Summer Streets

I used to have a hot pink bicycle that I loved to ride around my childhood town. A gang of prepubescent outlaws, the other neighborhood kids and I would stick baseball cards in our spokes and whizz up and down quiet, tree lined streets, yelling "no hands" as we flew down gentle hills that seemed like the Colorado Rockies from our eight-year-old perspective. When I entered high school and moved elsewhere, my trusty pink bike became a pre-license form of transit that got me to friend's houses--leapt off and casually discarded in front yards with little worries of bike locks or consequence. 

One of the things that I dislike about New York City is that it is a difficult city for leisurely bike riding. When we were in Vancouver, we loved renting bikes and riding around Stanley Park--embracing the plentiful and well-designed bike lines. While friends in Brooklyn always claim that they ride bikes everywhere, up here in Manhattan, biking seems like sort of a daredevil move only to be committed by adolescents lacking the forethought and fear of death that would result in restraint from impulsive behavior like riding in bike lines often filled with trucks and illegally parked cars.

"Summer Streets" occurred this Saturday in New York City. Each summer, for three Saturdays, Park Avenue is closed to cars all of the way down to Brooklyn Bridge. The streets fill with bikers, runners, and rollerbladers and, for that one day, New York City feels a little like childhood. M. and I rented bikes on Saturday for this fun summer event and rode down to--and across--the Brooklyn Bridge and then found ourselves enjoying the experience so much that we rode around Brooklyn and then back over to Manhattan via the Manhattan Bridge. From there, we followed a bike path (that we didn't even know existed) all of the way up the East River until around the forties where we crossed over to First Avenue and continued back into the Upper East Side. On our jaunt, we found a community of bike riders who were happy to share tips about where to ride, we also found ourselves in the midst of cabs on a slightly scary venture up one part of First Avenue, but, most importantly, we rediscovered our city on a bicycle. 

While NYC still has much progress to make in order to be a truly bike friendly city, I am no longer terrified of biking here and am even considering becoming one of those people who bikes to work. I am planning to test it this week, so I'll let you know how it goes! I am already dreaming of a grown-up version of that trusty little hot pink bike that I had so many years ago...

Sisterland

Relationships with sisters can be complicated--as anyone who has sisters knows. On one hand, sisters are the greatest thing ever. I always know I can ask my sisters anything, count on them to understand the nuances of family in ways even the closest of friends might not, and there is definitely no better joke than the inside jokes emerging from a lifetime of sisterhood! On the other hand, the things that often drive us craziest about ourselves, can be those same qualities that sisters share, having been similarly nurtured. Therefore, our sisters can drive us crazy in ways that we permit ourselves to react to because, after all, they are our sister and so we have the "family trump card" that allows us to argue with them like no one else and know that they are required to still love us! At the bottom of all of the complexity and nuance, however, relationships with sisters are extremely special and something I know I value deeply.

I write this preface to argue why anyone with a sister absolutely must read Curtis Sittenfeld's Sisterland. What I anticipated would be light summer reading was absolutely a fun beach read, but, for those with sisters, it beautifully captured a relationship that is enduring, special, and perfect, despite all of the craziness that it encompasses. A great summer read and one I absolutely recommend!

Summers in New England

We are back after a great couple of weeks in New England for some seaside vacationing, time with friends and family, and capped off with an amazing wedding in Provincetown, Massachusetts. 

Here are some of the highlights from our New England trip:

It was great to see my friends from high school and catch up on life lately!

We loved hanging out in the Mystic area, which included some wandering around Old Lyme, a Taylor Swift sighting in Mystic, and a delicious meal with M's parents at the Daniel Packer Inne!

We loved renting a house out on the Cape! While I love international travel, there is nothing easier than driving somewhere (we non-drivers adored the novelty of the radio!), grilling food, lounging on nearby beaches, exploring kitschy little Cape Cod towns, relishing in outdoor showers where one can look up and savor the view of trees rustling in the wind, roasting marshmallows over a fire, and seeing the stars clear and bright each night before bed.

Exploring Provincetown was a blast! 

We loved stopping for a wine tasting at Truro Vineyards, a place my sister has been raving about--with good reason--for years, our lunch view at Fanizzi's by the Sea, our hike to Race Point Beach, and my cousin's awesome wedding at Ten Tables!

I loved all of the awesome details...including her adorable cocktail selection. 

My favorite was "Paint the Town Red," which was a perfect blend 

of cava rose, fresh strawberries, and St. Germaine! 

While it is good to back, nothing beats the slow pace of a New England vacation...

My Hair and I

Perhaps my longest and most tumultuous relationship in life has been the one I have with my hair. Yes, perhaps this admission is slightly shallow; however, for those other gals out there who have coarse, curly, thick mops, I bet that you understand my sentiment. While I have, for the most part, grown out of temper tantrums born of humid summer days or rainy day events, my hair still tends to present a meeting of the minds that guarantees a difference of opinion.

Recently, when I attended my cousin's bachelorette weekend on Nantucket, she made reference to our genetic hair curse and we all laughed recollecting the bad haircuts (especially those administered by our mothers) over the years that we struggled to tame--since all of us seemed to inherit this hair from our fathers--leaving our mothers with a sense of wonder at what to do with the foreign textures emerging from our scalps. 

Because of the trauma connected to my hair, I have rarely departed from some mild variation of the same haircut since late high school when I finally developed some management techniques, which is why it came as a surprise--even to me--when I marched into the hair salon two days ago and demanded a change. My hairdresser looked at me skeptically and laughed, until she realized I was serious. 

So, while I had hoped that my hair would magically ignore years of cowlicks and history and manage to look like this:

Instead, it followed its predictable pattern and looked more like this:

When I talked to my friend that night (who I totally blame for my bad haircut, as I usually consult with her in all stages of the haircare process and she was, you know, busy having a baby or something!), she begged for a picture so that she could have a good laugh. At least, on the bright side, my hair grows fast, so, hopefully, by the time I go back to work my fringe bangs will be long enough that the kids do not begin calling me Ms. Muppet. In the meantime, I look like I am wearing a bad wig or I am emulating one of The Beatles, but at least, as my friend pointed out, now I know for sure that fringe bangs are not a good look...