Escape

I needed an adventure. A local adventure. Here's how it found me:

Most nights when I get home from work, I turn on my T.V. manually and flop onto bed/futon/couch/ epicenter of my living space. Many times, it's only after said flop that I realize the remote is out of reach. I'll usually zone out to NY1 (is there any way to default to, say, E?) for about twenty minutes until I'm abruptly pulled out my haze by some horrific story and wonder what the hell I am doing watching this, and seriously Kerry, just get up and walk the three feet to the remote. One particularly serendipitous evening last week, however, I caught the tail end of coverage on a benefit for a historic property upstate that is open to the public. Frederic Church's, renowned American landscape painter, hilltop estate overlooking the Hudson River Valley, the reporter said. Curious. A masterpiece in its own right, she went on, set upon 250 landscaped acres designed by the artist himself. Intriged. Persian-inspired, fantasy mansion. Sold. I immediately Google "Olana" and reach their website. On the the "Things to Do" section (taken from www.olana.org), I find such suggestions as:

• "Picnic under the venerable oak trees."
• "Watch a storm roll in from the Catskills."
• "Find some quiet space – read a book, sketch, write, or just watch the clouds drift."
• "Let a Hudson Valley sunset take your breath away." 

I suddenly, desperately needed to watch the clouds drift from a Persian mansion. Funny, because every morning on my walk to work these days (I do take the same route in the hopes of a third SJP sighting), I pass this tiny Middle Eastern restaurant, set a few steps down from the street, with beautiful tiling surrounding a water spout on the facade and I think "I want to go somewhere where that is the norm." Greece, Istanbul, Sevilla - all would do. Not to further digress, but I just looked it up and the restaurant is called Salam and actually, I should try it. Any takers?

Anyway, I could barely contain my excitement at the discovery of Olana's existence, and texted my friend Kevin. Being a talented and passionate artist himself with an affinity for landscape, I knew he would share my delight. So I wondered why I received only radio silence the first few minutes - until I realized the vast difference between www.olana.com, which I had texted, and www.olana.org. 

"Ah, that's a bit different," he responded to my correction. And we were on!

So home to CT Friday night, and day trip begins Saturday morning (fine, early afternoon). We make few stops - gas, coffee, a market on the side of the road which does not have seltzer but should you require live bait--night crawlers, worms, grubs--you would find a wide selection. We passed on bait and eventually the drive revved up the scenic factor. Naturally, I begin snapping away on my phone's camera like crazy to document the trip. Look!

Purple mountain (hills) majesties and amber waves of grain!

A farm with a lake!

What an oak tree!

But then I pause. I put my phone away. As is too often the case, we spend fleeting moments trying to capture vistas, and they are gone before we have truly appreciated them. This is especially true when one is in motion, amplified even more so by the attempt to capture with a camera phone. Just sit back and let the views unfold, I tell myself.

No sooner had I lost myself in the rolling landscape did Kevin ask me if we were still headed in the right direction. Oh shit - that's right. I'm the navigator. I instinctively reached for my phone - yes, the same phone previously cast away, abandoned, deemed useless by my technology-unreliant self. "You think you don't need me?" my phone asked under the guise of "No Service". "Ha." I should have prepared for this obvious result of taking the winding, scenic backgrounds. We get ourselves back on track, but still manage to get turned around several more times, partly because of the lack of service but more often than I admitted, due to my sheer inattention. "We got off Rt. 23 ten minutes ago, and now we are getting back on?" Kevin very patiently inquired? "Yeah," I muttered. "I'm manually overriding Google. Makes the most sense, you know?" He nodded in compliance, while I kept hearing the word "recalibrating" in a robot voice repeated in my head.

One hour and two unintended trips over the Rip Van Winkle bridge later (hey, I wanted to check it out anyway, and the view headed East across the bridge affords a fantastic sneak peak of Olana), and we're at the entrance - a long, paved driveway passing curvier, narrower gravel carriage roads winding their way up the hill. Frederic Church designed the property to be a work of art in and of itself - the house is mostly hidden from view along the way, allowing the visitor to appreciate each vantage point as it slowly unfurls. At the top, the grand finale reveals itself, and it is every bit as sensational as I had imagined:

No time to marvel though - we park and run toward the visitor's center, nervous that we came all this way and are now five minutes late for the day's final 3 p.m. tour. We tell the lady behind the desk that we would be more than happy to simply tour the grounds at this point, but she reassures us that joining the tour will be no problem, as they have "plenty" of staff (two tour guides). We quickly pay (I have cash! for once!) and she leads us up the servant's entrance (here's to you Downton Abbey) to join the group of about a dozen fellow home gazers. As soon as we catch our breath, Kevin looks to me and says, "We're...gonna need to come back", and I nod in agreement.

It is remarkable. Church originally had plans to build a French Chateau on the property, but changed his mind entirely after traveling through the Middle East with his family in the late 1860s. And it shows. The layout is centered around an "interior courtyard" - not exposed to the elements in the traditional sense, but rather painted a glossy blue designed to emulate the sky. The incredible Moorish stenciling throughout nearly every room is the original paint from 1870. The paintings on the walls, most by Church himself but many completed by close friends of the artist, are museum quality. The stained glass glows at all times except night time, in any light. Anytime Kevin or I slag behind the tour, lost in a particular detail, we fill the other in with the tidbits we missed, such as the fact that the pattern within the stained glass windows is not made of metal or dark paint, but rather a paper design layered between the two panels, or that the church bell in the tower is in fact the door bell - yes, there's the chain leading down to the front door! Everything has significance, every detail is planned. Even the grout between the stones is fluid and unique:

See?

The grounds are just as impressive as the house itself. Wrote Church: "...I have made about 1 3/4 miles of road this season, opening entirely new and beautiful views. I can make more and better landscapes in this way than by tampering with canvas and paint in the studio." I mean, the man built a lake on the property. And added something like 8,000 trees. You are looking at these magnificent works of art, and then you look out the window and see the same view:

The fact that it is the dead of winter is not lost on me. If I can be so overwhelmed with beauty during the bleakest, most barren time of year, I can only image trips in the spring, summer, and fall. And ultimately, as worried we were about timing, we ended up exploring outside the house at what must be the most optimal time - sunset. The home radiates in all its glory. Though I managed to hit it right the first time, I trust you have not really experienced it until you catch Olana at rose-gold dusk:

I could go on about the facts, the history, the skill and thought that went into the property, but this isn't a history blog. If you can, go. And let a Hudson Valley sunset take your breath away.

"Almost an hour this side of Albany is the Center of the World - I own it - I am all alone...enjoying a nice wood fire and thinking how thankful I ought to be to have travelled and returned with my family all well." -FEC

P.S. I do realize that if I am going to be undertaking such visually striking excursions, I need to start bringing my big girl camera. Sorry. 

An Address and a Half

There is nothing that makes you want to live in New York less than looking for a place to live in New York. After looking at maybe a dozen places, and either hating them or loving them but they have been snatched up before it could be humanly possible to accept, or have a surprise $5,000 broker fee, or require my earning six figures a year, I came to the conclusion that this whole search involving official things like "landlords" and "leases" officially was not my thing, and settled on a living situation I was much more comfortable with: a sublet. Yes, half the tiny studio is stuffed with God-knows-what belongings from the tenant. And sure, I signed an "agreement" that I will not: have frequent visitors, move anything around, bring furniture in, bring furniture out - basically make my presence completely unknown because it's not a legal sublet. Yeah yeah yeah. First of all, I found the notion of a hand-written agreement quite charming, reminiscent of my month-to-month first apartment in Barbados (I'm still off-the-grid, even in NYC!). And secondly, the apartment sits at the corner of West 4th and Jane. So now, to quote my uncle, I reside at an address and a half.

Still, I had my moments of hesitation. I was commuting from my aunt and uncles' in Long Island, and was quite comfortable there! The 40 minute train ride really didn't bother me all that much - it served as time for me to get ready for work (hair, makeup, enjoy my coffee, etc.), time that I can't seem to clear out when it's not forced. Quick calculations shows that if I didn't take the sublet, I could bank close to $10,000 for the same time period. But I've never regretted one cent I've spent on travel, and ultimately viewed this opportunity to live in the West Village as another travel adventure. Decision made.

It was officially mine June 28, and though I was saving the actual "move-in" for the weekend, I was anxious to turn the key for the first time. I walked down after work, just to pay my new space a visit. For the first time, it was just me alone in the apartment. I started peeking around all the spaces I hadn't checked out under the watchful eye of the tenant. First I opened the closet door - the tenant (let's call her Karen) had mentioned her stuff was in there, but I assumed I could work around it. Wrong. When I twisted the handle, the door burst open like contents under pressure. Bags came tumbling down on me, and it took the full force of my body weight to close back the door. Moving into the bathroom, I realized that the enormous hamper taking up more than half the room was not, in fact, an empty place for me to throw my laundry, but was full of about 70 pounds of this woman's old clothes. Linen closet - totally shelved. No hanging space. The screened off area in the living room/bedroom shielding more of her belongings was somehow twice as big as I remembered it under the starry-eyed first visit. Slight panic attack. Where am I going to put any of my things?! I collapse onto the hard futon/soon-to-be my bed. What did I get myself into? There is NO ROOM FOR ME IN THIS PLACE! I'm going to be living amongst some crazy woman's collection of rags and Holocaust books! I called Phil crying. "Where's Casey?" he asked. "You'll feel better when your sister gets there." True statement. Casey showed up with a bottle of celebratory champagne and comforting words like "closet rod", "mattress pad", and "Connecticut storage". We went through the cramped kitchen shelves, Casey throwing things away left and right. "But Casey," I protested, "What if she gets mad that we got rid of the cat food?" "Renee!" she quickly and quite logically retorted, "She doesn't have a cat!"

At the end of that night, I left for one of my last Long Island commutes with a reaffirmed belief in my decision.

Later in the week,  I spend an hour trying get the TV I brought in to work (Karen's TV is about 11 inches and only suits those who don't really care about seeing anything on the screen). But apparently taking the cable out of the old TV and screwing it into the newer TV is not enough. The hose in the window from the floor-unit AC pops off ten times while I'm fiddling with the TV wires, and I put it back in ten times. On the eleventh, I decide I hate living alone, grab the leftovers from my fridge, eyeball two glasses-worth of wine into my travel mug, and head for the High Line. After all, I didn't take this apartment for it's interior splendor. I took it for the location! So why spend the night stressing over not getting the TV to work?

And what a reward. I perch myself on an empty wooden chaise lounge, overlooking the Hudson River and prime people watching. Two hours later and I'm still enjoying the view, imagining I'm on the deck of a cruise ship, and realizing I've found another boardwalk. This one just happens to be an old elevated railway in a metropolis, but I've still found myself on a chaise lounge staring at the sunset. 

Nothing like a NY Italian sub and some red wine-in-hiding

Little people watching!

One of my favorite vantage points on the High Line. The apartment buildings to the right of the billboard look better suited to a European village than Manhattan, and it's an awesome juxtaposition with the Empire State building rising behind.  You can't really see the detail in the apartments from this photo though, so go see for yourself!

Later in the week, I take my aunt up on an offer to check out some of the extra home goods she has in her apartment. What we end up with are copious piles of plates, bowls, wine glasses, pots, and pans. I stare at everything and map out several trips to get this to my apartment. My aunt has other plans, though, and pulls out a push cart from her closet. Voila! One-stop shop. We load up the cart, and everything fits snugly. Realistically, the only option is for me to push the cart to my apartment. There's no way I'm getting it down and back up subway steps, and I'd have to unpack it to get it into a cab. So, off I go. The moving process is dreaded by all, but if this is the biggest hurdle I have to get over, I'm quite alright with it. The entire journey I'm laughing at the site of myself pushing this thing clear across Manhattan, avenue block by avenue block, and my constant giggling attracted more than one curious look.

I'm still not sure I'm ready to settle into NYC for "good", but I walk around my new block and the tree-lined, cobblestone streets look like a movie set where a horse-drawn carriage is going to pass by any minute and I know I made the right decision accepting my address and a half.

Teacher For A Day

And I don't mean "teacher" in some philosophical sense, like passing wisdom down or helping someone learn a valuable life lesson. I literally mean - a teacher. A school teacher. School bells and recess and lesson plans and all.

It all started when my aunt, who is a teacher, mentioned during a routine "what's the latest with Kerry?" conversation that having a college degree - any college degree, subject matter irrelevant - qualified me to be a substitute teacher. Interesting. Not a bad way to make some money while my life continues to unfold its grand master plan, I thought, what with the decade of extreme babysitting skills under my belt. So I met with the district's human resources director on a Tuesday, was approved on Wednesday, and got the first call Thursday evening. And it went something like this:

(ring ring as I am driving home from an interview in NYC)
Me: Hello?
Automated System: There is - one - position available for grade - five - on - February 11. Press - one - to accept this position.

Wait...what? That's it? Okay, I thought, here goes nothing. And with the proverbial press of a touchscreen button, I was officially responsible for 23 ten-year-olds the following morning.

My alarm abruptly woke me up to a morning that found me feeling terribly underprepared for this endeavor, and slightly panicked. How do you know where the students are going at the end of the day? Bus passes, parent pick up, CCD, sports? I make a note in my phone with these questions to be sure to get the right answers. What if a kid acts up? Are you even allowed to raise your voice these days? The only real pointer I received during my meeting with HR was "no hitting or shaking the kids". "I know it may seem obvious," they said, "but some of our older subs have a hard time accepting this." Okay then...

Now I need to pick out an outfit. I go with the safe bet of wool pants, a crew-neck tee, cardigan, and flats. Very teacher-y, I find. But what about my hair? Is it unprofessional to wear it down? I pull it back, but the foot-long ponytail somehow still seems too...unruly? young? Eek! I wind it into a bun to be safe. And not a cute messy bun a la J Lo, but a tight small bun directly in the middle of my head.

So off I went, on my way to the intermediate school that for so long was actually my town's high school before they built the new high school. I only attended my freshman year at this former high school, before moving over to the new building, and thus only have a vague sense of washed out memories from that one year. I pull into the long entrance way and the flashbacks of senior crushes, football games, and field hockey practice start rolling in. How long ago it feels as I roam the empty hallways (I showed up super early to have enough time to review the sub plans, but apparently, no one else does). There's not a soul in sight, and it feels like I'm walking through a dream of a land long forgotten, and yet familiar. I make my way to the main office, where ten minutes and several throat-clearings later, I am finally acknowledged by one of two computer-consumed secretaries:

"I'm reporting for substitute duty for Mrs. Landon, grade 5," I stammer out like a military drill. Did I just say reporting for duty?! Nothing else came to mind.

They direct me to my "office" for the day, a quintessential classroom complete with student drawings, math posters, and apple paperweights on a desk, where I find a hefty packet of sub plans awaiting my arrival.

I race the clock trying to make my way through the plans and familiarize myself with what exactly I am doing the entire day, scanning reading, math, writing, and science subjects as the clock ticks away like a time bomb, every lost minute a minute closer to the arrival of the masses. A teacher from next door comes in to say hello, and also to heat up some unknown breakfast item in the microwave that leaves behind a mysterious smell I cannot identify. And then the kids start to roll in. And one by one, before saying hello or wondering who I am, they only want to know what that SMELL is? Are we having breakfast for Steven's birthday today? Did I make ribs? Is that french toast? This pattern continues with literally every child that enters, and one by one I have to disappoint them by saying no, I did not bring in breakfast for the class. Not a great start. But I do ask who Steven is, because everyone is talking about his birthday. They tell me he is the only super tall kid in the class, so naturally, when a super tall kid walks through the door, I grin and shout "Happy Birthday Steven!", only to be told by the quiet Indian girl, who was reading her book and already silently judging me for my obvious lack of control, that that was not, in fact, Steven. Shit.

It's time for attendance and I start reading names aloud. As I'm making my way down the list, I overhear a girl whisper to her friend, "She's so sophisticated!" to which her friend replies, "She's just well dressed." I want to laugh and tell them actually, I am both, but am forced to pretend I did not hear and proceed as usual.

There's a very cute little boy who keeps interjecting with random facts about astronomy and music, two of his self-proclaimed favorite subjects. He has two drum sticks in his hand, and won't stop talking about how excited he is for band, showing me different patterns of rhythms and beats on his desk as the Indian girl casts another judgmental look in my direction.  I want to explain to her, "I'm doing my best! This is my first time at this!" but again, I refrain.

Reading goes off without a hitch, and math is well underway when a cute little blond girl with big blue eyes and a ponytail raises her hand. I kneel by her desk and listen as she asks for help regarding a subtraction problem. You have 18 goldfish, it reads, and you end up with 9. Write a short story and a number sentence about this equation. "Okay," I explain to her. "So maybe, you started with 18 goldfish, but then ate half of them?" She stares at me with a look that's half confused and half terrified, and replies, "Or...maybe...half of them just died? Would that be okay?" Oh. Obviously the question is referring to real goldfish, not goldfish crackers. Whoops.

During indoor recess, I listen in as one girl describes in detail the horrors that "happened to her friend" while performing the "Bloody Mary" myth, where you repeat the eponymous woman's name three times while spinning around in a dark room in front of a mirror. The two girls she is speaking to look to me for reassurance, and I calmly quell their fears by explaining this is NOT at all true, though secretly I have never and still won't do it (I'm so glad they did not ask me to prove it).

The class has a hard time settling down after recess, and I recall a helpful little tip their regular teacher had written in the plans. "Class, quiet down, or when Mrs. Landon comes back, you won't get as many handfuls of macaroni in the macaroni jar!" Cue collective gasp - she knows about the macaroni jar! Silence. Amazing. I don't even know what mysterious power the macaroni jar holds, but I like it. If only all methods of behavioral persuasion were based on the threat of withholding macaroni handfuls...   

Now, this picture I am about to show you was originally meant for my sister's eyes only, sent to her in the morning to give her an idea of what I was getting myself into, and it would have stayed that way had I not received this amazingly similar drawing below it (addressed to Mrs. C) from a student, and now it's too much fun not to share them both:

 

At the end of the day, I line the class up by their lockers to wait for their buses to be called. A little boy who had been particularly difficult during the day (I only later learned he was autistic), takes my hand and tells me, "Ms. C, you're a good teacher," and I decide I'd happily be a teacher for another day.

The Day I Shoveled 4,000+ Pounds of Snow

It's true. I think...

My reasons for doing this were three-fold:
1. I wanted (needed) the exercise. Yesterday I used up the last of my free vouchers to the gym. Rats.
2. I did not want the deck to collapse. After we received an additional five inches of snow last night (bringing the grand total dangerously close to three feet), that was starting to become a real concern. As my sister put it, "You're helping the greater good of the household! Those poor pillars!" It's true. Those pillars are precariously curved even in the summer.
3. Maybe my dad would be proud and give me ten bucks or something?

The scene

How do I know it was over two tons of snow you ask? A little math: I googled the weight of one cubic foot of snow, and since answers varied from seven to fifteen pounds, I went with a conservative estimate of ten pounds. Seeing as my deck is 14 x 32 feet, and I only got through half of it, that's 224 cubic feet, but the snow was AT LEAST two feet deep, so I'm doubling that, back to 448 cubic feet. 448 feet x 10 pounds = 4,480 pounds of snow. Is this right Brian? Otherwise I'll have to change the title of this post! And be really disappointed!

So off I went. My first obstacle was finding my North Face snow boots, which were nowhere to be seen. A mystery. After twenty very confused minutes of searching, it dawned on me that my mother had probably worn them to work, trekking through patients' yards to get to their doors today. I considered jumping ship at this point, but my determination (boredom?) pulled through and I put on my subordinate pair. My next obstacle was actually getting to the deck, as I could not open the sliding door from the living room without snow tumbling inside. So obviously I went outside, around the house, to the deck stairs. I did not realize, however, that the stairs would not be shoveled either, and thus have three feet of snow on them as well. Okay, no problem. Fun climb (I was too set on shoveling the deck to expend my energy on shoveling the stairs). But when I got to the gate at the top (which opens inward), there was no getting in.

Hmmm....

So I climbed over the gate. Again, determination. I am so glad my neighbors were not witness to this scene. It was pathetic. Mostly because I was unable to secure any traction with my second-rate snow boots, so I was slipping like a madwoman on the steps while trying to grip the other side of the railing in my mittens.

The ascent

Great! Now at this point I am waist deep on my virgin snow deck. But wait. A thought dawned on me. What if my extra weight was the final straw and the deck collapsed right now?! I mean it probably wouldn't, but what if it did? Would all the snow cushion my fall? Would I break my leg and be stuck, alone, in this pile of wood and snow until someone came home, NOT EVEN WEARING MY GOOD SNOW BOOTS? I plowed through the first 100-and-someodd pounds like rapid fire just to be sure.

The action

I started to master the technique, also. The snow on the top was super powdery, so when I threw it over the deck, I had to slam the shovel downward like I was smacking someone over the head so the flakes didn't drift back in the wind all over me. My soundtrack of Pandora's station for The Marshall Tucker Band got me through the first hour, and then a change of pace with Calvin Harris' station got me through the second. Though half my time was spent putting my iPod headphones back into my ears.

While we're on the subject: Seriously, what the hell, Apple? Why make superior products but manufacture the worst headphones that do not stay in one's ear during physical activity, which, most of the time, is when one desires the use of headphones? Why do I have to spend a significant sum on your iPod (theoretically, that is; mine was free with my Macbook) only to have to spend even more money on headphones that STAY IN YOUR EARS. I mean, is it just my ears or are Apple's headphones one of the most annoyingly designed products, that fail when you need them the most? End rant. End post.

The (halfway) end result

Update: My dad just got home and, alas, I was not praised for my efforts. I was chided for a) still being in his spot in the garage, b) not digging out space for my car in the driveway, and c) not shoveling a path from the sliding door to the grill on the deck while I was out there. Hmph! 

Snow at the end of the driveway, for good measure

Finding Beauty

It's been a month since my last post - a month so chock-full of wintry, warm-spirited goodness (literally - mulled apple cider with spiced rum has become a staple), that the memories and images have snowballed (hehe) into one giant writing explosion here. Christmas Eve in Connecticut, Christmas day in New York City, shushing on the slopes, and general winter enjoyment festivities abounded.

To start, we've had more snow here in the Northeast than we have had in quite a few winters. The snow is actually beautiful and much more appeasing than freezing rain, so I am not complaining. It is truly a treat to sit and stare out the window at it, so long as I am not required to actually function or complete day-to-day tasks that require my walking, driving, or otherwise being outside for extended periods of time when I do not wish to be (for example, though it is deceptively sunny, my phone is telling me it's 4˚F outside, so I am scared and have not left my bed). But going for a drive on the calm and brilliantly sunny morning after a snow storm has dumped two feet over bucolic Southwestern Connecticut is an activity I've come to appreciate. And it turns out, the picturesque rolling landscapes are just as stunning in the snow, entirely different from their spring and summer (and fall!) glory, like finding beauty in the subdued, grey, rainy days in Barbados juxtaposed with the big-blue-sky kind of days that I talked about here. One expansive working farm after the next, complete with quintessential big red barns and grazing bovine destined for the "All Natural, Grass-Fed, Black Angus Beef" $26 hamburger market of NYC (though the same meat goes into the $8 burgers at the quaint roadside/brookside shack by the farm...hello mark-up) dominate the hilltops that dip into wooded valleys and slope back up to form the next ridge and next show-stopping farm or estate.

Sometimes, I am lucky enough to have company on these sojourns. And sometimes, they are on foot. Like when Casey, Phil, Kevin and I decided to embrace the oncoming snow blast by going for a hike in the old iron-ore mines in Roxbury. "Well this is different," noted Kevin, "I've never hiked into the woods during a snow storm before." My thoughts exactly. But we were rewarded ten-fold for our efforts once we reached the blanketed pond in the middle of the woods, surrounded in silence by the steadfast falling snow. Phil, awestruck at the Narnia-like scene before him (and it was Narnia-like - I swear Mr. Tumnus was cautiously watching from behind a tree-trunk somewhere), whispered to himself, "This is the definition of serene," and Kevin responded, "Yeah...I could probably write a poem right now." I believe he was serious.

Last weekend, my winter adventures took me to Bethel, Maine, for a spectacular ski weekend. This ride started out a bit rough. I drove an hour to meet the carpool in Norwalk. The normally three-hour trip from Norwalk to Boston took five plus hours (though still less than my last trip to Boston, where the highway was closed due to a fatal shooting of an escaped convict, but that's neither here nor there). Why the driver (aghem, Jeff) was taking directional advice to avoid the traffic from the two passengers who were not looking at any map, traffic forecast, or other navigational device, but rather shouting out suggestions that are unverified and most of the time plain incorrect, instead of listening to yours truly, who had been meticulously plotting the quickest route, is beyond me. But nonetheless, the four of us made it with smiles on our faces to Boston, unpacked all our gear, repacked it into three different vehicles awaiting our arrival, and set out for the second half of this trek. Three hours and one requisite Lindsay-talking-her-way-out-of-a-ticket scenario later, we were well on our way to the ski house. The "Welcome to Vacationland" sign at the Maine border let me know we were in for a treat of a weekend.

Now, prior to this ski weekend, I was starting to question my interest in the sport. This is probably due to the fact that so far this season, I had only been skiing at our local ski area, which is nice that there's a mountain so close, but let's face it - it's not a mountain. However, being at the top of one of Sunday River's eight (!) peaks, staring out across the 360˚ vista of incredibly mountainous Maine terrain, grabbing lunch and a beer at the mountain-top lodge while listening to a stellar guitar player nail my requests ("Can't You See", anyone?) and then enjoying a full twenty to thirty minute ride down the slopes renewed my love of skiing. I forgot it was more than torturing yourself in the freezing cold - it's a culture. The group took full advantage of the all-you-can-eat free hot wings special at the brewery down the road (dinner - check), and settled in to a night of hot-tubbing, board-game playing, and jamming. The next day, while others skiied again, Lindsay, Casey and I hung back with some others to enjoy the house and its surroundings in the daylight/I did not have the budget to ski again. Lindsay and I chose the hot tub as our modus operandi for the day, while Casey and co. decided upon the more physical activity of cutting down trees. While I did not partake, I did manage to jump out of the 103˚ hot tub, run into the house, find a phone, and snap this photo of their return and their bounty:

The hour or two that succeeded this photo brought one of the most dramatic sunset scenes I've been witness to. The hot tub faces due west, straight across Maine and into New Hampshire and the White Mountains.  The day up until this point had been sunny and clear, but Lindsay and I had been precariously watching a massive grey sheet of cloud creep closer and closer. When it finally reached the setting sun, dynamic sunset chaos ensued. Uninterrupted blue sky to the south, the solid snow movement to the north, and every range of an artist's palette of gold in between as the setting sun was slowly consumed, smack in the middle of it. To the south, clear to the horizon. To the right of the setting sun, you could not see past the first ridge. Light to dark. Like an Ansel Adams photograph, but better, because a) it was real life and b) the colors.

iPhone camera does not do it justice but I tried anyway

Not my photo but I liked it so stole it off BK's Facebook

 
I was subsequently kicked out of the hot tub by the returning group on the grounds that my disturbingly pruned hands looked like a potential health hazard. 

The drive back the next day was so Maine-y and full of scenes from a wintry storybook: I'd casually glance out the window and spot a golden retriever pulling a child on a sled through the snow, look down for a few moments, look out the window again and oh! there's a group of kids playing pond hockey, look down, look up and spot snowmobilers zipping through the trees...you get the picture.

All this wintry talk and I didn't even get into Christmas, but this post is long and you can imagine! So I'll just give you some images instead because that's fun and easier...

Ode to Iced Coffee

I love iced coffee. It's refreshing, sweet, not terribly unhealthy (skim milk and two Splenda, please), and CHEAP. I have literally centered days around an outing to Dunkin Donuts to grab a cup then set out on various adventures. The wonderful fact that it is less than $2 was only recently surpassed by a $50 DD giftcard passed along to me (thanks Brian!), worth its weight in gold to myself, the funemployed.

So it is baffling to me that a place which averages 80˚F year round is unacquainted with the concept of iced coffee. I don't know the reason for this peculiar cultural nuance, but my experience has been that the coffee shops in Barbados are simply unfamiliar with the beverage. Care for an iced latte, iced mocha, frappuccino (or ANYthing hot)? No problem - they're all here, fancy syrups and creams in tow. But try to order an iced coffee and you can expect something along these lines:

Can I have an iced coffee please? (Blank stare.) You don't have that, you say? Perhaps you can just add ice to the coffee you do have? Yes, that's right, hot coffee and ice. (Blank stare proceeded by slow, reluctant movement.) Oh, excuse me, but it works better if you fill the cup with ice first, and then pour the coffee over it. And, I'm sorry, but can you maybe use the plastic cold beverage cup instead of the styrofoam hot beverage one? (Blank stare changes to evil glaring.) Great, and some milk on top. Yes, I realize there's not much room left for the milk, but it only needs a touch. And could I trouble you to add two sugars? Thank you (meekly).

I was all too aware that my requests, dictated through this step-by-step process, were increasingly irritating the servers with a full menu of cold beverages behind them, and also, unavoidably coming across as slightly condescending on my part? Needless to say, I have since perfected the art of making it at home. Now, my trusty Dunkin Donuts mug accompanies me on all boardwalk strolls and errands of the like, and dare I say, the homemade kind tastes even better than the involved coffee-shop concoctions.  I think the servers appreciate my proactivity as well, though I have faith that they eventually would have gotten the process down.

My favorite time to enjoy an iced coffee on the boardwalk is Sunday morning, when the busy "Highway 1" I must daringly dash across transforms from it's regular chaos, this...

...to this beautiful stillness. 

Maybe everyone is at church? I'm headed to my temple, anyway. 


End result:

What in the Where?!

It's actually quite unbelievable that it is December. I tried not to grimace this morning when I thought with glee of the beautiful vintage travel poster desk calendar I recently bought that I will finally get to break out in the new year, only to realize that a) the calendar is a 2010 calendar, b) I bought it in October of last year, and c) I actually have no idea where it is OR where this year went. I do a double-take every time I glance at the date on my phone. So much so that I've just put on my Christmas music playlist here on the beach to remind myself what time of year it is - it's the most wonderful time of the year!  (As an aside, thank you Mary for the many fabulous instrumental tracks on that one Christmas CD you made us back in college. In the past, I always skipped over those tracks, but today they are proving quite well suited for the beach. In fact, the whimsical horns of the crazy taxi drivers here work in surprisingly appropriately at random interludes. Why all their horns are the first few notes of the Americana song "Dixie", I haven't a clue. But they do sound a bit like trumpets.)

I reasonably concurred that my bafflement with the date was due to the fact I am in Barbados, where I never know what time of the year it is, and often find myself thinking for four or five seconds about what month it is (which is a long time to think about that particular fact). 


Back the truck up. Beach? Barbados? Oh yeah, did I forget to mention I'm back here?


Well, the job hunt continues, and after a couple of disappointments, an opportunity to interview with a PR firm in Miami arose. The timing and price was right so I took the interview and then carpe diem'ed my way from Miami to Barbados, justified, of course, by the fact I was combining work efforts with leisure. And it was over Thanksgiving so no potential employers would really be getting back to me around then anyway. Plus it was the same price roundtrip JFK-MIA as it was JFK-BGI via MIA. And...and...have I provided enough reasons(excuses)? Who wouldn't want to come here? It's gorgeous. It's almost painfully gorgeous. I'm not trying to reinvent the wheel here, but I mean...it's a color splash surprise at every corner. Ordinary walks are puncuated with accents of scarlet, coral, fuschia, wisteria, and every other dreamy color in the Crayola crayon box. See rudimentary exhibits A-D, all snapped on my phone during my standard outing, the three block walk from the house to the sea:

And while these visual delights are in abundance all year round, it IS in fact "the most wonderful time of the year" in Barbados, too (seriously - the Christmas breeze is a real thing and it is divine - hehe, no pun intended), and there are plenty of decorations to remind me at every turn (literally - the roundabouts on the highway are some of the best displays). I chuckle at the fact that a country that cannot get their act together to process a visitor's visa extension in under four months can somehow source beautiful Christmas decorations and hang five-foot stockings and giant wrapped presents from the ceilings. You can even get a Christmas tree in Barbados - the real deal shipped down in crates from Canada (fun fact: the trees are imported duty free because they're classified as lumber) - if somehow the thought of decorating a coconut tree just doesn't cut it. I remember stepping out of the car in a supermarket's parking lot and immediately inhaling that unmistakeable pine scent, spinning my head around to decipher where exactly it could possibly be coming from. And there's no hoighty toighty political correctness here, either - it's Christmas all the way, baby, and they're shouting it from the rooftops (again, literally).

Regrettably, I did not have my camera on hand to capture the stunning Parliament buildings and the Careenage in Bridgetown during holiday evenings (an excuse for a visit over Christmas next year?), all aglow in signature Barbados blue and yellow (the island's Independence Day falls on Nov. 30, so it's a double-whammy of holiday lights), or the most breathtaking sight of all - the 25 or so 100 ft. palm trees lining both sides of the long driveway to the Fairmont Royal Pavilion, whose soaring trunks are entirely illuminated in white lights, but if you happen to be there during this period, do not miss it. And bring your camera.

Christmas display at Sheraton Mall:

...and at Champers Restaurant:

...and even at Chefette, the fast-food chain! Can McDonald's compete? I doubt they are even allowed to!