Summertime is my glory and I am doing everything possible to spend all of these moments outside. Bike rides. Long walks. Trips to the public pool. A half day at the New York Botanical Garden. Give me the heat wave and humidity—they don’t touch me.
Last weekend, we visited my brother- and sister- in-law and decided to rent a speedboat. We spent hours on a Pennsylvania lake, tossing each other around the water on an inflatable tube attached to the back. I squealed like a kid, and I can’t remember the last time since I felt such a giddy rush of fun.
We have declared this our summer of camping, which isn’t quite as easy as it sounds without a car. Earlier this spring we joined those same siblings for a frigid camping adventure in Bar Harbor, Maine, and more recently, we setup shop at a campsite in the Catskills based on its proximity to an Instagram-worthy diner. We have plans to sleep under the stars at least a few more times this summer, which makes me a little homesick for my Blue Ridge mountains.
To make camping an easier and more spontaneous activity, we’ve managed to box up most of our gear into one plastic tub, and it is cross-checked before each trip with an easy-to-use spreadsheet. On our return, we assess what we used and what we wished we’d had, and adjust the pack accordingly. On our last trip, we went from arrival to full-setup of our campsite (including a roaring fire!) in about 20 minutes.
Here’s hoping you’re sitting around a campfire soon.
A profile on the fascinating artwork of Olafur Eliasson.
More than 50 years after her death, Sylvia Plath’s uncensored letters have been released. Turns out she was quite a cinephile.
Women are here to crash your pool party.
Hemingway always seemed like a fucker, but at least we now learn he was capable of remorse.
The Washington Post has suggested a book for every age—from 1 to 100.
The World Health Organization has designated urban noise a serious environmental stressor and public health risk. A new app is helping urbanites find the quiet.
I was waiting for a few books to come in at the library and thought putting on old episodes of Dawson’s Creek in the background would be a fun way to relive my adolescence. Uh. I got addicted to the drama and am now on season 4 of the Joey, Pacey, Dawson triangle. Beware.
It’s been more than a decade since Starbucks was part of my coffee habit. These days I use the French press at home with rotating beans, or make my way to local coffee shops around the city to enjoy a (mostly) black cup of coffee or iced espresso. But sometimes you find yourself in a Starbucks, and when you do, you know better than to order the over-roasted bitter coffee. Instead, splurge on their new skinny iced mocha cloud macchiato. It is, of course, terrible for you, and it does contain, weirdly enough, egg whites, but it is a dreamy concoction of not-really-coffee only made possible by the fast food of the coffee world.