07/27/25

    I rolled over to turn off the 6am alarm that buzzed loudly against the glass-topped side table. The stiff bed granted me a sound nights sleep despite the drinking I had done during dinner. I laid there for a moment before getting out of bed and ducking my head low to avoid hitting the angled ceiling I had crashed into the night before. The age of the house we had been staying in, though built in the 1800’s, did not show it nor sound like it. The old wooden bedroom door did not creak when I opened it nor did the oddly sized stairs when I descended them. I had risen without a sound.

    I have been in the habit of waking up early to go for walks in the morning. I think of them as a meditative practice. Every morning I get up and meander through the park or walk-about the streets of the upper part of Manhattan. Mostly the west side but I sometimes ventured east. I walk for an hour or so. The morning light is different. The noises of the city are different. You can hear the calls of birds and the rustling of leaves and since it’s the summer, the shrill song of cicadas. All so clearly. City noises, like the roar of engines, unrelenting horns, and the grating, pounding, unending resonance of construction don’t exist in this small period of time.

    I’ll say good morning to the doormen that man the entrances of pre-war buildings lining the streets of the UES and the UWS. I’ll weave through the streets ogling at the ornamentation of each facade. I’ve begun to notice the repetition of intricate cornices with motifs of fruits and ribbons. I become excited at the sight oriel bay windows. Even better is spotting a mid-century style building sandwiched between two typical brownstones. I like the cyclists who ride in large groups, speeding down the Central Park roadway in an orderly line. I’m envious of the people who walk their dogs and drink coffee out of actual mugs. I don’t listen to music and I don’t speak, even to myself.

    I walked out the back door and looked out onto the garden. The sun rising slowly was filtering through the trees onto the carefully landscaped lawn. Stratocumulus spaced evenly in the sky hung in place. As I walked through the precisely cut grass over to the pool, the water still and like a mirror reflected the sky’s appearance perfectly. The tennis court made of a forest green clay, looked as though it had been abandoned swiftly. The neon green tennis balls strewn about contrasted vibrantly against the darkened scene; the sun had yet to reach that area. Hydrangea plants slumped to the ground from the weight of their own blooms encircled the court. I’ve always thought hydrangeas were beautiful. The flowers I’ve seen in the city had been the size of my head. On my walks I’d cradle them in my hands.

    When I went back inside coffee had already been made so I grabbed a cup. A cream Ralph Lauren ceramic mug with five stars printed on it. I took it and went to go enjoy it while lying on one of the loungers by the pool. This Hamptons house is more luxurious than I’m used to but in all its opulence it’s too close to a road that seems to be a main thoroughfare. The sticky, course, murmuring of tires on asphalt disrupts the near-perfect serenity of the space; with hedges so high at the front of the property and weirdly, a bamboo grove that looms over the back of the property. Every time a car drives by I’m reminded that I’m not on some island.

    We’re all standing around the kitchen island picking at the various finger-food fruits in bowls on the counter. Pouring more coffee and pouring milk into my bowl of Cheerios. We intermingle for awhile, talking about the chef that had cooked our dinner the night before, how good the gluten free chocolate cake she made was. I had wanted to ask her for the recipe she used to make some miso something-or-other chocolate chip cookies, but is that something you ask a private chef? I wouldn’t know.

    This is our last day in Bridgehampton. I had never been to the Hamptons and I can still say I saw nothing of it. Is there any use in exploring a town with only one road and everyone in NYC is there for the weekend? Not when the house you’re staying has everything you could need.

    H and Z are lying on the pool chairs. J and I are treading water in the pool and R is halfway between water and floaty. It’s hot. Aside from the occasional joke being cracked and the sounds of cicadas and birds, a comfortable silence has filled the air. Reminds me of childhood. Like at the end of the summer vacation when it’s still hot and you’ve done all you could do but you know that these easygoing times must come to an end.

    Around 2:30 pm R drove H and I to the train. At the platform many other young people were being dropped off in the same fashion. Everyone looked like they just spent the weekend at a yuppie summer camp. Down the tracks I noticed a family of deer. I observed them as it started to pour rain. While others rushed to a small awning in the middle of the platform or covered their heads with whatever they had with them, H and I stood there, just letting it happen to us.

Playlist

Windmills of Your Mind - Mel Tormé

Townes Van Zandt - Kathleen

Some Might Say - Oasis

Michelle - The Beatles

Keep an Eye On Summer - The Beach Boys