The Riviera Maya

Let's go back.

Miami, part I

One week ago today I was laying on this beach in Miami covered in salt and sand, giddy over this cloud formation. Have you ever seen a more perfect cloud? I kept thinking that any second cherubs would burst through in song. Shortly after, I would walk to the Raleigh hotel, order a peach daiquiri, and discuss the evening ahead, happy as a clam.

Let's go back, wanna? New York is exhausting me this week. Woof.

Fire Island

We took a little 'day trip' to Fire Island on Saturday.

Have you been? I like it there.

The beaches are shockingly not crowded.

The food is superb.

The walking is delightful.

And although we sadly missed Frat-urday...


...we did catch a touching little garden ceremony instead.




We all meant to leave that night, we really did. It was a Sunday after all.

But there was an outdoor pool! and an empty beach! and a hot tub and a drag show and a seafood hut and a sleeping bunk!

And so much more to do and see.

So instead of catching the Sunday night ferry, we decided to stay and discover what Fire Island looks like at 6:10 on a Monday morning.

Let's go back soon.

Portland IV: Multnomah Falls

Have I mentioned that I also hiked up a waterfall while in Oregon? These photos don't do a bit of justice to the startling beauty of Multnomah, but I did my best. Landscape photography is difficult to master.

I've said it before, but Sloane Crosley said it best in her recent compilation of essays, How Did You Get This Number:

"I took one hundred-thirty-two photographs in Alaska, one hundred of which were of icebergs. Sometimes you can see otters or fishing poles in the background. Sometimes you can see the ghost forest, betraying their vampire-like nature by showing up in pictures. Mostly it's a lot of ice. I blind people with iceberg photos. Here's a iceberg from far away. Here it is again, up close. Here's a chunk of it floating in the water. Here it is from the boat, from the shore, from the sides, give me cold, give me big, you're chiseled like an ice sculpture, you're a cube and the ocean is your glass. Brrr, baby, brrr. The pictures are frustrating.

What I want to say is this: Here is a country that is ours but not ours. A crazed landscape of death and marriage with bells to acknowledge both. Here is the longest breath of fresh air you will ever take, the bluest stream you will ever dip your hand in, the humane thing to do. Why does none of it show up on film? Maybe I need a better camera."

Portland III: The Blue Hour

Are you sick of my Portland photo posts yet? Because I have so many more photos! It was very pretty in Portland. I mean-- that window up there in the first photo? (Click on it, you can make it bigger!) I didn't tweak those colors or that lighting a bit. It's not fair, really. Brooklyn doesn't often look like that.

Anyway. I've been reading a lot of Hemingway recently as I'm sure I've mentioned. I'm halfway through The Sun Also Rises, a story about expat writers and artists and thinkers living in Paris in the 20s. (Related: Have you all seen Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris yet? I adored it, and am pretty sure it was based partially on this book. All the dancing and drinking and brooding you can handle.) Much of the story's conversations took place in the summertime around 9pm. That sizzly time of day after work has ended but before night has really begun-- that's the blue hour.

The blue hour, or in French- l'heure bleue, refers to the period of twilight each morning and evening where there is neither full daylight nor complete darkness. Everything looks a little... blue. See Jen up there, stepping outside? That was the blue hour, and we were on our way to get gelato. Jen had composed a Caprese salad for dinner that night, and I poured the two of us bountiful glasses of a dark, earthy red.

We had crazy discussions over such glasses all weekend-- just like Hemingway's Jake and Cohn and Brett did. We talked about LIFE and about love and about grief. Her father, Rex, was dying, and we found ourselves quite suddenly acting as real live grown ups. There weren't as many tears as I imagined there would be, but reader, we shifted the world with our words and thoughts and feelings. It was hard. But you know that already.

Rex passed away on Monday. The funeral was today, and I hear that Jen gave a stunning, articulate, and heartfelt eulogy. I also hear that there's a party tonight-- a big white tent, bowls of bright flowers, stacks of sweets, multiple kegs, and of course there will be wine. It's a celebration, in the end, and no one throws a party like Jennifer Pasko does. And pretty soon Jen will be back in Portland, saving lives with her talents and trademarked determination. (For real. She's a surgeon.) Our little worlds will go on spinning, three thousand miles apart.

Rex would have been 63 on Monday. Yes, he was born on the 4th of July, just like my grandfather. And America. Let's all celebrate, shall we? I love this sizzly time of year and we're just getting started.

Portland: II

Portland: I

Related: THIS is my favorite song about Portland.

Also related: Chris Thile is playing at Prospect Park on Thursday with the Punch Brothers. (Please don't rain.)

Rock-Rock-Rockaway Beach

Yes, we did listen to that song while we were there, thanks to HILARY and her rad beach mix. We also tried the suddenly famous Rockaway Tacos, sampled ruby grapefruit icies, and I took a mini-nap and had a dream about airplanes. It's still too cold to swim, but maybe next week.

Memorial Day Weekend

What are YOU doing for this nice, long holiday weekend? I am going to the homeland, and while I thought it was going to be all bridesmaids and baby showers, the bride herself just sent me this (!!!!). Jealous, much?

LALA Land

If you're keeping tabs, you know I've been away more than normal or necessary this past month. Palm Beach, Las Vegas, and now Los Angeles. If you catch me complaining about the New York winter, you have every right to slap me across my slightly sunkissed face, as, well, I've managed to escape it. (Although it was FREEZING in LA, I swear.)

John, Pam, and I just returned from a weekend getaway at The Standard Downtown LA. Ashley met us there, and had you a lens on our weekend, you would at any given moment find us dancing to John's pop mixes, laughing at something undoubtedly vulgar, or jumping on our perfectly stationed king sized bed.

We sipped complimentary champagne, bumped elbows with movie stars, and found ourselves cutting line at big Hollywood Oscar parties. We saw the best worst movie at the best movie theater in the city, and I broke my shoe on Hollywood Boulevard. We dined at Jar and BLD, and fell into bed exhausted each night (morning?), pinching ourselves over this new found reality.

But I'm back now, in Brooklyn, for a long while and as much as I'd like to make up for the sleep I didn't get in Lala Land, its Art Week here in NYC so that will all have to wait. If you need me, I'll be boosting art dealers' egos just past the West Side Highway at Pier 94. The art is good, by the way-- I love this time of year. More on that later.