Those Jazzy Days of Summer

The Fashion Girls of 7th Avenue are always easy to spot. They’re skinny little things, with striking angles in strange places. Diet Coke in hand, they wisp down the street. But their faces are a little too sallow, and by the end of the day their chic messy buns often just look… messy. 

I don’t envy them, I thought while consuming Taco Bell from the passenger seat of a rented Tahoe. The Fashion Girl in my line of vision was perched on the sidewalk, struggling with an umbrella that refused to open. We drove on and I silently wished her all the best.

A mash-up of Phantogram and Vallis Alps played as we stuffed our faces with “tacos” and “burritos.” Three guys in the backseat laughed at something seemingly hilarious, while a sudden storm exploded in the night sky. The SUV barreled away from the city, the Poconos our distant destination. 

In my mind, there’s a jazzy song from the 1920s playing all summer long in New York. The cadence of crowds on-the-go fits the high notes of exploding trumpets; our feet always moving to a four-beat rhythm. But once away from the city's addictive pull, everything slows down... 

The next morning I awoke to the smell of bacon rising from the kitchen of our borrowed lake house. My fan hummed as I changed into a bathing suit and shorts—why bother with clothes when it’s that warm? After brushing my teeth, I threw my makeup bag and sundresses into a suitcase, where they would sit for the rest of the weekend.

Ah, freedom. Lashes undone and my hair in a true messy bun, I chowed down on food in the Pennsylvania heat. (And I silently wondered if that Fashion Girl with the pesky umbrella liked being skinny as much as I liked bacon. #BreakfastThoughts) 

For the next three days, I didn’t change out of my swim clothes—that’s the beauty of vacation. Yes, there was a shower at some point. But not even an hour went by post-shampoo before I was back in the lake.

We lounged in giant inner tubes by day, collecting golden freckles or weird sunburns. At night we’d cook sizzling burgers and mash limes for homemade margaritas. If you’d peeked into our cottage, you’d have seen coral tee shirts, scuffed up flip-flops, and several gin drinks lying about. Oh… and also a piñata from Walmart.

It’s in these moments that I sense the comfort of summer.

That familiar feeling, charged with nostalgia and the unexpected, haunts me all year. In my admittedly bias opinion, summer is the most tangible of the seasons. It’s salty, sweaty, and the East Coast humidity seeps into your every pore. 

But something about warm weather makes us more agreeable to anything of the slightest interest. “Yes” to one more drink; “yes” to seeing the sunrise; “yes” to it all.

Coming back from vacation is always slightly depressing—but at least in July when you return to New York, she welcomes you with a warm, dewy hug. Then that jazzy song in my mind starts playing once again, and the city dances, dances, dances…

The Fashion Girls of 7th Ave. tango with the Finance Boys of Park. Manhattanites drum up their nerve, jiving to hotspots in Brooklyn. Wealthy Upper East Siders salsa off to the Hamptons…
And everyone left just keeps dancing.
As fast as they can.

The city dances, dances, dances—with a cocktail in its hand. 

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The Time We Thought We'd Die on Vacation

After that first year of living in New York City, you begin to realize the importance of quietly escaping our buzzing epicenter of a town every few months—the absence will keep you sane.

I have a group of friends scattered throughout NYC who vacation together 2-3 times a year. We call these little trips "The Classic," which can be shortened for social media purposes to #Classic, but should typically remain a proper noun.  

The Classic entails a lengthy (and at times, aggressive) email chain. Schedules are discussed, budgets are outlined, projects are assigned, and many gifs are used to express bursts of digital emotion. After renting a car—or occasionally doing it youth group style with a 15 passenger van—and finding a house on Airbnb, we embark on our grand adventure. 

But last month’s Classic to a Catskills farmhouse was truly something special.

“So, a woman is staying here, too…while we’re here. And she’s, uh, well… she’s interesting,” a friend said with sincere confusion upon my car’s arrival. As if on cue, a plump lady with frizzy white hair sticking out of a knit cap entered the room and shuffled by.

Oh.
Oh my.
That was Pat.
And Pat owned this property.

The downstairs of the farmhouse was strangely chopped up, with random beds and bathrooms haphazardly sprinkled throughout.  The only source of warmth was a wood stove in the living room, and since it was 12 degrees outside, this “rustic” feature wasn’t exactly a selling point. The upstairs consisted of a long, creepy hallway with mirrors and rooms.

And all of these rooms had doors.
And all of these doors locked from the outside.

Weekend Rule #1: Never leave the group for more than 10 minutes at a time.

“Did someone say they needed garlic salt?” We were now in the kitchen prepping the traditional Classic chili. Omniscient Pat popped out of nowhere, wide-eyed and questioning. I noticeably jumped, eyeing the knives that hung on the wall beside her. 

Weekend Rule #2: ALWAYS announce yourself when coming into a room.    

After a whiskey or two, the group relaxed and decided to head outside for a late-night bonfire. But we found something quite particular toward the side of the house: A pentagram, or five-point star popular with Satanists and cults, had been tiled into an old concrete patio. A fire pit sat in the middle of the eerie symbol.

Weekend Rule #3: If you think you are about to be sacrificed, please alert a member of the group.

As I walked into the kitchen for a chili refill, a friend and I noticed several magnets advertising a website about forgiveness on the refrigerator. We eyed each other and began nervously laughing—of course the cult leader was a fan of being pardoned.

But the internet led us to some fascinating discoveries. First, our host was in fact a “healer,” known for her ability to speak to other dimensions. And apparently, our weekend farmhouse also doubled as a “retreat center” for people seeking forgiveness, with the help of Archangel Michael and the Circle of something somethings…

“How’s the fire going?” I stumbled backwards, as Pat shuffled into the kitchen. I closed her blog on my phone, and produced a weak grin. “Fine!” I squeaked.

She looked at me.
I looked at her.

“There’s an axe in the corner of the den, if you need it.”

Um…
Eh… 
Someone was definitely going to die tonight.

(This is the point in a scary movie when you start screaming at the television, “No! Don’t go in there. TURN AROUND!”)

But Pat shuffled away, and didn’t reappear for the rest of the evening. 

The sun rose the next morning.
Our house slowly stirred to life.
The coffee began to brew...
And no bodies were found.

Pat popped into the kitchen that second day. I found her much less terrifying in the early-afternoon light, munching on a blueberry pancake. In fact, she said our group was like the “family she’d never had.”
<Insert questionably sinister grin?>

So, I suppose it all worked out just fine...
The moral of the story:
New York City is much safer than Upstate New York.