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.
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.
Family gatherings have recently swept us up and away on some travels and we feel fortunate to follow where they lead. I am getting more used to sleeping away from home, but am always prepared to tote along a few comforts to bring some home with me wherever we go.
I have often been made fun of when I reveal that I pack one item in particular that others would definitely deem unnecessary, but which has become a necessity for me. Each night when I go to sleep, I lay my head down on a pillow that is blanketed by a Williams-Sonoma dish towel. This habit, born from a practical function of going to sleep right after showering has since become routine regardless of how damp my hair is. It has also garnered many laughs and possibly some judgement when I tell people that I do this. I know you are probably coming to terms with the possibility that I might be a little crazy now too. It’s ok. I’m used to it. I don’t really know why, but I sleep better when there is a dish towel on my pillow, so there is almost always one there.
My travel comforts also include a pair of washable slippers and 3oz bottles of my own body wash and shampoo/conditioner. I have found that hotel-provided toiletries sometimes leave a residue on my skin that I’m not particularly fond of, so I always bring my own. Using my own bath products makes me feel and smell more like myself and as a result, makes me feel more at home. As for the slippers, I prefer to have an extra layer between my feet and the mysteries that lay embedded in the dark, patterned, wall to wall carpeting found in many hotel rooms.
A habit that I have adopted from having friends and family who also travel frequently is to stick with a preferred group of hotels, when possible. My own preference is to stay at Hilton hotels and I even decided to join their loyalty program and apply for their Amex card back in 2019. Having a preferred hotel group takes a lot of the decision fatigue out of trip planning and can also save you money on future trips. I have earned many points since first getting the card in 2019 and have even been able to redeem them for at least a few nights of stays, all just by paying for hotel stays on our other trips or by using my card to purchase things such as groceries or gas. It feels pretty magical when I have enough points to have a free night’s stay.
Another benefit to staying in preferred hotels is the aspect of familiarity you can expect when you check in and enter your room. As a Hilton Honors member, I have become very familiar with the booking, cancellation, and check-in processes and take comfort in knowing what to expect when I book and when I arrive. I know that the hotel will give me two bottles of water at check-in and how to access the Wi-Fi every time. These are little things that go a long way and help me to feel settled and relaxed while away from home.
When away from home, I always set up my nightstand the same way as I do at home. I make sure to have my glasses, water, lip balm, lotion, phone, and phone charger right next to me because my eyesight is pretty poor and stumbling around in the night trying to find these items could be bruise-inducing.
When packing, I opt for packing cubes to help stay organized and these accessories have come to serve a similar function to my dresser drawers at home. The cubes are different sizes and I know what I have packed in each of them so it is easy to find each component of an outfit that I plan to wear. I find that packing light and having a plan or itinerary for what to do each day helps to dress appropriately and the packing cubes just speed up the process even more.
In keeping with this theme of organization, I pretty much have one warm weather and one cold weather packing list and pack mostly the same clothes no matter how many trips I take in each of these climates. For example, on a trip we took to Italy back in May, I packed many of the same items that I took on our recent trip to California. I don’t mind being an outfit repeater and am almost always an outfit repeater on longer trips because I prefer to pack carry-on only.
While I know some of my habits may seem weird to others, I am of the opinion that as long as you are not harming or offending anyone, do whatever you must to carry comfort with you as long as it packs small enough to fit in your carry-on or personal item. If you have habits that make you feel more at home while you are traveling, I would love to hear them in the comments. Thanks for reading and cozy travels everyone! 🙂
During the early days of the pandemic, I missed travel intensely. I grew stir crazy in our home and craved to be transported to places outside our walls. The uncertainty about if that would ever happen again just made me crave adventure even more. Without a vaccine on the horizon and since traveling anywhere beyond the front door risked exposure to Covid-19, we stayed inside our home as much as possible, unless it was necessary to go outside.
The first virtual walking tour video that I watched on YouTube during the pandemic was of London’s West End in the rain. It was refreshing to see a landscape that was new to me and to hear the sounds of a city again, albeit subdued, and to hear the patter of the rain on the sidewalks and streets. Everything shone in the water and the light and I “walked” around London for a while.
My favorite walking tour video that I came across since then was of a snowy walk through Québec City at night. This is a video that I will still just put on in the background sometimes and Mike and I have nicknamed it “The Montreal Crunch Crunch” because I kept accidentally thinking it was Montreal and the “crunch crunch” comes from the sound of the videographer’s boots in the snow. The video takes you on a tour of Vieux Québec and slightly beyond the neighborhood’s borders around Christmastime. When I first watched it, I made a mug of hot cocoa and got cozy on the couch on a gray day and it was just exactly the right thing to do. I wandered the winding streets of the old stone city, climbing stairs and inclines in the snow, and my teeth didn’t even chatter once!
A year ago, Mike and I got to experience Québec City in person and though it was devoid of snow in August, it was no less magical. We stayed at the coziest hotel, Hôtel du Vieux-Québec. When researching this hotel, I was drawn to the sturdy, gray, stone walls and liked the idea of sleeping soundly in a fortress of coziness. Some rooms had fireplaces for that added layer of warmth, but we didn’t need that in the summertime so we opted for a more basic room. Each morning of our stay, we woke to a wicker picnic basket hooked on our door, filled with freshly baked croissants, fresh fruit, and freshly squeezed orange juice. We’d eat at the little table by the window that looked out over the side alley and then prepare to start our day of wandering the old city.
Breakfast Picnic Basket
Vieux Québec, or Old Québec, is a multi-level city with an “upper” and “lower” town and quite a few steep inclines and staircases between them, but even if you are not comfortable with such terrain, there is a funicular cable car that goes between the terrace of the impressiveFairmont Le Château Frontenac down to lower Vieux Québec and vice versa for a small price. We did not end up riding the funicular, but let’s just say everyday of our trip was leg day.
Old QuébecFunicular
Having watched the virtual walking tour of Québec so many times, I felt familiar with the geography of the upper and lower towns, but did get thrown off by a few twists and turns. We really enjoyed wandering around the city and to Mike’s annoyance, I found myself frequently stopping to photograph buildings and murals. We stopped into many of the cozy bars and restaurants and ate hearty meals and beaver tails and decided our favorite place was Resto-Pub Q-de-Sac. We enjoyed sitting at the bar, sipping on Boréale Rousse, a delicious Québec brewed amber ale, and snacking on cheese encrusted soupe a l’oignon (onion soup). Inside, the pub was reminiscent of a cozy chalet and I can only imagine what a respite it would be from icy cold evenings in the winter.
Québec City Mural
We are hoping to go back in the winter sometime to see the city under a blanket of sparkling snow, but before doing so, I learned that I really should brush up on my French which has been rusting over for fourteen years- sacré bleu! Mike and I made a rule that because my French was too rusty to be conversational and Mike does not speak more than a few words, we would walk into restaurants and say “Bonjour, hello” to the proprietor or the host to make them aware from the get go of how poor our handle of the language was. Having taken French for years in middle school and high school, it was definitely embarrassing to not have the confidence to carry out a two way conversation. I found I would ask a question or order in French, but I did not have a strong ear for a local’s fluent response and would get very flustered and turn into a Jersey tomato in the headlights immediately.
“Bonjour, hello” was necessary for us in making our way around the city, where the local language is French. The locals were very friendly and patient with us for which I am so thankful, but I am going to try to get a handle on French again, at least to the point where next time we go, I will have the confidence to have a basic conversation, check into a hotel, or order a meal.
If you enjoyed this post or are interested in reading more about travel, check out my friend Katherine’s new blog, Dear Jane Travel. And until my next post, au revoir, goodbye!
We recently returned from vacation in Florida with Mike’s family, and while I am going to miss the beautiful, emerald waters and white sand of Miramar Beach, I’ve got to say that I am happy to be home.
Being able to get back into a routine and feel settled is always a reward after a long trip or travel day and this return was no different. We walked into the condo on Saturday night, left our carry-on suitcases and personal items by our entry area, and sat down on the blue couch to wind down from our journey.
Prior to leaving for a trip, we always try to leave our home somewhat neat so that it is pleasant to walk into upon returning. When dishes and laundry are done and put away and the clothes we left behind are tucked away where they belong, it makes the task of unpacking much more enjoyable. I usually unpack either right away or the morning after returning, putting clean clothes in the dresser and closet, laundry in the hamper, toiletries in the bathroom, and shoes on the shoe rack. I tuck my green, Away Carry-On suitcase, with the matching packing cubes inside, in the bedroom closet where it lives and hang my black, Marmot backpack up in the entryway closet.
I actually enjoy unpacking and as Mike could happily live out of an open suitcase on the living room floor for a week, I usually unpack for him as well because it makes me feel more calm and settled. Everything in our home has a place and that makes it easy to restore our home to its usual state after traveling and to rejuvenate for everyday life. And when those spaces become too full, it is our reminder to re-evaluate our stuff and declutter, if needed.
Growing up, my family did not travel a lot and the travel bug didn’t bite me until I was twenty-one, soon after I had moved to Brooklyn. For our first few trips, Mike and I traveled with a large, checked suitcase that we would borrow from Mike’s mom. It was bulky and difficult to lug to the airport on public transportation. When I first became interested in minimalism after watching Matt D’Avella’s documentary Minimalism: A Documentary About the Important Things, I wanted to approach the challenge of living light while traveling by packing carry-on only for a trip.
Our first experience traveling carry-on only for a long trip came in September 2017. We were headed to Rome, Florence, and the Amalfi Coast for ten days and after researching our destinations and the plentiful cobblestones and stairs there, it seemed like a perfect opportunity to test out our goal. I used what have become some of my staple travel bags for this trip: my ebags Mother Load Jr. Backpack and my Red House Vermont Waxed Canvas Book Bag Crossbody. I cannot tell you how many people I have recommended these bags to because I have lost track, and while they have jumped in price a bit, I still highly recommend both for functionality and durability in packing light. (Red House even offers discounts for new email subscribers if anyone is interested.)
For our 2017 Italy trip, carry-on only worked well for us and even came in more than handy, and potentially life saving, when we found ourselves trapped on the interior steps of our Airbnb in Rome, separated from the exit door by a tall, black, iron gate. We had a Frecce train to catch in about an hour to take us to Florence and it was torrentially downpouring outside.
After trying and failing to call our Airbnb host multiple times and banging on every door in what seemed to be a four-story, empty office building with an empty Airbnb, we panicked for a couple minutes and eyed the gate with more and more determination. “Fuck it; we’re gonna climb it,” I said with false confidence.
Neither of us really seemed to believe me.
I went first, placing my right, gray, Converse sneaker in the low foothold of the gate. I swung my left leg up and had to hop to push my thigh on the gate in order to propel myself over, adrenaline pumping too hard to feel the pain that would catch up with me later in the day. My left foot found the lower foothold and I could jump down to reach the floor. The accomplishment was too great to process and a surge of relief overcame the fear from moments ago. Mike, more determined and in semi-disbelief that I had climbed the gate, was able to toss our bags over and I caught them on the other side. He climbed and propelled himself over the gate and together, we ran to the Tabacchi around the corner to get our tickets for the bus to the train station. We were completely soaked within the thirty seconds it took to get to the Tabacchi and then waited at the bus stop, completely sopping, but out in the open air in Rome and nothing could be more wonderful than not being trapped anymore.
When we arrived at our Airbnb in Florence and unpacked, there were puddles in our backpacks and we hung our clothes up all around the room to let them dry, riding high on our escape from Rome until the shock and bruises set in. We spent our nights in Florence away from our humid room, our legs sore, drinking pints of beer instead of glasses of wine and reminisced about how we had climbed the gate.
On our recent trip to Rome this past spring, we revisited our Airbnb from 2017 and the experience gave us some closure that we needed. We posed in front of the doorway with frowny faces and our thumbs down, with the certainty that we would never stay there again and then we left to join my family for a delicious pasta dinner.
While packing carry-on only may not always come in quite as handy as it did for us on that first trip to Italy together, it makes it so much easier to get around while traveling, whether it be on public transportation, through the airport, or around a city. Having limited space in your travel bags encourages you to pack very intentionally and to use your creativity to create multiple outfits out of a small capsule wardrobe of items.
If you are planning an upcoming trip, I encourage you to try packing light and if you’re in for a real challenge, you could even test out the sense of freedom that comes with Carry-on only travel. Until next time, happy planning, happy packing, and happy travels. And if you ever face a tall iron gate of your own, I wish you luck, strength, perseverance and lots of cold ice packs.
The sunrise tends to wake me up on the weekend days- not because of some inner-light that syncs with the solar forces; the real reason is much less transcendental than that. The “blackout” curtains on our bedroom windows evidently lied about their skills on their resume and my unconscious bias was unfairly influenced by a gut-confidence in their cozy, homespun, buffalo check design. Our windows face full east so the disparity between the advertising and reality became apparent at once.
Mike is able to sleep through the shiny-ness, but I often find myself heading upstairs to enjoy a large mug of some hot liquid while reading on my kindle or wondering if my early morning half-motivation to write something is going to result in my fingertips actually stringing sentences together on my keyboard. Today, the motivation appears to have been real enough.
I am standing at the breakfast counter that separates our kitchen from our living room, sipping piping hot Darjeeling, and flipping through lonely planet’s The Travel Book with semi-absorbed interest. The book is a large, heavy account of vivid photographs and informational blurbs of every country in the world. It was gifted to me by my dear friend, Chelsea, years ago at my bridal shower. I flip through the pages from time to time and have found it to be my go-to entertainment during power outages, which happen more often than in our previous Brooklyn homes (where we never once lost power-ahh the good ol’ days).
I took The Travel Book off of the shelf in our bedroom the other day, realizing that it was not stored in a spot where I use it. It’s not like the book was caked in dust or anything, but I knew it would serve a better purpose upstairs, which it has done as I have looked at it three or four times since.
I enjoy wandering the varying landscapes that spread across the glossy pages, engaging in silent meetings with the smiling locals and being confoundingly absorbed in the intense, bright-eyed stares of more conspicuous emotion opposite the photographer’s lens. I feel the warmth of hot dust on a ranch in the Buenos Aires province, release myself to the wind that flutters strings of colorful prayer flags in Bhutan, and cower at the unimpressed, stern confrontation of an army of albatrosses in the Falkland Islands.
Travel is fuel for excitement and entertainment in our home, as it is for many other people, I imagine. Taking out the excess has resulted in a personal increase in my mental capacity for planning and organization and my favorite things to plan and organize are trips.
Throughout the pandemic, I have satiated my wanderlust by way of virtual walking and driving tours in places around the world from the comfort of our turquoise couch. I have also delved into planning trip itineraries for multiple destinations, trips that will, in hope, actualize some day. My adventures have taken me to the remote corners of Barrow in northern Alaska, the focused (and thin) atmosphere of Everest Base Camp, the sustainably artsy towns and rainforests of Bainbridge Island, a crunchy Quebec City in a growing blanket of snow, the valley-nestled city of Thimphu in Bhutan, and the Greek island of Tinos in a heat wave.
I’ll pick up the remote some nights and Mike will say, “Where are you going today?” I pull up the map on my phone and zoom into different countries like a curious satellite before I settle on my destination. Without having to book a hotel, pack a bag, and remove my belt, liquids, and laptop to go through airport security, I am transported to a new life experience. I gather my surroundings through sight and sound and record them in my mental travel journal.
My virtual travels throughout this past year have broadened my adventurous spirit and geographical comprehension. I feel lucky to live in a time when these places and experiences are virtually accessible. While I cannot recreate the other sensical experiences of my destinations, nor the personality and heart of a location and its local inhabitants, I can be aware that the places and people of the world have so much to offer and that I want to absorb as many experiences as my human lifespan will allow me to.
Any person who has been a guest in our home is likely familiar with being greeted with a hearty, “Welcome!” and a platter or cutting board full of sliced summer sausage, neat columns or concentric circles of Carr’s Table Water Crackers, and fresh-off-the-block slices of Kerry Gold Irish Cheddar. I learned the tried and true hospitality trick of providing immediately accessible snacks for guests by growing up as part of a large extended family who held frequent family gatherings.
Hosting guests is one of my all time favorite activities, likely because I grew up with the fond experiences of being a welcomed guest and learning how to be a host from the happy examples set by my immediate and extended family. These examples just always happened to involve appetizers and plentiful beverages.
When we lived in Williamsburg, we had the fortune of hosting guests frequently. We were not usually the main destination or reason to visit New York for most of our out of town guests. No, we were usually just a stopover for a night after a flight into JFK or Laguardia or a birthday dinner, Broadway show, or holiday party, but it always felt nice to be a stop on their list.
Our railroad style apartment on Union Avenue was full of cozy character and hosted countless guests over the years, some frequent visitors, and some one time only stays. When we first saw the apartment in March of 2015, I was sold immediately, standing in what would be our kitchen for the next five years, a warmth in my heart and a tingle on my skin, not yet knowing how many happy memories were waiting to be made within the confines of its red brick walls, and honey hardwood and rust tile floors.
The brick brownstone with six units was estimated built in 1895 and some of the accents would attest to that estimation. Our large, sunlit bedroom had an old, sealed-off brick fireplace growing up the wall like English ivy and our modern stove was nestled in what used to be a brick kitchen hearth. The light wooden cabinets and laminate-topped peninsula counter added practical function and a homely, cottage appearance to the atmosphere of our space and contradicted the metropolis environment of the bustling city that surrounded us.
Our Union Avenue apartment was a place where guests knew they were welcome to a hearty snack, warm meal, cold beer and red wine in the evening, clean sheets and blankets for a comfortable night’s rest on our turquoise couch, and fresh Brooklyn bagels with a mug of hot tea or coffee in the morning.
Writing about it now makes me miss our old home so much.
We pushed up our move by a week this past March when things started shutting down left and right in the city due to the pandemic. If the pandemic had not happened, we’d have been hosting some of my cousins from California that week and taking daily adventures from a meticulously planned itinerary full of truly New York and Brooklyn experiences, things that would give my cousins memories that were unique to our city while also providing Mike and me a chance to give a proper send-off to our regular neighborhood haunts.
But the pandemic did happen.
My cousins made the decision to cancel their trip after their airline offered them vouchers if they chose to cancel and after I let them know it was probably a good idea to cancel as bars, restaurants, theaters, and visiting with our Nana and our cousin’s months old son became either impossible or too risky.
We ended up moving four days after closing on our condo. We did not really get a chance to linger in our goodbyes with our home of five years before driving away in the Uhaul and car, but maybe that is a good thing. It would have made it so hard to allow that emotion to hit me, for my gaze to linger on the nail holes in the walls where our pictures used to hang, on the shiny rectangle on the floor where our warm, multi-colored, striped, shag area rug had been, and to hear the faint echo of laughter, late night chats, Friendsgiving gatherings, and regalings of recent travels from guests just arrived from the airport.
Five months after moving to our new home, the time has finally come to christen this place as a hub of hospitality. Our pictures hang on new walls now and our turquoise couch is still the same with new neighboring furniture to get to know. We no longer have our long, red brick living room wall and brick fireplace and kitchen hearth, but I’m not ever going to complain about our expansive view of the Atlantic that we get to look upon every day. My parents are coming to visit tomorrow and will be our first overnight guests. With much improved scenery, more space to move around, and an actual guest room with four walls and a door, I have high hopes that this place will live up to the cozy memories of gatherings past, conversations shared, trips planned and discussed, and memories made on Union Avenue.
cozy does it 