But Slenderly. . .

Vacation-Vacation, Day Two

Hello from Maine.  We are now properly on vacation, and as much as I enjoyed myself at home (until I cheated and got pressured into going to Cambridge to do more god damn interviewing.  Am sucker in the extreme), it just feels wonderful to really get away, to wake up someplace under a big down comforter and a view of the tide sweeping out to sea.  After much gnashing of teeth and rending of garments, we finally found the right cottage.  I can be a little . . . obsessive about such things, always wondering what could be on the next site, if a better spot could be found under that proverbial unturned stone.  So I drive myself, DK, various passers-by a little crazy with the endless emails linking to various properties, "What about this one?"  "No, this."  "This might be the one? Please advise." 

And DK is no better.  I finally spun myself into such a corner, I was ready to sign the dotted line on just about any Maine cabin rental (providing it: (1) looked basically clean; (2) had a good kitchen; (3) was  by the water).  And DK then would suddenly develop a case of cold feet, and "well. . . maybes" and general unenthusiasm about every place we had supposedly agreed was in the yes pile.  And I'd want to pull out every hair on my head.  But! Thank goodness I obsessed and he dithered, because with a scant three weeks before we were to depart, we really did find the perfect place.  It is a tiny one-bedroom cottage that is surrounded by water on three sides, newly refurnished, and walls of windows.  Lots of unfinished wood beams and a big awesome stove and a smell of pine.  It is even better than I'd hoped and I even teared up when we walked in, so relieved it was as I'd hoped.

We got in yesterday and had our inaugural lobster roll (1 x day is my requirement while here) and bought tons of groceries.  [Sidebar: oh my god, it's been a really long time since I've been in a supermarket instead of our typical NYC squashed affair where the black beans are stacked above the produce and the ice cream section takes up only two small freezer sections.  It was both awesome and overwhelming and we should not be allowed to walk through all those aisles.  Do we really need two huge cartons of ice cream for a week?  Survey says yes.  On the downside, we realized the extent of our daily rip-off shopping for food at home – here, milk for $2.00?  Yogurt for $0.69?  Everything, from salmon to cherry preserves to baking soda was roughly two-thirds less expensive.  That ain't right, yo.  So in sum: big ass Maine grocery store = love]. 

So we cooked up a storm together, listening to old music we found on the radio, drank some champagne, and lit all the candles in the fireplace.  I finished a book (On Beauty by Zadie Smith, which . . . .I seemingly could not put it down, but felt annoyed with almost all of the characters and the stilted dialogue.  DK pointed out that I read the whole damn thing in two days with a quizzical frown on my face).  We watched an egret fish early this morning through the telescope in the living room.  And though DK is a coughing, sneezing, fuzzy headed sack of boy, we are so happy to be here.  It's so beautiful and quiet, no sirens going by, or construction work continuing to 4 am.  No drunken idiots screeching at that horrible bar down the street, no garbage smell, no pushing on the subway.  I love New York, I do, but getting away from it helps settle my soul.  This is all I see right now and I never want to leave.  

Staycation: Day Two

Here it is, a Tuesday morning, and I'm on my second cup of tea, swanning around in my nightgown, idly munching on apple slices while I read the paper.  My blackberry blinks red; I ignore it. 

Vacation, ahhhh.  I started off a little poorly, waking up yesterday at 6:30 am to pound out a draft of a letter and do a quick conference call, but then, I put the computer away.  I left my omnipresent blackberry at home.  I switched off the part of my brain that is always thinking, "but what about X?  Did I do Y?"  and DK and I, with wand'ring steps and slow, hand in hand, though the city took our solitary way.  A whole new world!  (for two weeks anyway).

New York is so much pleasanter on a weekday.  Soho, usually a plague on a Saturday with throngs of shoppers on the sidewalk, bags flapping, horns honking, was a delight on a sleepy Monday afternoon.  Saleswomen were kind and chatty, zipping down to find another size, sidewalks were free of the silent games of stiletto chicken, of bobbing and weaving, of unclasping hands to zag around plodding slow tourists.  I bought some hiking pants, as in my mind, our upcoming week in a cabin in Maine will necessitate clothing I have deemed sufficiently "outdoorsy."  Dakin has rolled his eyes more than once when I start in on needing a fleece pull-over, pointing out that eating a lobster roll in a picturesque town doesn't really require a wardrobe informed by Patagonia catalogues.  So instead,  I finally used up a store credit I've had since February to buy two fun tops for work – colorful! patterned!  Two attributes that sadly do not describe much in my closet. 

We topped the night off by zipping home to dress up and try our luck at getting an early table at Babbo, sans reservation (sacre bleu!).  Turns out though, arriving for dinner at 6:00 pm really will work.  I have no shame in early-bird eating (particularly since we somehow skipped lunch) and my god, the pasta that place puts out is just absurd.  (I also ordered, in a flight of hubris, an appetizer of tripe.  I'd read something about how offal was Mario Battali's favorite thing in the world and I thought I'd be brave and just get over my squeamishness, but . . . you know what?  Do not like.)  We had champagne and dessert and all but licked our plates clean.  And were still home at some ridiculously early hour and I sat in bed doing the crossword (Monday – easy peasy) and working my way through the very delicious New Yorker collection of food essays. 

The plan for today is to go on a run, maybe head to Moma, I'm meeting a friend for manicures and a cocktail tonight and tomorrow Dakin and I have massages at Great Jones Spa.  "Oh, anytime," I breezily told the receptionist on Saturday when I was making our appointments, "We're flexible."  Hee.