appearance that is just enough to scrape by as presentable, and just tries to find the breathable oxygen amid the auto exhaust and amalgam of aromas and stenches permeating the air. Top notch cooking scents waft out of restaurant after restaurant on 9th Ave, quickly melding with baked trash at the curb, only to be sweetened by a hint of perfume speed walking past or a trail of wholesome sunscreen fumes.
As the city sweats, its residents pour outside and sweat with it. They plod the radiating sidewalks to and from work, home, and leisure activities. They dodge steam vents on street corners, waiting off the curb to cross before the walk sign illuminates. They’re wary of darting critters on garbage collection eve as the rooftops across the Hudson tug the sun lower and lower.
Last night, I went in to meet some friends for dinner and, having arrived early, took to winding my way through Hell’s Kitchen in the heat. It was ninety-four degrees and felt over a hundred on the long stretches between avenues where the cross-breezes were blocked by neat rows of buildings.
I popped into Deacon Brodie’s tavern on restaurant row to cool down in the dark and ordered a crispy, cold Modelo which I sipped as I tried not to puddle too much on the leather-upholstered bench where I sat. As my brain simmered, the understanding dawned on me that everyone seated in the bar had most certainly walked in drenched as well and after that, I melted freely and unnoticed.
My brain wandered through memories of past summer days and nights on auto-pilot as it used to when I lived in Brooklyn, navigating by the internal compass that every New York resident develops in order to get by. North, South, East, West. Uptown, Downtown, Brooklyn, Manhattan, etc. It’s the kind of auto-pilot that used to get me to the L platform after work in the heat of July and August without remembering the two-street-spanning underground walk from the 1. Most of my attention usually went into wondering what the real-feel temperature was in the station. 110F? 120F? In the words of my late nana, “Does anybody have a meat thermometer? I want to know when I’m done.”
The nostalgia was strong yesterday as I cooled down in what looked like a miniature version of our old local, Harefield Road, which we decided was still our local when we moved about a mile away from it back when we still lived in Brooklyn. We did that because, in a city as everchanging as New York, if you don’t treasure the things you love, they tend to disappear. In our experience, after too long, doors that once opened to a place that made the city feel more like home, were found chained or covered with paper, sometimes pasted with orange tax evasion signs, or sometimes with a note from the former owners thanking their loyal customers for a good run.
I shook the nostalgia from mind as my friend Katherine walked in, showing she’d gotten my text about being early and where I’d decided to wait out the time till dinner. Katherine is one of a few very good friends who stuck from my time working in New York in my twenties. When I moved to New York, I felt a strong need to make friends of my own, as grateful as I was for Mike and the people who I saw as “his friends” at the time, though they are mine too now. The most obvious place to make friends was through work.
My process was to throw my personality at the wall (the wall being co-workers and acquaintances) and see what stuck. As the years have gone on, I am sad to be on the other side of learning that some friendships don’t stick like others. Whether it’s a general lack of initiative to coordinate or attend that happy hour or draft that text or email, or fail to get a regular catch-up going, friendships end up slipping through the cracks. I often wonder how friends, who I haven’t seen in a while, are doing. I try not to wonder if they’d still classify me as a friend or if they have a metaphorical sign posted on a metaphorical locked door somewhere. Thank you. We had a good run. I’ve grown up a little every year and with growth comes understanding, be it bitter or sweet. I can walk away with memories of good times past, content enough.
I am especially grateful for the sticky friendships though, the people who willingly catch up with me regularly, who care to know what I’m up to, what I’m struggling with, and what’s going well. They bolster and share their own experiences and goals and I am happy to be part of that. From talking to people among my New York circle over the years, a sense of isolation and overwhelm seems to be a common experience for the city’s new arrivals. I am happy to have overcome that in my own experience and to be someone who helps fill out other people’s New York community.
Analisa filtered in next and we headed around the corner to dinner at Elephant Ear and were seated, acceptable enough in our stickiness, that all too familiar residue of New York City heat and pondered the spiciness of the Thai menu items as we waited for our cold drinks.
Ashley came last and the gang was back together again, giving the latest updates for the month, not needing to do the whole “So, what’s new with you?” opener because we’ve seen each other recently enough to have that bit covered. The thing that was new, however, was the temperature, the drastic transition from the east coast’s bitter winter to an abbreviated spring, only to be thrust into August in the middle of May. Oh goodness gracious me.
After dinner, we parted ways and I headed to Bryant Park to meet up with Mike. I entered on the corner of 42nd and 6th and suddenly felt like I was in my twenties again. The lawn was dotted with people sitting on picnic blankets, hoodies, and beach towels. The cafe tables lining the gravel path around the grass were occupied with friends chatting and lounging in the slightly cooled after-dark temperatures. Readers were immersed in their books which lay open on their laps or in the grass. And patrons of the outdoor bars sipped, snacked, and conversated.
Bryant Park Lawn
A hot evening in Bryant Park is a guaranteed time machine for me back to fond memories of my early days in the city. Meandering the paths with Mike. Listening to a live band playing. Strategists taking chess too seriously. The library, up-lit and impressive, sheathing its collection of knowledge, history, and adventure within. When the heat becomes more palatable after sunset, you can’t help but love such a place. At least, that’s how it is for me.
If you ever get to experience the magic yourself, I hope you won’t take it for granted. Just sweat and let your mind unwind. You can’t fight the grimy residue and really, it’s part of the experience anyway. Only when you are seasoned with salt and damp with sweat do you become part of the tableau for everyone else, worthy of such a unifying experience with the people around you, the New Yorkers who call the city home and the visitors who spend their time and money to make the trip there happen, perhaps only once in their lifetime.
So, this one’s for New York in the heat, for the loveable beast of a city that I once called home. For the place that pulls on my heartstrings in moments when I least expect it. For the place that reminds me how who I was and where I lived helped to make me the person that I’ve become. So, thank you, New York City. We had a good run.
It’s a slow Saturday here in our corner of the world. Breakfast’s been had and tea after that. Our pajamas have turned into our actual outfits by this point and there is little planned for the rest of the day other than to prep for some visitors later on.
I am clicking through Paris on Google Maps, acquainting myself with the city for a trip that’s still a ways off, but will surely have come and gone before I am ready to be done with it.
The neighborhoods swirl clockwise from the city’s center like a snail’s shell in mint and white shapes, each one dotted with landmarks. Le Louvre with its pyramid and crowded galleries. La Conciergerie and Place de la Concorde with their revolutionary significance. La Tour Eiffel glittering in the blue night. Montmartre glowing at the feet of Le Sacre Coeur. C’est très merveilleux, n’est-ce pas?
We cannot see it all at once and so the planning ahead is necessary. We must pick and choose our favorites. It’s so difficult, but in that is the challenge, the fun, the stakes.
Outside, the ocean’s a murky sort of seafoam, dotted with a heaping serving of white sprinkles, under an overcast sky. It’s my perfect writing weather and so I thought I’d do just that.
Just outside, the naked rose of Sharon braces against the breeze, stewing in envy of the nearby trees with their branches clad in bunches of youthful green.
Mike’s playing Noah Kahan’s new album and I’m drinking in the melodies like lazy sips of cool lemonade on an August day.
The posts here have been few and far between these days. I’m sorry if you’ve noticed and had hoped for more. I’ve been getting happily lost in fiction writing instead, wandering into stories that don’t have endings yet until they do, meeting strangers that become important people in my life, creating my own simulated versions of reality from my little desk.
Since quitting coffee over a year ago, I’ve felt less of an impulse to share the personal stuff. I like the quiet in my head, the space to create and rationalize, to come to terms with the thoughts that have slowed from a race to a brisk walk. I am happy despite some chaos this year. I accept myself as I am and all that comes with that and there is more peace in that simple act than I would have ever imagined. I wish that acceptance for everyone.
I hope that once you finish reading this, you reflect on the miracle of your mere existence and make whatever you like of it in a positive way, whether it’s the most, good enough, or the bare minimum. Just know that you are marvelous, whatever you choose, and for you, I am grateful.
How y’all doin’, friends? Last week, we packed our carry-on bags to near-bursting and flew down south to Nashville for a change of scenery, some good music, and some truly amazing food. This was our second visit to Music City, after going in December of 2022 and, this time around, we made it our mission to venture beyond the bright lights of downtown to experience some of the city’s beautiful, vibrant, and quirky surrounding neighborhoods.
Broadway, Nashville, TN
East Nashville Food Crawl
The first day of our trip was a delicious adventure and my mouth is watering just remembering it. Temperatures in the eighties and abundant sunshine had us wanting to be outside, shaking off the frost that we’d accumulated, up north, this icy winter. Mike scoped out some recommended spots in the culinary wonderland that is East Nashville and we took a Lyft from our hotel in SoBo to our first stop for the day, Sho Pizza Bar.
Stop 1: Sho Pizza Bar
Sho Pizza Bar was a bright, airy, open kitchen-style, Michelin Bib Gourmand establishment. We arrived soon after opening and were seated at the bar, a perfect location to spectate as the chefs prepared the ingredients for the day’s orders. Scents of hickory, oak, precisely fermented dough, and simmering vegetable stock permeated the space as we perused the menu for what would be the most appropriate pizza for breakfast, taking into account that we planned to do a lot of eating for the rest of the day across the sprawling neighborhood.
We settled on the “Supermarg”, which was similar to a traditional Neopolitan-style margherita pizza, but with buffalo mozzarella, an ingredient that the restaurant flies in each week from Italy, according to their website. As we waited for our pizza to be ready, we watched the chefs behind the bar rolling out dough on the countertop and spreading it with fresh toppings before nestling the soon-to-be-deliciousness into the massive wood fired oven.
When our pizza was served, we were advised to use the provided shears to cut our own slices. We did as instructed and took our first bites. Somehow crispy and airy at once as well as both light and flavorful, this pizza was the perfect way to warm up our bellies for the day. We each paired our meal with a Peroni 0.0% and were soon off to our next stop, on foot.
Stop 2: Southern Grist Brewing Co.
Our walk from Sho Pizza Bar to Southern Grist Brewing Co. took us through some of the residential streets and main thoroughfares of East Nashville. On our journey, we noticed an abundance of new and in-progress construction, as well as homes that represented the former appearance of the neighborhoods. Many of the new homes appeared to be very recently built, residual dirt from construction still dusting the sidewalks and street that corresponded to each renewed property.
Warm from walking in the sunshine, we snagged a spot in the shade on Southern Grist’s front patio. We ordered some beers, a Handsome Devil (NZ Pilsner) and a Teal (NE IPA), to start, and enjoyed chatting, sipping, and planning our next move. Soon, a freight train rolled in on the nearby tracks and we noticed the traffic starting to accumulate at the crossing.
Enjoying some brews at Southern Grist Brewing Co.
We learned later in the day, from our Lyft driver, that the freight trains that come through East Nashville are notorious for causing loooong traffic delays. He said that if you’re gonna get stuck at a train crossing, you might as well have packed a lunch. That being said, I took the below pictures thirty minutes apart.
We stayed at Southern Grist for one more brew to share, enjoying the warmth and pleasantness of the patio area, opting for a Toro y Oso (Mexican Lager). We adjusted our next stop plans based on the lack of movement from the train, opting to head in the direction of Five Points vs. McFerrin Park, not wanting to be trapped by the motionless freight train later on.
Stop 3: East Side Banh Mi
After our beers, Mike was feeling a banh mi, a Vietnamese sandwich and I had never had one, so we took a little detour on our way to Five Points to give East Side Banh Mi a try.
A quick service-style spot, serving up brilliant Vietnamese flavor, we ordered a Pork Banh Mi to share. The sandwich came on a pillowy baguette and was packed with pork shoulder and crunchy vegetables, both pickled and fresh, and an ignorable hint of creamy shallot mayo. Let’s just say I won’t shy away from this food option next time it’s a contender in a list of lunch options.
Stop 4: Five Points Alley Shops
Ok guys, so this one isn’t a food stop, but our stomachs needed a little break from consumables for a little bit. Instead, we decided to feed our hunger for some Nashville culture and wandered into Five Points Alley Shops, a collective of tiny shops in small, hut structures, selling things like vintage clothing and accessories, used books, and creations by local artisans. I had fun perusing the racks of vintage clothing, pulling out things like a cropped and de-sleeved Destin, Florida tee and a pair of red an green tartan knee-length, high-waisted, culotte shorts which I turned to Mike and said “Christmas shorts?” and he replied, “I mean…”
Stop 5: Hunters Station, Everbowl
“I’m feeling like a smoothie,” I said to Mike as I came out of Defunct Books, coming up empty on my latest used bookstore search, a copy of Shakespeare’s MacBeth.
Mike did a little tappy-tap-tapping on his phone and found a place in Five Points called Everbowl that looked like it might be a decent option. As a side note, Everbowl looks to be a chain that is located all over the US, but there is not one in New Jersey and this was our first time trying it.
Everbowl was a located inside a vibey, food court-style setup called Hunters Station where the air conditioning was cool and necessary and many cozy corners and counter seats contained artsy-looking individuals staring intently at their laptop screens, their ears invisible beneath noise-cancelling headphones.
We surveyed the menu over the counter at the Everbowl stall and decided on a “Whatever Smoothie” with a mango base, frozen bananas and spinach, and peanut butter. Friends, have you ever been really craving a food or drink, but you can’t quite put your finger on exactly what it is that you want? And then you order something random and by the miracle of all the Gods in the Heavens, it hits your tastebuds in all the right spots and then some? Well that was this smoothie for me. Too much? I don’t care. Moving on!
Our “Whatever Smoothie”
Stop 6: Lockeland Table
The final stop on our East Nashville food crawl was a beautiful little spot situated in the Lockeland Springs neighborhood.
Lockeland Table advertises something called their “Community Hour” on their website, a trademarked coinage for their own spin on the traditional happy hour, only with a mission-based twist. This service is open to diners from 4-6pm Monday through Saturday, and unlike a regular happy hour, it has a purpose that stretches beyond the confines of the restaurant’s property and accounts. Some of the proceeds from Lockeland Table’s “Community Hour” go directly toward Parent Teacher Organizations for schools in Nashville and the surrounding areas. Who could resist a good deal on drinks and small plates, especially when it comes with a side of community enrichment.
We were seated on the patio out front by a friendly hostess and ordered the black eyed pea hummus to share and a couple of muddled old fashioneds off the “Community Hour” menu and then added some red Thai curry steamed PEI mussels off the main menu, for good measure.
The staff at Lockeland Table were so friendly and welcoming, making this a perfect last stop on our East Nashville food crawl for the day. We ordered a Lyft and made our way back to our hotel in SoBo, in Nashville proper to prepare for our planned evening activity.
NHL at Bridgestone Arena: Predators vs. Devils
We didn’t realize it was going to be pride night at Bridgestone Arena when we entered, but the sparkly, excited atmosphere made the game all the more enjoyable. The Bridgestone staff, the LGBTQ+ community, and the arena full of allies in attendance really made the night a celebration of love, community, and, of course, music, that was fun to witness. There was glitter. There were performers. There was a custom Pride night Predators logo designed by a local print artist, Tiffany Evans.
During each intermission, we got to experience the incredible talent of performer, Brady Riley, who looked fab in a pair of knee-high, heeled, silver boots, glittery makeup, and a long, custom Preds jersey. Brady’s versatile setlist included covers of songs by Lady Gaga, Miley Cyrus, and Ozzy Osbourne, all amazing.
Brady Riley and band performing at Bridgestone Arena
We have been to away hockey games before where the home fans are less than kind to fans of the visiting team. This was not our experience in Nashville. The fans were, for the most part, respectful, and there to have a good time and support their team and not dole out animosity toward the other fans, aside from the normal hockey chants which you’ll sit through at any game.
In the end, the Devils won, serving as the cherry on top, for us, though the Predators fans would disagree. Still, afterwards, we saw lots of Preds fans out having a great time in the city, despite their team’s loss.
We enjoyed some music at Legend’s Corner on Broadway after the game.
Day 2: 12 South, Centennial Park, The Ryman Auditorium
Virgin Hotels Nashville
We checked out of our first hotel of the trip, Holiday Inn & Suites in SoBo and headed to our second, Virgin Hotels Nashville, in Music Row.
We checked in early, having called ahead about storing our luggage, only to be told that our room was already ready. The check-in process was smooth, informative, and welcoming. The hotel also had a dedicated welcome ambassador who was present at check-in to offer us some witty remarks, welcome info, and heaps of character.
We dropped our bags off in our room and took in the details of our home away from home for the next two nights. We were not disappointed. Having booked this hotel through Chase Rewards, our stay also came with certain amenities like included breakfast at the Commons Club Restaurant in the lobby and a daily property credit that could be put towards experiences, dining, or drinks in the hotel. Part of our welcome package was a box of “GooGoo Clusters” which we tried immediately, our breakfast of champions, savoring the chocolate, caramel, nougat, nutty goodness before heading out to our next stop, in search of some real food.
12 South
If you find yourself wandering around downtown Nashville in the morning and are wondering where all the bachelorette party herds have gone to, I have the answer for you! They are dressed to the nines, parading, dining, and shopping their way through the cute, boutiquy, and culinary hub that is the 12 South neighborhood.
Heading into the 12 South neighborhood
Our goal was to get a nice breakfast at The Buttermilk Ranch, a plan quickly thwarted by the lack of availability due to the visiting bachelorette party community that Nashville has become somewhat famous for.
No sweat, we thought, we’ll just try our back up option, which honestly looks pretty darn good too! We headed to The Frothy Monkey and put our names in for the 50 minute wait. We took to window shopping along 12th Ave South to pass some of the time, peeking into colorful shops like Reese Witherspoon’s Draper James before just having a seat on a bench and deciding to people watch instead. We wondered aloud to each other if the plethora of ladies in their cropped boho tops, short skirts, and cowboy boots were freezing, while we pulled the tabs of the zippers on our rain jackets a little higher.
The Frothy Monkey
We were seated in the interior side porch section at Frothy Monkey, a pleasant room just off the main restaurant. Outside the bright windows, it was growing increasingly gray and chilly and inside it smelled like roasted coffee beans and warm bread. I ordered a chai latte with almond milk, craving something warm and cozy (craving coffee to be really honest with you) and, influenced by the influencer-esque crowd all around us, a mimosa as well.
For breakfast, I ordered the Broadbent Omelette, fresh eggs with bacon, cheddar, onions and roasted peppers, which came with a side of fresh sourdough. Mike opted for the Shrimp and Grits, blackened shrimp with andouille sausage, tomatoes, peppers, and onions over smoked gouda grits. Mike’s meal ended up being among my favorites of the foods we tried on this trip. So, so good.
Five Daughters Bakery
After breakfast, we walked off a couple of bites by zigzagging the bungalow-lined residential streets of 12 South with the goal of making room in our bellies to share a doughnut from Five Daughters Bakery.
From the array of offerings, we opted for the chocolate chip sea salt and wouldn’t you know it, we seemed to have made just enough room to split it!
Full of breakfast and dessert, we thought we ought to walk to our next spot via a scenic route.
Belmont University & Vanderbilt University
Our ultimate destination was Centennial Park and we decided we’d walk through the scenic campuses of Belmont University and Vanderbilt University to get there. Belmont University had a quintessential, “collegiate” feel to it. The pretty campus had lots of Greco-Roman architecture on display, statues of gods and goddesses, as well as sprawling, lush, green lawns that would be an enticing draw for most prospective students, I’d imagine.
Vanderbilt’s campus was more sprawling, with picturesque pockets of courtyards, pathways, and bridges sprinkled amongst a satisfying mix of both traditional and modern architecture.
A photo of some of the Vanderbilt campus from our previous trip
Centennial Park
On our previous visit to Nashville, one of my favorite experiences was going inside the replica of the Parthenon, built for Nashville’s Centennial Celebration in 1897, to see the 42-foot statue of the goddess, Athena, that the structure houses. Unfortunately, on this trip, the Parthenon was closed for HVAC refurbishment.
Because we could not go in to visit the beautiful, big lady this time around, I will add some photos from our previous visit, as Athena made such an empowering impression on me last time that I was so looking forward to seeing her again. This was a learning moment for me, friends. Even if there is an activity you think you’ll definitely do on your trip, so much so that you don’t even need to research more about it, just save yourself some day-of disappointment and check that it will be open.
We made it back to Virgin Hotels Nashville on tired legs and feet after spending most of the day walking. We decided to just kick off our shoes and rest a while before our next activity.
The Ryman Auditorium
We visited the Ryman on our previous trip for the tour of the venue and the Rock and Roll Museum that they have onsite. This time, around, we were there for the music.
If you’ve read my past travel posts, you’ve seen me mention a certain band a few times now, one of our favorites who we seem to have a tendency to follow around. Anyway, they are called Trampled by Turtles and they are an Americana band made up of wildly talented string musicians. Getting tickets to Trampled’s show at The Ryman was actually the catalyst to us planning this entire trip.
The Ryman Auditorium, also dubbed “The Mother Church”, is a stunning, historic music venue with stained glass windows, wooden pews, a wooden stage, and a wooden ceiling. Wood is excellent for amplifying acoustics and so, the sound in this venue is something else. What I didn’t consider when I got so excited about seeing our favorite band at the Ryman was that the atmosphere would be more akin to that of going to the symphony rather than a lively concert experience.
As the Ryman is located in a historic venue, in a super touristy area, you might get a mix of people who are fans of the band and people who just want to experience some music in a famous venue, they could care less what it is. For fans, this makes for a somewhat lackluster concert-going experience.
Despite the different-than-expected experience, we still had a good time, though, I’m sorry to say, I probably wouldn’t go out of my way to see a favorite band perform at The Ryman again since I enjoy the community experience that comes from being in a crowd of like-minded fans that just want to stand up, sing along, and dance to their favorite music.
Day 3: Exploring Our Hotel & The Station Inn
Virgin Hotels Nashville Rooftop
We decided to give our tired legs and feet some more time to rest before heading back out to explore some of the city’s offerings. We grabbed a delicious brunch in the hotel lobby at Commons Club, then took a nice long nap before venturing up to the rooftop to grab some cocktails, views, and a bite to eat.
The Station Inn, The Gulch
We left our hotel late in the afternoon to catch a show at the legendary Station Inn, an iconic bluegrass venue in The Gulch, taking our turn being the spectators going to a show to experience the venue. Lucky for us, Station Inn is more of a sit and listen type of place on the regular.
On this visit, the Station Inn was taking part in hosting the Tin Pan South Songwriters Festival and we got some tickets to see Marla Cannon-Goodman, Jaida Dreyer, Kylie Frey, and Stephanie Lambring. Each performer was incredibly talented and entertaining, their songs ranging from heartfelt to hilarious.
We also learned on this visit that one of the performers we got to experience at The Station Inn on our previous visit to Nashville, Ronnie Bowman, had passed away the week before due to a motorcycle, vehicular accident. It was evident amongst the performers and the people behind the bar that this loss was felt deeply amongst the Station Inn community and it was emotional to see the performers paying tribute to their late friend with songs they’d co-written or performed with him previously.
Ronnie Bowman, Rob McCoury and the Sparkomatic Coaxials with surprise guest, Billy Strings, December 2022
Germantown
We trekked from The Gulch, across Downtown, to Germantown. We were in pursuit of Bao, brews, and a big, hot pretzel.
The bao at Steam Boys in Germantown was up there among my favorite things we ate on this trip. I ordered the beef gua bao, which was packed with spice and warm flavor on a satisfyingly squishy bao bun. Mike opted for the chicken which he also said was excellent.
Next, we headed to Von Elrod’s Beer Hall & Kitchen and grabbed a couple seats at the bar. I got the M.L. Rose Owl Lager, brewed in Asheville, NC and we ordered a Classic Bavarian Pretzel to share.
Von Elrod’s Beer Hall & Kitchen
Day 4: Cheekwood Estate & Heading Back Home
On our last day in Nashville, we had some breakfast at our hotel, checked out of our room and had the concierge desk store our bags.
We ordered a Lyft to take us to the Cheekwood Estate, a historic home and botanical garden located about a twenty-five minute drive from Downtown Nashville. I recommend booking your tickets for this in advance, if this is an activity that you are interested in, as we had noticed tickets were sold out when we originally planned to go, the day before. The Cheekwood Estate staff encourages visitors to take ride shares to the property, as parking is somewhat limited. They even gives discounts if you can provide proof of your rideshare dropping you off at Cheekwood, so that is pretty nice!
We enjoyed exploring the grounds of the Estate which was blooming with tulips on our visit. We purchased the house and gardens ticket and went into the house to explore some of the estate’s beautiful, private rooms.
We returned to our hotel to pick up our bags and ordered an Uber to whisk us off to the airport. In the terminal at BNA, a musician was playing a live acoustic set, taking requests from the travelers in the vicinity, giving us one last reminder of what Music City’s all about before we boarded our flight to head back to reality, once more.
Bonjour, mes amis! It’s March and today just seemed like a good day to write a blog post. I have no idea where this particular post is going yet, so just bear with me and we’ll meander on the screen together. How’s that sound?
Like crickets.
Ok. Good! Allons-y! What’re we waiting for?
Life’s been a little stressful lately, but nothing we can’t handle with little tiny baby steps, day by day. The temperatures here in our corner of the world dipped into low single digits a few weeks back and let’s just say the pipes at my family’s home and rental property down the shore didn’t fare so well. That’ll be a story for another day though, once I can draft a worthy intro, unlike that in today’s post, and once I can process the whole experience and all that’s been in the works since, amid a reconstructed setting.
Today’s a morning for decaf Earl Grey in my favorite mug, a big little thing that’s helping me keep sane amid the upheaval of the past few weeks. Writing has been another salvation, when I get the time for it, and reading, of course. I’m crawling through Maeve Binchy’s Circle of Friends and having a lovely time of it, with Celeste Ng’s Little Fires Everywhere on deck.
I’m wrapped up in a big fuzzy, brown sweater today and my most comfortable blue jeans, my cross between Hagrid energy and power outfit for the day, with a big splash of cozy. I feel tired already and there’s a good chance I’ll fall asleep on the couch at 9 pm yet again, in exactly what I’m wearing, too warm and cozy under the sherpa fleece pumpkin blanket that Danielle and Corey gave me for my birthday a few years back now, so there’s that to look forward to… What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, as the saying goes, and also makes you inexplicably sleepy, apparently.
We change the clocks this weekend and the days are getting lighter for longer. Spring is on the horizon and, with it, warmth and progress. I’m looking forward to some travel this month, to white sand and turquoise waters, to good music and a reunion with a goddess, but more on those adventures to come.
In the meantime, stay sane, stay warm, and find a little moment of happiness in today. 💖
