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!
My memories of Brooklyn cloud over slowly with time, coated with the city’s grime that films over its fixtures and ghosts. The exhaust of the exhausted, the grit of the grind, the exhalation of industry. It kept me from opening the bedroom windows on Union Avenue many nights, despite the need for air as the steam heat screamed and clanged, caged within the pipes in our apartment, turning us into puddles as we slept. I’d seen that grime when I first moved to the city after college, blowing sooty mucus into a tissue and thinking, Huh? That can’t be normal.
My body got used to the city air quickly, learning to filter the mystery particles or at least disguise them beyond recognition. My muscles got used to the steps in subway stations, to city blocks, and to running. I ran a lot in the early years of living in the city, training for long distance races under the bright lights in McCarren Park, sharing lane one of the track with serious runners, stray soccer balls, and unobservant spectators. The smell of the track overpowered the scent of sweat. The green turf was grass-like enough and soothing to look at. We collected turf pellets in our running shoes and displayed them on the russet tiles by the front door in the kitchen.
We lived about a mile from McCarren Park at one point before moving to our place on Union Avenue and used to run to and from the track on training days. The nights before trash pickup were always the worst. Some people will know that it’s already suffocating to run in a sports bra, but add having to hold your breath past oozing piles of trash bags at the curb and the small heart attacks that accompany rats darting from those piled, plastic lumps and it’s really great training for lung capacity.
The air always seemed fresher inside somehow, in New York, aside from the city’s beautiful parks and green spaces. Even the musty scent of reclaimed wood and damp hops was inviting walking past the local bars and restaurants. I miss that smell sometimes, now that we don’t go for a pint or two on the regular, like we used to.
After a couple of our usual haunts closed down and transformed into one thing and then another, we discovered a great little place on Berry near Bedford Ave called Juniper. Juniper was a cozy respite from the crowded neighborhood a block over on Bedford Ave and it was BYO, something difficult to find at the time in our corner of Williamsburg. We’d pick up a six pack of Abita Amber, glance at the chalkboard specials to see if they still had the blackened chicken sandwich and the chicken pot pie. Then, the cool, quirky waiter with the untamed hair and the loud 90s sweater would come over, bopping to an internal song that didn’t match the one playing over the speakers. I remember I’d always burn my tongue on the pot pie because I was too impatient and it was too delicious. Mike would always nod in approval after the first bite of his blackened chicken sandwich. We’d sip our Abita Ambers and say, “I really like coming here.” The place made us smile and prompted conversations at every little table inside.
I remember we went to Juniper once and the lights weren’t working, but the kitchen appliances were. The staff had strung white twinkle lights in the kitchen and lit candles throughout the restaurant. They ran out of sandwich buns at one point and the owner ran out and got some more from the grocery store down the street. We enjoyed our meal in the dark alongside other Juniper devotees and respected the hustle of the restaurant staff and owner, who appeared to be having fun despite the evening’s setbacks.
One night, we were looking forward to a hearty, cozy meal at our favorite place and made our way across the neighborhood to Berry Street. We picked up our six pack before heading over to Juniper. In the distance, we saw another couple standing outside the door to the restaurant. They had their six pack too, but they did not go inside. The restaurant was dark. No lights twinkled within. The candles were extinguished. We looked on Google and our faces fell at the words Permanently Closed.
New York is like that sometimes. It will whet your appetite and break your heart. It will soot your nose. It will train and test your strength. And you’ll go on and it will remain with you in your brain, lungs, and blood. When we went the way of Juniper and left the city, I took Brooklyn with me. When we walk down Union Avenue now, we’ve been replaced in our old apartment, but it will always be ours somehow and we too will always be Brooklyn’s.
I’m on a reading kick lately. Reading helps me to tune the buzzing static of my insecurities to the right station until I can sit back and analyze them with more clarity. I enjoy being a spectator to other people’s or characters’ stories for a while, particularly on rare days when I feel like a background character in my own. I overthink. I underthink. I misinterpret. I acquiesce to the harsh judgement that accompanies creative drain some days, goals crowning a mountain peak that seems to grow out of reach despite my efforts.
I pitch my hammock into the rockface and will it to hold so I can keep climbing once I’m rested. When I need a break from decision making, from world-building, from feelings of inadequacy, I pick up a book or my Kindle. When I read, the print on crisp pages takes the reins as my supply of curiosity and potential refill.
Until recently, I would buy books or borrow them from friends or family willing to lend them. I am a serial re-reader when it comes to books that I own and am careful in selecting books to purchase. I wait; I visit; I ask for advice. I will continue to buy books that mean something to me.
My shelves and Kindle are stocked with different genres: fantasy, historical fiction, murder mysteries, and a smattering of minimalism, wellness, and nostalgic childhood one-offs here and there. Books are my time machine. They transport me to different memories, different people, and I feel connected to those experiences and people again, even if they are not alive anymore or if we have simply lost touch.
To supplement my book buying practice, in the continual pursuit of living with less clutter, I finally visited my local public library branch. When I applied for my library card, the three staff members behind the circulation desk welcomed me to the area. I have lived in the area for four years. Let’s just say I didn’t admit that since there’s no excuse for it taking me as long as it did.
If you are a book lover without a library card, don’t hesitate like I did. It’s time, really.
Aside from being welcomed to the neighborhood when picking up my library card (I can only imagine the books will silently shame me forever for my transgression in waiting four years!), I was also serenaded by one of the librarians with this bad boy from 1967, perhaps more appropriately known as The Library Song written by, Fred Hertz and Joel Herron.
“There’s a place for you and a place for me, it’s the local public library. They have books and things that they lend for free It’s the latest, it’s the greatest, it’s the library.“
If I knew there’d be fanfare, I’d have gone sooner. 🙂
Wielding my new magic access card to hundreds of thousands of books across my county, I went “shopping” in the library, or at least, that’s what it felt like – and bonus, no buyer’s remorse! I keep a list of books that I want to read and suggestions from friends and family in my notes on my phone and it was so easy to peruse the library app to find the reference numbers and sections for the books on my list. I know! I’m late to the party and Hermione Granger is screaming at me right now somewhere in the fictional universe, but I don’t care, because I’ve finally made it. I was excited to walk out of the building with two adventures in my hands and the promise of many more ahead of me, all for the nice round price of zero dollars. In the words of Will Hunting, “How you like them apples?”
With this lifeline nearby, its shelves of plastic-sheathed, coded offerings waiting to be read and re-read, I feel calm and excited, only overwhelmed by wanting to read more stories than I have time to read. I am determined to rekindle my relationship with the Dewey Decimal System, remembering now what a great pair we made throughout my school days all the way up through college. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, as they say, and I’ve fallen again. What else would you expect from a word nerd like me? Afterall, “It’s the latest, it’s the greatest, it’s the library.“
Our final approach into Key West International Airport was one of my most memorable so far. Looking out the window, a little smile suspended my cheeks in a dreamy state of cheerfulness as the turquoise waters of the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean met below us, guiding the way to the Conch Republic. We landed and took our phones off airplane mode and I let me family know we’d made it safely.
View from the Plane
The airport grounds crew rolled up a ramp to the door of the plane, as though an impressive set piece in an extravagant production and we collected our bags, thanked the in-flight crew and bounced down the metal pathway, eager to get the day started after spending hours traveling. A warm breeze whipped through the air and the thunder of jet engines and nearby construction roared in our ears as we followed the fluid foot traffic from the plane, through the tiny terminal with car rental counters and an indoor bar aiming for island vibes, and to the ride-share pickup area. A hankering for cocktails by the water and a grumble in our bellies decided the itinerary for the afternoon, but first we wanted to drop our bags off at the hotel.
Mike summoned a Lyft and we were off. Our driver, a friendly man from Haiti, welcomed us to Key West and told us we would love it and, without prompt, assured us it was a safe place. “Nothing bad ever happened here,” he said, “You can walk around and just enjoy yourselves. You don’t have to worry.” We were not worried to begin with, but it was nice to hear his advice all the same and we were more than ready to walk around and enjoy ourselves.
Our driver dropped us off at our hotel, The Marker, and the staff at the front desk were friendly and accommodating when we asked to store our bags until our room was ready. Bag check tags safely stowed in my handbag, we made our way to Sunset Pier by the Ocean Key Resort & Spa to satiate my thirst for cocktails by the water. I ordered a Grapefruit Crush and Mike got a Florida Keys Brewing Co beer from the bar and we chose two colorful stools overlooking the water and the island of Sunset Key.
The View from Sunset Pier
No view beats a water view, for me. Make that water turquoise and crystalline and I’m in love. Vacation had officially started and I grew pleasantly drowsy as the jetlag sat heavy upon on my eyelids, the fruity alcohol concoction going down easy, and the gentle sound of water lapped at the pier below and before us through the slats of the railing. We decided we were craving tacos and narrowed our preference down to Amigos Tortilla Bar on Greene Street as it was close and well reviewed and we were hungry.
We were seated immediately at an outdoor counter overlooking Greene Street, a prime people-watching station which I recommend as a top Key West activity. Across the street was Capt. Tony’s Saloon, a bar that boasted a claim of being the oldest bar in Florida, which we knew could in no way be true as we’d been to St. Augustine two years earlier. Still, as we waited for our food, we enjoyed watching the Capt. Tony’s patrons attempt to “feed” coins to the Atlantic goliath grouper suspended above the establishment’s sign, in hopes that good luck would follow them throughout their time on the island if their coin was successfully consumed.
Capt. Tony’s Saloon from Amigo’s Tortilla Bar
Lunch was both delicious and refreshing. I opted for tacos, one pork and one shredded chicken, both on corn tortillas and an Islamorada Ale. We were still waiting on the text from our hotel informing us that our room was ready and I wanted to explore Duval Street. We paid the bill and set out to explore.
Lunch is Served!
Duval street is packed with shops, restaurants, and people – hoards and hoards of people. The days we were there, we saw a large cruise ship docked in the port at Mallory Square which definitely contributed to the congestion of the Historic Seaport and Old Town neighborhoods of the little island. Though crowded, we’re not talking Times Square crowded, so we were hardly phased.
We perused the shops and architecture along Duval Street from the sidewalk and navigated south until we’d had enough of the kitchy offerings peeking out at us from shop windows, and changed course in search of the Custom House building, home to the Key West Museum of Art & History, which I had read sometimes displayed large sculpture pieces in front of the building. With no large sculpture on display to marvel at on our visit to the building, however, and receiving the text that our room was ready, we made our way back to The Marker via less busy streets, ingesting the local architecture with each colorful bungalow and guest house we passed along the way, feeling the heat of the afternoon Florida sunshine.
Our room at the Marker was spacious and bright with a king-sized bed, balcony overlooking a palm tree-ensconced parking lot, and a full bathroom equipped with both a shower stall and large soaking tub with key lime scented bath amenities. Mike took a nap and I finished editing a YouTube video and settled in, setting my suitcase on the luggage rack and sliding into my new, pink, satin, travel slippers which replaced my now-recycled, overworn, gray slides with the decorative bows.
Feeling refreshed after getting off of our feet for a couple of hours, we ventured to the outskirts of the Mallory Square Sunset Celebration in search of what all the travel blogs, vlogs, and Tripadvisor promised to be an unforgettable experience. The Sunset Celebration is held nightly and begins approximately two hours before sunset. The celebration is home to lively entertainment including street performers, souvenier and food vendors, live music, and hoards of tourists preferring to see the sunset through their phones instead of with their eyeballs.
It is said that the playwright, Tennessee Williams, began the Sunset Celebration, choosing to applaud the sunset from Mallory Square each evening, with a gin and tonic in hand (what a multi-tasker). Today’s celebration is a far cry from the magic of that image and the dreamer in me felt the experience was muddied by the circus-like spectacle. The crowd was applauding and began to disperse even before the sun reached the horizon, concealed by a cloud for the final moments of its descent, before colorful brushstrokes painted the sky.
We relocated to Sunset Pier next door for pre-dinner cocktails, settling in for the real magic as the crowds thinned and dusk approached. I’m a sucker for a cotton candy sky and this one did not disappoint.
We chose to have dinner at First Flight Island Restaurant & Brewery, a restaurant housed in, and adjacent to, the original PanAm ticket office. I am sorry to say it, but I do not have positive things to say about our dining experience there, beyond that the atmosphere of the outdoor patio was indeed very pleasant. Let’s just say we got to enjoy that atmosphere, and that atmosphere alone for a while, as we waited over thirty minutes for our drink order to be taken by someone who was allegedly not supposed to be our server.
Our drinks arrived about twenty minutes after that, delivered by the same “back-up” server who took down our food order which arrived over an hour later, delivered by our “back-up” server who also told us she had to put our dishes on the tray herself in the kitchen. Despite the lackluster service, we still had high hopes that the loftily priced food would be as delicious as the online reviews has promised. We were disappointed in that as well, unfortunately. If you are going to be a brewery and a restaurant and charge lofty prices, please aim to do at least one of those exceedingly well, or reduce your prices.
We decided to seek out adventure for the next day and signed up for a snorkel and sail tour with Island Jane Charters. We started our second day in Key West with brunch at Moondog Cafe. Walking up to Moondog and seeing the huge crowd outside was a little stressful as we were strapped for time, needing to get to our snorkeling rally point in a little less than two hours. I checked in with the hostess, a laid back, Audrey Hepburn admirer who assured me it would be no more than a fifteen minute wait and introduced me to the system of “putting your name down” at Moondog. She withdrew a box of laminated cards from the hostess stand and instructed me to, “Pick a card, any card.” I read the card I withdrew from the box, “Walt Disney,” the name instantly drawing to mind sunny visions of my friends Chelsea and Paige who each frequent Disney vacation properties.
“Are you really?” said the hostess with airy fascination.
“Why not?” I said with a shrug and a smile.
Sixteen minutes later “my name” was called and the hostess widened her eyes with a smile and said, “Shortest fifteen minutes of your life, am I right?”
We followed her inside, past the counter of freshly baked pastries on display and over to our little table beside a colorful floor to ceiling mural depicting Hemingway and the famous cats that now resided at his former property across the corner. Breakfast was delicious and any stress I felt melted away with the first sips of coffee and a few bites of my “Moondog Classic”. It was a relief to taste delicious food after my epic fail of dinner the night before.
We hurried back to The Marker to change for our snorkeling tour and got to the rally point in a less than direct way, but on time, only to be informed that snorkeling the reef was not possible that day due to the recent windy weather making the water too murky to see anything. The sail was still on offer though, and boasted unlimited drinks. We’d get a partial refund if we chose to go on the sail or a full refund if we preferred not to. We decided that already being there and in search of an adventure, that we’d join for the sail and it turned out to be a fun and informative way to pass a couple of hours. Being out on the water alone was worth the price.
One thing first time visitors should be mindful of when visiting Key West is that there are not sandy beaches where you can wade into the water barefoot and bask in the gentle tide. Beaches in Key West, other than Smathers Beach, outside the historic, walkable downtown, are manmade and rocky (and crowded!). It is better to go in search of the plethora of watersports, cruises, and activities offered to satisfy your splashy goals and search for those breathtaking views.
We sat poolside at the Marker for a while after our sail, enjoying live music up until the point where an attention-hungry, over-tanned, grown man decided it would be fun for everyone to experience the interactive journey of him canon-balling into the pool. Next was our old haunt, Sunset Pier, then dinner at what I was hoping would be an excellent Cuban restaurant. (First Flight really pummeled my restaurant confidence, can you tell?) We changed for dinner and walked to El Siboney in the Old Town neighborhood. The place was crowded with tourists when we sat down so I had high hopes it would live up to the hype, and live up to the hype it did.
Mojito O’Clock at Sunset Pier
I ordered the ropa vieja (shredded beef with onions, peppers, tomato, and spices with a side of white rice and black beans) and Mike got the lechon (slow roasted pork marinated in sour orange mojo with onions and a side of white rice and black beans). We both decided it might be the best ropa vieja we have ever tasted and we have tasted some excellent ropa vieja, let me tell you.
We walked back to The Marker, our bellies full, breathing in the humid evening and dodging palm fronds as we passed the colorful bungalows that hugged the sidewalk, warning us to Beware of Flamingos and informing us that Life’s a Beach. We made our way along the streets, many with names of members of British royalty and returned to the Marker, satisfied with our adventures for the day.
We drifted off to sleep, sheltered by the palm trees, enveloped in the welcoming conch spirit, our rental car and Florida Keys road trip lying in wait. We went to Moondog again for one last meal before heading to the airport to collect our rental car and drove east with the thought that one more day in paradise would have been just right.
I overpacked for a journey to the past this weekend, but I have no regrets. Our adventure (and our little car) took us across the state to Stockton, NJ, where we decided to treat ourselves to a weekend of luxurious relaxation at The Woolverton Inn. The inn, housed in a pretty, stonework, manor house originally built as a two-story farmhouse in 1792, drew us in with its online photos that captured its elegant pastoral charm, hearty breakfasts, and cozy rooms with lavish soaking baths and in-room fireplaces.
I packed for the weekend, abandoning my typical restraint with the aim of being as cozy as possible while away from home. My suitcase graciously accommodated my uncharacteristically maximal decisions as I stuffed it full with cozy sweaters and flannels, warm loungewear, and my plush bathrobe. The zipper of my toiletry bag was tested with the addition of a large bottle of rosemary and mint bubble bath, and we even prepared an additional bag of sweet indulgences to make our retreat all the more enjoyable.
After loading up the car, we began our journey west in a gray drizzle, with a stop planned at Readington Brewery. The brewery did not disappoint and was replete with cozy warmth and rustic charm. We shared a flight of four beer samples, seated at a picnic table beside a Christmas tree, inside the brewery’s bright, spacious tasting room, sheltered from the chill and damp outside beneath its high, warm-toned wooden ceiling.
After closing out our tab, we continued on toward Stockton, the daylight fading from gray to muted periwinkle. We pulled into the cobbled and gravel driveway of the Woolverton at twilight and hurried across the stone entry path to the front door. We were greeted by a friendly staff member, Janet, who checked us in and led us on an informative tour of the inn and our room. Janet was very knowledgeable about the inn and its history and I was fascinated to learn that Julia Child and her husband, Paul, were married on the property’s stone patio back in 1946 when the manor house was still a private residence. Janet also explained that fresh baked cookies were put out in the dining room by three p.m. each afternoon and that a supply of coffee, tea, and cocoa were always available before directing our attention to a glass decanter of Dubliner Whiskey with Honey, available for guests to help themselves to a tipple or a nightcap if they were so inclined, which of course, we were.
Janet led us to our room, Amelia’s Suite, the original master suite from the time of the house’s earliest construction in 1792 and I immediately felt like a lucky house guest of the Honourable Phryne Fisher as my gaze wandered around, scanning the comfortable environs, thoughtfully decorated and enclosed with ornate Chinoiserie wallpaper in red and beige hues.
Janet left us and we settled into our room. I allowed my suitcase to breathe and explored our accommodations, taking a few photographs for this post. We went back downstairs to sample the mouthwatering homemade chocolate chip cookies, to choose our breakfast time for the next morning, and to pour ourselves each a taste of the whiskey. After relaxing in the room for a bit, we braved the rain and made the slightly harrowing drive across Center Bridge to the Pennsylvania side of the river, following the slightly flooded, dark, winding road to New Hope in search of dinner.
After spending unanticipated time figuring out parking for the municipal lot vs. the street (street is the way to go, if you can find a spot), we escaped the rain and opted to sit at the bar in a snug tavern called The Salt House where the bartender was very attentive and accommodating. We each ordered a whiskey cocktail, Mike opting for an Old Fashioned, and I for something called All The Buzz.
We sipped our drinks and ordered some hearty fare, taking our time, talking, eating, and drinking, elbow to elbow with the bar counter’s other patrons. After dinner, we explored the shining streets of New Hope in the rain, passing by the sleeping small businesses and shops. I pointed out to Mike Bucks County Playhouse where I used to participate in high school theater competitions and we chatted about how I was finding the town much more enjoyable this time around without the lurking stress of competition and sometimes a scarcity of friends to share the day with.
We returned to Stockton via the New Jersey side of the river and passed through the quaint village that was home to our weekend lodgings. The confines of Stockton were pretty and festive, some buildings and streets decorated with Christmas lights and decorations.
We headed back up to our suite at The Woolverton, looking forward to a luxurious soak in the bath after our adventures in the rain. I made sure to add a plentiful amount of bubbles to water as the tub filled and enjoyed the soothing fragrance of rosemary and mint and warm sips of Maker’s Mark while lounging in the hot bath, once again reminiscent of Kerry Greenwood’s 1920s Melbourne upper society lady detective, Miss Fisher.
The only item I forgot to bring that would have ensured a night of proper sleep during our stay was my pillow. I am, shall we say, a very particular sleeper. At home, I have a memory foam pillow and at The Woolverton, I did not. I think most normal people would be able to adjust to the change quite easily, but I had some difficulty. I am not sure if I could have requested a firmer pillow from the inn’s staff the next day, as I did not do so, but if you do plan to visit and are as particular a sleeper as I am, perhaps arrange with the inn’s staff ahead of time to accommodate such a preference or bring your own.
The next morning, we headed down to the enclosed, heated porch for our breakfast of piña colada scones, fresh fruit, eggs, potatoes, and salad. I helped myself to coffee in the dining room and we each enjoyed a glass of orange juice. We planned our day a bit better over our meal and decided to take a twenty-minute drive down the New Jersey bank of the Delaware to visit Washington Crossing State Park, making sure to say a quick hello to The Woolverton’s resident sheep in their paddock on the property on the way to our car.
Hello there!
We were one of three cars in the Visitor’s Center lot at the park and enjoyed perusing the museum’s collection of Revolutionary War artifacts and artwork depicting historical scenes from the era. We then took advantage of the dry weather and embarked on a short hike around the park’s muddy trails, starting out on the Continental Lane trail, following in the footsteps of the Continental Army as they began their historic 9-mile march to Trenton, NJ on December 26, 1776, after crossing the half frozen Delaware on Christmas Night, in pursuit of carrying out General Washington’s plan of a surprise attack on the Hessian mercenaries stationed in what would later become New Jersey’s capital.
Our hike took us down to the Ferry Site on the New Jersey side where a replica of of a wooden ferry was on display in the grass beside the whitewashed, stone Nelson House, which was not constructed yet at the time of Washington and the Continental Army’s historic crossing.
We hiked back to the car and continued our outdoor adventures, heading back up 29 to Lambertville. We wound our way up to the parking lot for Goat Hill Overlook, heeding the posted, yellow, warning signs advising that copperhead snakes had been sighted in the area and that they only attack if disturbed. I was a little bit afraid as we made our way up the path that was laden with copper-colored leaves, but we made our way unscathed to the viewpoint and were rewarded with a pretty, albeit foggy, view of the Delaware River and New Hope below.
We noticed our growing hunger as we headed back to the parking lot, careful not to trod on any leaf-sheathed copperheads, of which we saw none, and made our heading The Dubliner on the Delaware in New Hope for lunch and a couple of pints. I opted for a Half and Half – a combination of Harp and Guinness, which Mike reminded me to photograph for this post as well as a delicious lamb stew, which he did not.
Our day continued with a much needed nap at the Woolverton and then a festive trip to Peddler’s Village in Lahaska, PA to view the their attraction of one million holiday lights. I have never seen Peddler’s Village so crowded, and think perhaps it was due to Saturday night being the only night to escape the weekend’s rainy forecast. We perused a few of the shops and bought a couple of puzzles, forgoing a couple others that captured our attention, due to their staggering piece-count
We escaped the crowds of Peddler’s Village in search of dinner in Lambertville and opted to go to Under the Moon Cafe for some tapas. We ordered a couple of appetizers, a turkey vegetable soup special and some sliders with San Marzano tomato sauce as well as a Tapas Tower of skirt steak, shrimp, and Manchego with pears. We ended our delicious meal with a sweet tres leches cake before heading back to The Woolverton to repeat our rosemary mint soak and Maker’s Mark nightcap from the night before.
We ended our weekend at The Woolverton with breakfast in our suite. Mike opted for heuvos rancheros and I for coffee and French toast with berry compote and real maple syrup. We packed up our things and checked out of our suite, heading out into the rain to make our way home, taking with us the souvenir of the fond memories of our step back in time.
I first finished reading Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone when I was ten years old. It was the summer of 2002 and I was in need of ways to escape the organized chaos that was The Work Family Connection day camp. I had seen the first Harry Potter movie in the theatre when it came out in the fall of 2001 and was mesmerized by the magical world of JK Rowling’s imagination, brought to life by the cast, crew, writers, and artists involved with the film. It was “movie magic” in its truest form and I absolutely loved it.
The Work Family Connection’s summer camp was located in the basement-level cafeteria of Southern Boulevard School. The cafeteria had waxed, linoleum, tiled floors, beige and blue cinderblock walls, and it was where WFC’s before-school program was held during the year. I had spent a lot of time there and made most of my friends, at the time, at WFC and have retained few of them, unfortunately, after we each grew up and went our separate ways.
Rather than gossip with my friends or ask (pester?) the counselors for their worldly advice about what it was like to be “adults”, for a few days I preferred to sit alone at one of the cafeteria tables with my book. I flipped open my paperback and allowed myself to be swallowed whole by Harry and his story. I disappeared into the fragrant pages of an enchanted world hidden amongst the very real-world places of London and the Scottish Highlands. With ease, the words blocked out the cacophony of Nok-Hockey sticks smacking against a particle board rink as well as the generally loud nature of pre-pubescents who each have something on the tip of their tongue that is absolutely the most important thing you will ever hear, no like seriously guys.
My parents had tried to read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone to me and my sister when we were younger, but either I or Katie (or both) couldn’t make it past Fluffy, the three-headed dog, a Cerberusesque creature, who guards a dangerous place full of enchanted obstacles and secrets much too dangerous for children.
If you have read the beloved series or watched the movies, you will realize that I was very close to Harry’s age at the time of the story and that I would soon turn eleven. Eleven is a pivotal age in JK Rowling’s fictional universe as it is the age at which young witches and wizards receive their Hogwarts letter. I, however, remember being petrified of turning eleven.
When I was nine, two of my best friends at WFC aftercare were reading from an anthology of scary stories and stopped abruptly after reading one line in particular. When I asked why they stopped, they looked at me with grim expressions and showed me a sentence in the book. The sentence prophesied that people born on my birthday would die in eleven years. It seems silly now, of course, but when you are nine and your best friends believe something as serious as this, even if only for a moment, you entertain the possibility that it could be true. In fact, you believe it to be. I- being nine and gullible, wondered with dread if I’d bite the big one at eleven or at twenty. I imagine neither of these friends remembered this traumatizing “prophecy” past that day, when they read the words in the book, but in many ways, this experience shaped me.
Harry Potter distracted me from my looming eleventh birthday and was there for me with the wave of relief brought on by my twelfth, having lived to tell the tale. Harry, who had already lived ten years longer than he was supposed to, at the time of the first book, was an exception to the rule, and so too, would I be, (and probably most people born on my birthday, for that matter). Sometimes, I wish I could travel back to that moment and give that nine year old girl a huge hug and let her know she’s got so much more time than she thinks she has. Thirty-two would have been an absolute dream for her, but let’s hope for even more borrowed time than that.
In Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, I visited the Weasley family’s bustling home, The Burrow, for the first time. Though book two is my least favorite of the series, due to the heavy lean on spiders in the storytelling, I fell in love with the Burrow and the Weasley family instantly. The Burrow is the epitome of lived-in cozy. It started as a small house and over the years, as Molly and Arthur Weasley’s brood grew to seven children, new levels, rooms, and towers were magically added here and there. It is a house filled with personality, color, hand-me-downs, squashy furniture, and imperfect perfection. There is a quote from the second movie that is not in my edition of the book, where Ron says, “It’s not much, but it’s home,” and yet, it is so much more than he thinks, something that Harry recognizes the instant he lays eyes on Ron’s unique family home.
I continued on my journey with Harry and his friends, tagging along like Neville Longbottom, wanting to fit in and be part of the crew. Once I was twelve, and out of the proverbial forbidden forest of my looming death prophecy, I could just be a kid again. I continued reading, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban then Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. I got happily lost in these stories and met creatures I could never have dreamed up myself, a spectator to Harry and his friends’ exciting lives and challenges.
I went to a book release party for Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix at our local Borders (RIP!) with two friends and we went back to my friend Meagan’s house for a sleepover afterwards. I couldn’t put that massive blue hardcover down. Neither could my friends. It was the quietest sleepover in the history of sleepovers and we were all having the best time.
I bought my copy of Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince in the summer of 2005, the day after saying goodbye to a boy I had met who I really liked and who I would not see again for five years, when the door was firmly closed and deadbolted. I delved into my new book that hot summer, in need of my friends in JK Rowling’s world. I found a haven in Harry’s world, despite the darkening tone of the story and the trials lying in wait for Harry and his friends as the books progressed. I am grateful for that green book at that time in my early teen years when I really needed something to disappear into.
I then had two years to wait for book seven, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, to be released. My cousin and I speculated what would happen to Harry in the final book and who would survive what was to come in his magical universe. When I got that book, I think I finished it in two or three days, holed up in a squashy blue armchair with mugs of microwaved French Vanilla tea, wedged in the little reading nook between my parents’ dressers whenever their room in our apartment was available. I learned about horcruxes and rooted for Harry and the Order’s victory over darkness. I bore witness to Severus Snape’s most heartfelt motivations and saw Harry become a little more human in recognizing them too. It was thrilling and heartbreaking and everything I had hoped it would be and more. And when I reached the final page, I wanted to start the whole thing all over again, as I had done after finishing each book.
Throughout his years at Hogwarts and beyond, Harry faces many harrowing experiences and has a responsibility to be brave. Always in tow are his truest friends, Ron and Hermione, to help him through the toughest bits. The Harry Potter stories teach the importance of creating a support system for children, both through friendships and mentorships. They encourage children to be imaginative, brave, and adventurous. They succeeded in teaching me these lessons, for which I will always be grateful. I truly grew up with this series and it has been there for me through the trickier years in my life. As Albus Dumbledore says in Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Azkaban, “Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times, if only one remembers to turn on the light.” When you are feeling lost or sad, try opening a portal to another world in the pages of a book and take a look around for a while to see if you find treasure there, as I did.
Thank you for reading this long post. If a particular book has had a big impact on you, I’d love to hear about it. Leave me a comment, if you’d like to share and happy reading! 🙂
This past May, Mike and I joined my family for a trip to Italy, however, for the first leg of this trip, we chose to visit Lake Como on our own instead of joining the rest of the group in Venice. For the first leg of our journey, we spent a few days in a peninsular town called Bellagio on the shore of Lake Como and used our time there to venture to some of the nearby villages on the shores of the lake. Bellagio is known as “The Pearl of Lake Como” and it owns up to its nickname, in my opinion. The weather forecast for our trip was incorrectly dismal with the exception of our first day there and when Mike asked me what I definitely wanted to do in Lake Como in case we only had one nice day to do it, I didn’t need to think twice when it came to my response.
“I want to see the ghosts,” I said.
He knew exactly what I was talking about because we had looked up many activities in the region and during our time researching for our trip, he had stumbled upon the ruins of Castello di Vezio that tower above the village of Varenna. We flew from JFK to Milan and took an hour and a half car ride with our friendly driver, Mauro, in what we were pleasantly surprised to find out was a Tesla. The drive was hot, but picturesque. Italian natives do not rely as heavily on air conditioning as we do in America and Mauro seemed comfortable sitting in his dress clothes upon a towel in the driver’s seat while we quietly melted into the back seat upholstery, two American puddles invisibly staining the black pleather.
We arrived in Bellagio after a couple of harrowing experiences on the narrow roads, passing trucks and hoards of people, all of which Mauro navigated expertly and half-jokingly exclaimed, “I love my Italy!” in a heavy Italian accent. We love Mauro’s Italy too and appreciated his skilled approach to the region’s winding roads. Mauro delivered us safely to Piazza Giuseppi Mazzini, where we paid him and he pointed up a steep flight of stairs in the direction of our hotel. We climbed with our suitcases and backpacks and checked into our room at Hotel Bellagio, greeted by the friendly staff at the reception desk. We were happy to learn that our room was well air conditioned. Soon after setting down our bags, we headed off to the ferry, jet lagged, but going strong. We took the ferry to the beautiful, romantic village of Varenna with a half-baked plan to see the ghosts.
View from our room at Hotel Bellagio
When we arrived in Varenna, we got a little lost to start out, but eventually found the trail that led up to the little village of Perledo, toward the top of the mountain, from which we could connect to the trail to the castle. We climbed and climbed and climbed. The trail was steep and rocky with sections that were difficult to pass due to us wearing inappropriate footwear. We did not do enough research to know we should have planned to wear hiking boots for this journey. I was wearing jelly sandals and Mike wore regular sneakers. Despite our inadequate footwear, we made it to the top, drenched in sweat, our lungs working overtime, and our hearts pumping effortfully.
Start of the trail to Castello di Vezio from Varenna
At the top of the mountain, we were greeted by a small cafe at the base of the castle. We stopped to purchase our tickets from the counter and ordered some well-earned 400-ml glasses of Nastro Azzuro. The beer was cold and the cafe seating was inviting despite the presence of cigarette smoke permeating the air. After a while, we got used to the smoke, something you must do when in Italy where a quarter of the population are smokers. We rested our aching legs and discussed the journey up and how ill-prepared we were for it. After finishing our beers, it was time to explore the castle and meet the ghosts.
Upon seeing the view, I nearly forgot about the ghosts. The panoramic scenery was more breathtaking than the climb had been and the sight of the sparkling water below us and the mountains that cradled it was absolute magic. Even Mike, who prefers not to take pictures had whipped out his phone and was snapping away. We asked another couple to take our picture and they graciously accommodated.
After marveling at the view for a while, I spotted the ghosts. The ghosts of Castello di Vezio are life-sized plaster cast sculptures that sit lonely and ominous on the castle ruins’ cliffside bannisters and stone walls, like protective gargoyles overlooking the lake and the village below. The sun was shining and the sky, blue, the day we went, but I imagine the ghosts would be much eerier on a cloudy day.
After meeting a few of the ghosts, we wandered to the top of the castle turret for what promised to be a 360 degree view. We were not disappointed, though enjoyed the unobstructed view from the first observation area toward the base of the castle more.
When we were finished exploring, we headed back down the mountain trail slowly, gripping the moss covered stone walls of Perledo, careful not to stumble on loose rocks underfoot. Once at the bottom of the trail, our stomachs grumbled and we wandered the picturesque streets of Varenna in search of something to eat. We ended up at a tourist trap on the water, but didn’t mind as the view was worth the less than stellar food. We should have eaten in Piazza San Giorgio where we read the food was much better, though we’d have had to settle for the view of the Chiesa di San Giorgio and the beautiful Hotel Royal Victoria in favor of the sparkling lake views. I think we could have dealt with that just fine.
Once the jetlag hit, it was time to head back to Bellagio on the ferry for some much needed rest, followed by an aperitivo of red wine in a lakefront cafe and dinner of pasta and fish at B-Lake Bellagio. We went to sleep for the night with full bellies and the pleasant tipsiness that a day of adventure and Italian wine can bring and woke to a surprisingly beautiful morning. Though the rest of the trip promised no ghosts, I found that thoughts of the plaster casts haunting Castello di Vezio stuck with me for the rest of the journey, apparitions in search of aperitivi, just like we were. To these happy haunts, I say, “Salute, buon appetito, e arrivederci!”
cozy does it 