The infatuation for Italy that I arrived here with has been substituted with a real, sincere love based on a foundation of its awesomeness: the tangible, ever-present appreciation for enjoying the best things in life – food, people, traveling, and culture. Bologna’s annual Notte Bianca, a.k.a. Art City White Night, is a great example of this.
Similar events in the US (on a smaller scale) include Ray at Night in San Diego and the monthly Pittsburgh gallery crawl, but due to the infrequency of Art City White Night and the given respect for its sister event, Arte Fiera, Notte Bianca is truly an opportunity to see the beautiful nooks and crannies of Bologna’s heritage that are rarely open to the public. Really, it is kind of tourist’s dream.
My first year in Bologna, Art City White Night was struck by bitter cold and it was all I could do to make it out of the house. Subsequent years I have made the fatal mistake of taking Art City White Night as an opportunity to eat and drink in good company. But I was overwhelmingly mistaken, because bars and restaurants are open every night, and during Art City White Night, they are an overcrowded nightmare.
So, third time’s a charm. This year, my final year, I happened to be on photo assignment for a local contemporary art magazine, Droste Effect Magazine, and I was determined to visit as many participating locations as possible. Alone, and lugging a lot of equipment, I was not anticipating a great evening. But, as what you expect always seems to end up completely opposite, the evening was absolutely marvelous. I was continually floored by what I discovered…a constant grab bag of delights and possibly my best night ever in Bologna. I am no expert on visual art. But I love these events because you don’t have to know anything about art. The city was bursting with people discovering their city and having fun. Not bad.
And, I tell ya, I will not soon forget the beauty I witnessed on Saturday. I stumbled into places I’ve been countless times, like the historic grocery market, that I will never see the same way after following the beautiful sound of an accordion only to discover a man passionately playing amongst the quiet stalls of vegetable merchants.
Or the main piazza, Piazza Maggiore, which I walked through on my way to another gallery, only to find myself surrounded by people flying kites at midnight. I was dumfounded for a moment…kites? Midnight? Winter? Only in Italy… 🙂 It will be forever burned into my memory.
But really, the opportunity to go behind closed doors was the most memorable, from a famously transformed historical church boasting a contemporary art installation on the altar, which was an amazing juxtaposition of contemporary and historical art,
to skipping an art exhibit in favor of just enjoying the staircase leading to the show, which was hidden within city’s administration buildings. This is the most dramatic staircase I have ever encountered, and unfortunately, my photo doesn’t do it justice.
Another highlight was being invited into the city’s more exclusive locations, like The Grand Hotel Majestic, where the likes of Elton John and Princess Diana have stayed while visiting Bologna,
and marveling at the frescos on the ceilings of the beautiful buildings in the city center.
I am trying to compare this evening to a similar evening in my life, but I really can’t think of anything that can compare. I felt like Alice in Wonderland, wandering through Bologna with no idea what marvel or magical character I would find next. And in the end, a powerful reminder of what a gift it has been to live in this beautiful place.
A few weeks ago I was on a commuter train headed to Venice on a cold, quiet Saturday evening in Italy. Despite the rain and my exhaustion from a long week of teaching English and a late night the night before in Bologna, I decided to follow through with my plan to catch the last day of the Venice Biennale exhibition that weekend.
My English student appeared on the train from out of nowhere, jumping on seconds before the departure. He’s a captain with the Italian military police and was on his way home from work to his hometown of Ferrara, a short train ride from Bologna
He sat down next to me. “Teacher! Where are you going?”
Caught in the middle of a daydream, I had to think a moment about my answer. “To Venice!”
He gives me a knowing look. “Alone? And looking so tired?”
These were legitimate questions. But I had a good answer. “I love to travel alone. I always make new friends.”
He thought a moment about my answer. “It could be.”
“But,” I continued, “tonight is going to be a quiet night at my hotel. I am exhausted.”
Famous. Last. Words.
I was finally in my room two and a half hours later, after a long and beautiful – albeit wet – stroll to Venice’s Dorsoduro district to my hotel near the Peggy Guggenheim museum. Too tired to put effort into my outfit, I stuck with my jeans (normally an absolute no-no for me on a Saturday night), grabbed my iPad, and set out immediately to begin the daunting task of finding a not-too-touristy restaurant for dinner.
Long ago a student friend of mine took me to a piazza in the Accademia area of Venice that was full of bars and restaurants. Pretty far from Piazza San Marco, I thought this was a good bet for finding a less touristy restaurant. Problem was, I had no idea how to get there. And direction is not so easy in Venice. Details! No biggie. I burst out of my hotel and walked in the general direction of the Accademia area.
After some helpful signs and some strategic following of the crowds around Venice’s infamous small and windy streets, I found the piazza. Campo Santa Margherita it was called. I was proud of myself for getting myself there. It was buzzing with people having drinks and aperitivo and preparing for the Saturday night festivities. Perfect. I had an excellent 4 euro glass of wine and examined the Google map of the area on my iPad. This is my shortcut for finding a decent restaurant on-the-go: I check out the restaurants that are actually on the Google map because they are usually good.
Google showed me three options around the Campo Santa Margherita area. En route to the first Google option, a restaurant called Osteria alla Bifora caught my eye. The windows were steamy, and it was packed. The atmosphere was great…not too elegant, not too straightforward. The menu was short and specialized. Good. But, no vegetarian option. I sighed and kept walking to the Google recommendation around the corner. A no-go: boring menu. The next restaurant was also a no-go: bad ambiance. I found myself walking in circles…what should I do? I was tired, and it was getting late.
I decided to trust my gut. I went back to the steamy restaurant with no vegetarian options. But as soon as I walked in, my heart sank. The seating was communal. There was no place for a single traveler.
But, I was hungry. I flagged down the hostess and explained my predicament in Italian. “I have two issues: I’m a vegetarian. And I’m alone.” She responded, “We’ll make a vegetarian plate for you. And…wait here.” She approached a full table near the door and said something to a man at the table, and then returned to me. “You can sit with them.” She pointed to the table she had just visited. I was mortified. “No, no, that’s ok. I just was hoping to take a chair at a table, I don’t need to join anyone.” Her expression didn’t change. “You can sit with them,” she repeated. Like a deer caught in the headlights, I looked back at the table. They were all looking at me. The guy she had spoken to stood up and offered me his chair. My feet carried me to the table but in my mind I was running away.
I paused for a moment at the head of the table. I was trying to understand the situation. Four guys and two girls. Their girlfriends perhaps? Are these girls going to hate me for butting in on their date night? No time for thinking, they were waiting for me to sit down. So I sat down. I don’t even remember the introductions, except that they loved my name and started calling me Peggy Guggenheim. It was all a blur.
The women were on my left. They were Germans and also in town for the Biennale. They didn’t know the guys either, and they didn’t speak Italian.
The guy across from me asks in Italian, “Do you like white or red?”
“Oh, whatever you are having is fine with me.”
“White?”
“Sure. I’ll pay you back after.”
He gave me a little wave of disagreement and shouted to the waitress, “A bottle of prosecco!”
And that is when my vision of a quiet night officially came to a screeching halt.
The guys were very Northern Italian looking. Their light complexions and elegant dress were a welcome change from Bologna, a university town full of casually dressed students from across Italy. They told me they were from Venice. Wow. Awesome.
And what commenced can only be described as a feast. We enjoyed a cross-continental multi-lingual dinner over platters of one of everything on the menu and never-ending prosecco. And no one would touch my veggie plate, so I had it all to myself.
A platter at Osteria alla Bifora.
“You’re fun!” says the German girl next to me. “Come with us to the Biennale tomorrow!” “But tonight, you guys are going dancing with us!” said the guy across from me. “It depends where,” I responded. Venice is not known for its night life.
The guy at the end of the table who had given me his chair chimed in. “It is a beautiful place. You will love it.” “Maybe,” I said.
Then came the after dinner drinks. We played a bit of musical chairs, put the new Daft Punk album on my iPad, and the party was on. Even the restaurant owner’s dog came over to join us. The hostess was watching me from across the room. She seemed surprised things had worked out so well. Somehow, I wasn’t. My gut had known it.
After dinner drinks come with a cookie.
Finally, the moment arrived. To dance, or not to dance. Did I really have a choice?
I left this restaurant that I had entered alone just hours earlier, now accompanied by six new friends. We walked back across the piazza, through the windy Venetian streets, across the Grand Canal, and then I lost track. At the end of a small, dark street, a handsomely dressed man beckoned us into a beautiful, unmarked building. I found myself in a sea of wealthy Venetians in a gorgeous room I can only liken to a lounge at the Four Seasons Hotel. And there I was, just a normal girl from El Centro, California. In my jeans.
But I only worried about my state of being under dressed for a few seconds before other priorities took over: having fun. Music, dancing, new friends, mingling. But eventually the reality of life began to dawn on me and I realized my carriage was about to turn into a pumpkin. Problem was, my carriage didn’t know how to get home. Details. Again.
I remembered hearing that the guy that had given me his seat at the restaurant, Adrian, lived near my hotel. And, as my luck that night would have it, he was incredibly crushable. Well, let’s just be honest. I already had a crush on him.
And then, as if he had read my mind, Adrian appeared out of nowhere. “Peggy!!”
“You’re walking me home, right?” I responded.
“Of course!”
My new friends and I left the club together, and then as quickly as they had come into my life, they disappeared. It was just Adrian and I crossing back over the Grand Canal. And I can now say, with certainty, that the romance of Venice is not just a myth. Whatever it is, whatever it was, we took the long way home.
And then, the knocking and shouting of the hotel maid asking if I needed a clean towel. The sun was up, everything was as I had left it. No sign at all of of my beautiful night in Venice.
I got up. I went to the Biennale. It was amazing. And as I was walking back to my hotel, I got a text. It was Adrian.
So I guess it wasn’t a dream. But I haven’t seen any of my new friends again. I’ve had nights like these before…Dublin, Brooklyn, Denver, Rimini, Paris, Stockholm…but somehow Venice has been the most unforgettable.
The next day, a quiet Sunday in Venice.
The hardest thing about these incredible experiences and finding these wonderful people in their own environments is accepting that these experiences are unique, like a gift from the heavens. And trying to recreate them is like playing with fate.
But that doesn’t mean a girl can’t have a little hope.
I think the next one will be sooner than later. And if so, you’ll be the first to know…
Most of my friends and family thought I was crazy when I told them I was going to Stockholm for Christmas and New Years. Generally speaking, they are correct. I am crazy. But in terms of my decision to spend the holidays in Stockholm, I beg to differ.
Spending my days basked in moonlight surrounded by lakes and bridges, bay views and gorgeous people, I think Stockholm is seeping with charm and an excellent choice for the winter holidays. An admittedly difficult place to meet new love interests (rumor has it the gals have to make the first move), I recommend bringing your own and you’ll be all set with a built-in cuddler to help fend off those winter winds. Also make sure to bring some extra cash – the dollar is very weak here.
But never fear – you don’t need to spend a lot of money. Without my own built-in cuddler, I was content to spend my afternoons wandering the streets alone, enjoying the stupendous views and the diverse neighborhoods in easy walking distance from each other, and fending off the winter winds with my very large camera. My favorite neighborhood is the vibrant Södermalm, which boasts an amazing bar/restaurant called Himlen, situated at the top of a skyscraper with nearly 360 degree views.
Whenever I started to get too cold as I was exploring the city, I would just duck into a café for some delicious hot tea (which they were often happy to refill for free with more hot water) and great ambience. My favorite was Melqvist Kaffebar, very near Södermalm. Or I would relax a bit and grab a beer from one of Stockholm’s many bars with excellent beer choices (they love Brooklyn Brewery here – you’ll find it everywhere!).
For some serious de-thawing I would spend the afternoon in one of Stockholm’s world-class museums. My favorite, of course, was the insanely popular Fotografiska photo museum complete with a bay-view café on their top floor. But as much as I loved Fotografiska, I will never forget the wonderfully curated collection in the beautiful Moderna Museet, which taught me so much about Swedish history.
I’ve put together a collection of my favorite snaps on one of my afternoon strolls in a special google map, which you can access by clicking below. Or, if you prefer, you can enjoy a slide-show. After just a few photos I think you’ll understand…there’s a lot more to Stockholm than Vikings and cold. Happy cuddling.
Click on this map for an interactive walking tour of Stockholm
What is it about the sound of the beach…the breeze, the drone of the ocean and the occasional squawk of a seagull that is powerful enough to make (almost) all of your worries melt away? And certainly powerful enough to motivate you to look slightly absurd holding a seashell to your ear once in a while, searching for that sound that can teleport you back to that beach where you can relax worry-less once again…at least for a few seconds.
Venice, Italy (photo by me)
I mean, certainly we don’t choose our vacations based on sound. But these sounds are rather powerful. Or a least more powerful than I had ever given them credit for.
Cinque Terre, Italy (photo by me)
It was an on an afternoon stroll on a quiet winter day in Venice’s Dorsoduro district on the last day of the Biennale, with not a soul in sight, that the unmistakable sound of small waves lapping against the sides of the canal and the repetitive thud of the boats shifting with the water that it finally hit me: I’m in Venice.
You would think this obvious fact would have hit me when I was walking through Piazza San Marco, watching the pigeons and the tourists (or more precisely, the pigeons playfully attacking the tourists), and perhaps some pretty notable architecture. Or at the very least when I was schlepping across the Grand Canal with motorboats whizzing by and gondolas drifting peacefully along.
Instead, it was on this nondescript canal, alone, that the reality of my environment hit me. And as I was walking along this canal in Venice, listening to these sounds of the boats and the waves, I thought of my second most unmistakable city sound. Waking up in Brooklyn, New York, to the echo of a car driving down narrow 4th St. and the familiar bump of the manhole lid as the tire rolled over it, voices shouting in the distance, and an inevitable car alarm sounding.
New York, NY (photo by me)
And then I thought of Bologna, Italy, and the sound of the rolling suitcases of the students bumping along the cobblestone streets on their way to and from their family homes in villages outside Bologna every weekend.
Bologna, Italy (photo by me)
And then Florence, and the overwhelming sound of American English speakers.
Florence, Italy (photo by me)
The indescribable and almost soundless sound of fresh snow falling in mass in the Italian Dolomites…
The echoing rolling wheels and clattering fall of a skateboard in San Diego…
San Diego, CA (photo by me)
And last but not least, in my hometown of El Centro, California, the peaceful receptive chirp of crickets follows you for months during the never-ending summers.
El Centro, CA (photo by me)
The more I think of these sounds, the more I am transported to these places. More than my usual memories of people or moments on vacations. The memories of these sounds have a way of attaching themselves to all the nuances of these places that you only really observe when you are alone. What are your favorite sounds? I’m curious…
I just spent two weeks in Ben Wheeler, TX. Population unknown because, well, there are no city lines. But according to Wikipedia – the knower of everything, even the unknown – the population is 425.
When my mother first saw Ben Wheeler on my summer itinerary she asked me why I hadn’t told her I was seeing someone new. “Seeing someone?” I asked in confusion. “Ben Wheeler?” she responded. “That’s the name of the city, Mom,” I laughed. “Oh!” she responded, followed by a look of bewilderment. “Where’s that?”
I often got that kind of response when sharing my summer itinerary. My friends in Italy, on the other hand, who had studied Ben Wheeler with me in our urban planning class, couldn’t wait for me to get there. When my trip was confirmed we immediately got on Google Earth and happened to find a building with the word “salon” on it in the middle of what appeared to be a small concentration of buildings, which I have since learned were photographed before the area’s transformation. Was this downtown perhaps? “Looks like you have a spa date, Peggy!” laughed my friend Lauren. “I’m going to like every post you make on Facebook from Ben Wheeler, TX,” she giggled sincerely, perched on a chair in our favorite hangout in Bologna, Italy.
My friend from Austin messaged me when he found out about the trip. “Why Ben Wheeler? Why not Austin or Houston or Dallas?” My answer was simple – I was researching Ben Wheeler. After three years of following the transformation of this forgotten little place in East Texas as it blossomed into a little community with the help of a man with a heart, a checkbook, and a vision, I was as curious as curious could be about what I would find.
As it turns out, my wildest imagination couldn’t have prepared me for what I had in store. Now, don’t get me wrong – Ben Wheeler absolutely delivered on what Texas does best. I got my fair share of unsweet tea, fried pickles, big trucks, ranch dressing, cowboy boots, four-wheelin’, opinionated white guys, huntin’ stories, Obama jokes, guns, critters, and Coors light (imagine this said with an East Texas twang).
But the surprises came just as quickly. My first big one was on the drive from the airport. “There are lakes in Texas!?” I exclaimed naively as we drove by a beautiful town nestled along the banks of a man-made lake. This was a shock. I love the Texas landscape, and with a few lakes in the mix I am a happy tourist, happily enjoying a relaxing afternoon suntanning by the lake and sipping unsweet tea.
But the part of Ben Wheeler that came as the biggest surprise was being part of a community. I guess because I have never lived in a real, authentic community before, so I had no idea what a real community felt like. I guess I’m not so uncommon, though. The lucky few of us that can say we live in a community lead a different sort of life. The community of Ben Wheeler is a place where people don’t lock their front doors. They keep their keys in their ignitions. They go out to dinner without making plans to meet anyone because they know their friends will show up at some point and at the very least they can catch up with the restaurant staff. Or look out the restaurant window at the world going by in their picture perfect downtown. If they need to repair their fence, they ask their neighbor.
I personally interviewed 97 people in Ben Wheeler. People that had retired here sounded like a broken record, “We never knew a single one of our neighbors the entire time we lived in Dallas. Now we know everybody.” A 20-something runaway told me, “I just got into my car and drove and ended up in downtown Ben Wheeler and my first thought was, ‘I think this is my last stop in life.'” Young families told me, “We wanted our kids to grow up where we didn’t have to worry about them playing in the front yard alone.” And a man that lives in the next town over mused about moving to Ben Wheeler, “Sometimes I sit here (in downtown Ben Wheeler) listening to music with friends, enjoying the evening, and we say to each other, ‘Isn’t this what it’s all about?'”
It sure makes a city girl think. And think hard. After enjoying little villages across Italy and longing for the charm of these spirited places in America, Ben Wheeler has revitalized my faith that life in America doesn’t just have to be about shopping trips to Target, working out at the gym, and binge-ordering on Amazon. There are still true communities out there, defined by a simpler way of life, individuality and real connection between the people that makes them strong. In these places, they really actually want to know your name. And they’ll remember it.
Thanks to Brooks Gremmels in Ben Wheeler – the man with the vision – his wife Reese, and their amazing team including Jenni, Donley, Steve, and the rest of fabulous Ben Wheeler for what you’ve done for community. I’ve definitely “Ben Revived.” 🙂
This is my summer of re-love. I have returned to the United States for a mere two months, as I have done each summer since I relocated to Bologna, Italy three years ago. And I have been gifted a unique opportunity to be a tourist in my own country in the places that I once took for granted – places that I visited often for my whole life, and places that I lived. New York, Pittsburgh, Washington DC, and Southern California to be exact.
My father always told me that if I wanted to understand my relationship with a place I lived or a place I loved, I need to leave that place for some time before I can really have a good perspective on that place. Boy, was he right. Every year that I have returned to America I have had a new perspective on it. But this summer is different. This summer is the summer that I have finally understood and accepted these places into my heart and how my connection to these places is forever embedded into my hard-wiring. And I am returning and truly appreciating everything, even the bad.
My first stop since arriving in America this summer is New York. My father’s side of the family immigrated to New York in the early 1900’s and lived in Brooklyn. My godmother and godfather moved out of the city decades ago to a tiny city along the Hudson River called Ossining.
The snapshot above is my favorite on my trip this far. Taken on the bank of the Hudson river, I am at left with my godmother Suzanne on the right, who is a second mother to me. In the picture below, thirty-three years ago, my godmother is holding me in almost the exact same spot where we are standing above on the bank of the Hudson River.
Me and my godmother enjoying the Hudson sunset in 1980.
To think of everything that has happened in the 33 years since this picture was taken is pretty overwhelming. But this beautiful place is the same as it has always been, to me at least. Just an hour’s train ride from Grand Central Terminal, this other world of rolling hills and majestic lake views is sometimes easier to get to than Brooklyn. I realize I am lucky to have this beautifulness in my life, a place my dad has gone back to for decades, and a place my godmother still calls home. But I think we all have these beautiful places in our memories and in our hearts that are part of what makes us who we are. Sometimes it just takes some time to re-love them again.
I live in Bologna, Italy, a mere five and a half-hour drive from Basel, Switzerland, which hosts one of the most important annual modern and contemporary art shows in the world, Art Basel. In my two years of living in Bologna, did it ever occur to me to make a trip to Basel? No. Why not? Good question. Laziness…money…ignorance perhaps…I guess it gets the best of us sometimes. Our own backyards are sometimes the last place we explore. In this case, I was lucky enough that my friend Zong rescued me from my remiss by inviting me to meet him at his gallery’s exhibition this year at Art Basel.
Having virtually no visual arts education and not being a fan of fairs and trade shows in general, my decision to go was in the spirit of adventure, friendship, and trust in Art Basel’s excellent reputation. And, well, why not? The exhibition spanned a full week in Basel, with about 300 galleries exhibiting, strictly chosen from a group of 2,000 applicants. It sounded promising.
Simply put, Art Basel wholly lived up to its reputation and in scale, was truly the most impressive collection of modern and contemporary art I have seen in my life. And I really can’t stress this enough – you don’t need to know anything about art to enjoy an exhibition like this. From all-star artists like Picasso and Warhol, furniture and design displays, photography, and installation art, there is something for everyone. And don’t even try looking at everything – there’s no time. Just stop and look at what really gets you.
Statistically speaking, there is something for everyone, and because this is not your average art show, that something is likely to be, well, amazing. I will never forget the moment I walked into one of the exhibit halls at Art Basel, roughly the size of a football field, and realized the entire hall was dedicated to installation art. This is not the sort of thing you find every day. I suddenly felt like an eight-year-old that just walked into Disneyland. I spent the afternoon weaving my way between larger than life paintings with their own soundtracks (think Moby Dick dressed in costume complete with whale sounds and a recorded reading), huge sculptures, through installed walls of fictional deserted businesses on an urban street, and into countless dark rooms with video projects, each one like a treasure waiting to be pulled out of a grab bag. By the end of the day, my mind was soaring from all the stimulation from so many visual delights. I was thrilled. I even managed to convince my athletic and left-brained travel companion, David, to come. He found solace in the visual mind tricks from architecturally inspired installations.
And the cherry on top of the fabulousness that was Art Basel was the beautiful, accessible, and relaxed city of Basel. While the city was packed with people attending the exhibition, there was plenty of room for everyone (aside from the steep hotel prices – book in advance). I spent a relaxing evening enjoying a stroll along the River Rhine, soaking in the beautiful architecture and the wonderfully relaxed vibe. My friend David spent the day hiking along the river, which he filled me in on with his iPhone photos when we met later for dinner at a local favorite for beer, The Fischerstube.
Reuniting with Zong in what really did turn out to be a mecca of modern and contemporary art, I really started kicking myself for not being more proactive with my travel adventure research and coming to Art Basel sooner. How many other amazing places are there to explore and things to do in the world am I missing because, well, no one has invited me? I’ve really got to get on this…Next year, Venice Biennale, here I come!
Here’s a slide show of my favorite photos from Basel:
When deciding from long lists of potential vacation destinations seems to have less reason than throwing a dart at a dart board, a good potential mantra could be, “If it is good enough for George Clooney, it is good enough for me.” Such is the case with famed celebrity destination, Lake Como (Lago di Como), which is in Lombardy, Italy, near the Swiss border. While George Clooney was forced into selling his villa here several years ago due to ongoing paparazzi onslaughts, this area has long been a destination for real and quasi royalty, with a guest list boasting the likes of Pliny the Younger, John F. Kennedy, Mark Twain, and Tom Cruise.
Even the sidewalks are beautiful in the Lake Como region, here at Bellagio.
So what is so great about Lake Como? Who knows. But there is something undeniably charming about a grand, lazy lake, winding around rolling green hills dotted with tiny villages painted in pastel, with the occasional eloquent villa tucked around the bend. And to make matters better, after a day on the lake, a relaxing dinner of homemade pasta with black truffles and Tuscan wine awaits.
It was a rainy day at Lake Como, but still beautiful.
Bellagio is one of the famed villages in the community, accessible by a dependable network of boats serving most of the villages in the area, and boasting a namesake casino in Las Vegas that is nearly the same size as this tiny little town.
Today I experienced that moment – that unmistakable moment – when my sunny carefree Sunday suddenly got kicked up a notch. The sky overloaded with giant, moving grey clouds, the wind began to kick my hair around, and that hot, sticky world that normally consumes me the second I leave home or work suddenly went away and what came instead was a chill and an unmistakable sense of foreboding.
But somehow, I didn’t mind. Just like all the other people at the Boat House restaurant in Ossining, NY, didn’t mind. Why not? What is so magical about a summer storm? The unexpectedness of the experience? The visual drama? The weather?
We could barely see through the raindrops on the window to the storm just on the other side.
In my former corner of the world in the south of California, summer storms are nearly non-existent. So my fond memories of these experiences all come from my summers spent in New York City. To me, summer rain IS New York City. The drama, the smell, and the temporary urgency fleetingly catapult me back in time fifteen years to walking to acting class on the lower west side of Manhattan in July and racing for cover under the nearest overhang, only to discover four construction workers doing the exact same thing who subsequently became my new best friends.
A study in contrasts, a summer storm is all at once overbearingly dramatic, yet not in the slightest bit threatening. The torrential wind and downpour is dramatic but warm, and somehow, not dangerous. There is a universal understanding that this storm will be over soon, and life will go on as before. In fact, life will even be a little more bearable with that slight breeze in the air, a cleaner city, and humidity washed away with the storm.
My aunt, Suzanne DeChillo, snapped this photo of me taking pictures just after the storm.
Today I experienced the magic of the summer storm from a perfect vantage point – front row seats at the picture window facing the Croton Bay at the Boat House restaurant in Ossining, NY. Guests sitting just outside the window on the patio ran inside for cover in a fit of temporary hysteria – hair flying, makeup running, food drenched. But my family and I sat inside, dry and entertained, and relished the beauty of the moment. These moments that I cherish, that I rarely experienced in my life in the west.
The ocean is deceptively calm.
These photos are of the end and the aftermath of the storm. And what a reward it was to discover the bay like this. Just a short train ride from Grand Central Station, this place instead feels worlds apart from the bustle of the city. The perfect place to relish a summer storm.
You know those instants when the beauty of a moment transcends your eyeballs and you are actually viscerally affected by the amazingess?
On this marvelous summer day, driving the Lincoln Highway in Pennsylvania about an hour and a half outside of Pittsburgh, I experienced one of those moments. And I was so overtaken by the perfection of the world at this moment in time, that I pulled off the road and took a picture.
I only wanted to record the feeling that I was experiencing, somehow, and I was only shooting with my iPhone 3, so I wasn’t expecting anything special from the photos. I was just optimistically striving to create a visual reminder to help me pull out this memory sometime in the future.
But, I guess the amazingness of the moment not only transcended my eyeballs, but it also transcended my iPhone. By some miracle, this little butterfly entered my frame at the exact moment the shutter snapped.
I am so grateful that this instant was made immortal by this photo that lingers on in my life. I love it dearly. It now proudly represents my many trips up and down the Lincoln Highway, which to this day remains one of my favorite travel memories.
And a lesson learned – who needs the Turnpike? Slow down and take the back way. There’s probably a butterfly or two waiting for you…
