Return to Austin

Last month, I hopped a plane to Austin – where I hadn’t been in nearly 10 years. Yes, Austin is in my home state of Texas, but it’s 300 miles from where I grew up, so I don’t often make it there on my Texas perambulations. But my girl Allison was in town for a conference, and when she said, “Come share my hotel room!,” there was only one right answer: yes.

We shared a comfy room on the 19th (!) floor of a hotel downtown, and between conference sessions, we explored the city together. I took her down the street to Jo’s for chai and migas tacos, which I ate three mornings in a row (no regrets). We strolled South Congress, popping into a shop or two and buying homemade cookies from a roadside vendor. That night, we went back for dinner at Güero’s: tacos, queso and enchiladas, topped off by ice cream at Jeni’s (all delectable).

While Allison was conferencing, I explored the city on my own: two morning runs along Lady Bird Lake, a prolonged browse at BookPeople, a wander up to the Texas Capitol. I popped into the central Austin Public Library (and brought Allison back to show her their adorable shop). I dropped into an art gallery and a running store; I swung by Trader Joe’s for citrus and snacks. It was a treat to play tourist in a city I know and like, but am still discovering.

Austin feels familiar because it’s Texan, because of sweet memories there from past trips, and because tacos. But it also feels fresh and surprising – not least because it’s changed and grown in the past decade (as have I). It’s bigger, more liberal and less known to me than the mid-size Texas cities I’ve called home. It occupies a complex position as the blue capital of a (largely) red state. It’s a music city, a hippie city, a defiantly-weird-but-also-gentrifying city. It’s too big to fully explore in one weekend, and it’s a place that continues to intrigue me.

I loved visiting my faves (Jo’s and BookPeople) on this trip, and discovering new loves (Güero’s, Vintage Bookstore & Wine Bar, Lady Bird Lake, Veracruz, so much public art). I’ve already got a mental list for the next time I go back, and I loved sharing a slice of my home state with a dear friend.

Have you been to Austin? Any recs for my next visit there?

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making my NYC rounds

Hello, friends. I’m just back from two bustling days in Manhattan, where I stayed at a new-to-me hotel in Chinatown and went running along the East River. I did some exploring in the East Village; sampled chai at the Chai Spot (thanks, Vanessa!); and popped into several bookshops I’d never visited, including Bonnie Slotnick’s darling cookbook store.

I love NYC for the breadth and variety it has to offer; it holds a million dazzling possibilities, and it’s so fun to dip into a few new ones, every time. But: I also have my NYC favorites, the places I must get to (or at least try to visit) every single time I’m there.

I usually head straight for Bryant Park on arriving, to escape the madness of Penn Station and grab some lunch. I search for glimpses of familiar skyscrapers: One World Trade, the Empire State, the elegant Chrysler Building (my favorite). This time, I also browsed the Strand, crowded on a Saturday night but wonderful all the same; ate a delicious brunch at Penelope, sitting solo at the zinc bar; and grabbed a sandwich at Elephant & Castle before going to hear Hilary Gardner sing jazz at Mezzrow. I’m never quite at home in NYC until my feet hit my favorite tangle of streets in the West Village, and I walk through the red doors at Three Lives (above).

Sometimes I wonder if this is the right approach: isn’t the point of a city like New York the discovery of new things, endless novelty, every time? Shouldn’t I be taking full advantage of all the city has to offer – or at least as much as I can squeeze in? (I did try; I went to the Museum of Broadway, met a friend for tea and scones in Soho, grabbed a cookie at Janie’s on Sunday night, and dipped into the Elizabeth Street Garden one afternoon.)

But as a friend or two reminded me: I love New York not only for its infinite novelty, but for the places within it that are now mine. I cherish Three Lives for its erudite selection, warm ethos and reliably excellent bookseller gossip. I know Elephant & Castle will never be crowded, and that the BLT with a fried egg and curry aioli will be delicious. When I’m tired or cold, overwhelmed or just hungry, I know I can head to my West Village home, and find my New York there.

I loved a lot of the new things I discovered this time (though I think I need a clearer plan, next time I dive into the East Village). But I also loved making my rounds, stepping into those familiar places: Pink Olive, Joe Coffee, Chelsea Market, the spots above. On that stretch of Greenwich Avenue, in sight of the Jefferson Market Library, I’m not only at ease in New York – I’m home.

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Afternoon on the Cape

One of the things I’ve missed the most in these pandemic times is travel.

I love my little nest in Eastie, but I also love hitting the road or jumping on a plane or train, to see somewhere new or revisit familiar, favorite places. Like so many folks I know, I have mourned multiple canceled trips this spring and summer. My guy and I have ridden our bikes all over Boston, and it’s been fun, but I’ve barely been out of the city for months.

Last week, though, I decided to get out of town – at least for the afternoon – and head down to Falmouth, near the base of Cape Cod. My friend Hannah had invited me for lunch and a walk, so I rented a Zipcar and drove down in the late morning. By some miracle I escaped the weekend traffic (in both directions), and the afternoon was just what my soul needed.

Hannah and I met at a writing workshop years ago, and we love talking about books and faith and catching up on our lives. I sat on her sun porch and sipped tea while she made lunch for us, and we ate at a square blue table in her front yard, trading stories while the skies gradually cleared.

After lunch, we slipped on our sneakers and went for a long, rambling walk, past a local farm where someone had nailed a small box to a fence post and written “Enjoy!” on the side. It held a few cherry tomatoes, so I helped myself. And the dahlias nearby were stunning.

We walked down the bike path, through a sedate neighborhood filled with late-summer trees and flowers, over to Little Island and the beach there, which you reach by walking through the woods. There was a rotting pilot whale carcass on the beach (so smelly!) but there was also sweet autumn clematis, blooming away, and the first red leaves. We perched on the rocks and talked for a while, and then we walked back and I hopped in my rental car to make the drive home.

It was only a few hours, but I’d forgotten how refreshing it could be to see different views, explore a new path, breathe (slightly) different air. Not to mention the nourishing company of a dear friend. In these strange, anxious months, making the effort to get away often feels overwhelming. But I’m here to tell you: it is entirely worth it.

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walking Boston’s Black Heritage Trail

This is the summer, as I said recently, of antiracist reading (along with sunflowers and bike rides and strawberries). On a recent Monday afternoon, a friend and I decided to explore with both our feet and our brains: we met up in Beacon Hill to walk the Boston Black Heritage Trail.

I’ve lived in Boston for a decade now, and I used to wander Beacon Hill frequently when I worked at Emerson College. But I didn’t know this trail existed until recently, and the more sites we found and the more snippets I read aloud from the National Park Service website, I wondered: why not?

Like many American schoolchildren, I learned certain parts of Boston history: Paul Revere’s famous ride, the Boston Tea Party. I walked most of the Freedom Trail as a newcomer to Boston, ten years ago. I knew Boston was a center for the abolitionist movement (though it is also persistently racist). But I didn’t know about so many of the folks we learned about on the Black Heritage Trail: their names or their occupations or their contributions to the ongoing fight for Black freedom.

The trail comprises about a dozen sites, starting at the memorial to the Massachusetts 54th Regiment, a volunteer infantry regiment made up of Black soldiers (made famous in the movie Glory). The memorial itself is closed for restoration right now, but there’s a great temporary exhibition wrapped around the fencing, so you can still learn about the soldiers of the 54th.

Most of the trail’s other sites are former homes of Black people who fought for the abolition of slavery, helped house people escaping enslavement, helped integrate schools and churches in Boston, and played other important roles in Black community life. There are two former schools along the trail: the Abiel Smith School, the first Black public school in Boston, and the Phillips School, which became one of Boston’s first integrated schools.

The trail ends at the Smith Court Residences and the African Meeting House (now the Museum of African American History), which seem to have been the epicenter of Black life in Boston in the late 19th century. But even as we walked, we saw plaques on other buildings noting people who had lived and worked for abolition and Black rights in the neighborhood.

I might never have seen these plaques, or any of these houses, if I hadn’t been looking for them – and I kept wondering: why not? Why aren’t we taught these stories, alongside those of Paul Revere and Samuel Adams and John Hancock? Why had I never heard of Lewis and Harriet Hayden or George Middleton or Elizabeth Smith? I want to find out more about them now – but their stories should not be tucked down a side street. They should be highlighted, celebrated.

So much of the work of adulthood, for me, is paying attention: noticing the details of each day, really listening to my loved ones when we’re talking, not simply scrolling or sleepwalking through this life. The work of anti-racism also involves paying attention: seeking out the stories we don’t know, the ones that have been ignored or erased or shunted aside. This walk, this trail, is a small beginning. I’m glad we went, and I’m committed to finding out more.

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Afternoon in Cobble Hill

One of my favorite things about NYC: there are endless new neighborhoods to explore.

I love returning to my well-loved haunts there. I’ve spent some time in Fort Greene, and I was happy to revisit Park Slope (especially the Chocolate Room) on this most recent trip. But on Saturday, I decided to walk a few blocks west and wander Cobble Hill – partly motivated, you will not be surprised, by a bookstore.

Novelist Emma Straub opened a bookstore, aptly named Books Are Magic, a while back. It was an easy walk from my Airbnb, so I headed that way, grabbing an iced tea and popping into a few shops. I bought a long green dream of a dress at Something Else, then headed for the bookstore. It was well-lit and well-stocked, a little bit funky and yes, a little bit magical.

I browsed for a while, dipping into novels and mysteries, and saying “amen” to a fellow customer who was recommending Anne Lamott to her friend. (Bird by Bird!) I picked up a fun kids’ mystery featuring Agatha Oddly, then went down the street for an early dinner at Jolie – the only French-Mexican bistro I’ve ever seen.

Even though I’m living in Eastie, land of delicious tacos, I rarely pass up an opportunity for good Mexican food. The enchiladas, the fresh guacamole, and the late afternoon light at Jolie were all perfect.

My next stop was Whisk, which I discovered a while back via their store near the Flatiron Building in Manhattan. That location has closed, but their main store is in Cobble Hill, so I popped in to buy a couple of new tea strainers. (I can always use them.) From there, I headed for the subway and my Saturday-night plans: Come From Away, which I adored.

I was a little bit worried about coming to Brooklyn: it holds some tender associations for me. But I was very glad to discover a new pocket of it for myself, and make some new memories.

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Women and wildness: exploring Alaska

Among explorers, hunters and fishermen, Alaska was long perceived as a man’s world. Women have often had to fight for the chance to love this harsh, beautiful land and prove they can handle its challenges. I’ve never been to Alaska, but I’ve ended up reading a spate of books about it recently – all written by, and featuring, strong women.

Sophie Forrester, military wife and aspiring photographer, is initially denied her chance to see Alaska when her husband Allen is assigned to explore the Yukon Territory in 1885. But she faces her own challenges at the barracks in Vancouver, and (mild spoiler) does eventually get to see Alaska. Eowyn Ivey tells Sophie’s story in her stunning second novel, To the Bright Edge of the World. I raved about this book earlier this winter – my first five-star read of 2019.

For memoirist and obituary writer Heather Lende, Alaska is home: she’s spent decades living and working there. Her three books (If You Lived Here, I’d Know Your Name; Take Good Care of the Garden and the Dogs; Find the Good) offer a welcome balance to Alaska’s lonely wildness: the warm, colorful community of fellow residents that is necessary for survival.

Kristin Knight Pace ended up in Alaska almost by accident, as a heartbroken divorcee. But her initial five-month stint turned into a decade, and now she runs a dog kennel with her husband. She chronicles the wonder, challenges and the grit required to complete two storied 1,000-mile dog races (the Iditarod and the Yukon Quest) in This Much Country. (I was particularly gripped by the contrast between her Alaskan life and her childhood in suburban Fort Worth, Texas.)

Adrienne Lindholm was unprepared for the rigors of backcountry life when she moved to Alaska after college. Nearly two decades later, she’s carved out a home for herself and wrestled with fundamental questions about identity and motherhood. Her luminous memoir, It Happened Like This, chronicles her journeys out and back in, exploring her efforts to live and thrive in a gorgeous, demanding inner and outer landscape. (I read Lindholm’s book in Spain last summer – a different kind of gorgeous and demanding landscape, at least for me.)

I originally reviewed three of these books and wrote most of this column for Shelf Awareness for Readers, where it ran last week.

 

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New York in December

It’s no secret that I love New York City: in the fall, in the spring, even in a sweltering summer heat wave. But I’d never seen the city decked out for Christmas, and I’d always wanted to. So, when my husband told me he had a work conference in Chicago, I made plans for a quick solo trip: 48 hours to wander on my own. It was, as you might expect, glorious.

Every time I go to New York I fall in love. This time, it was with crisp Snapdragon apples and pumpkin cookies at the tiny farmers’ market in Abingdon Square; with the stands of freshly cut Christmas trees on so many corners, tunnels of prickly green. I even fell in love a little bit with the tree-seller who called “Merry Christmas!” and actually tipped his hat.

I fell in love with running on the High Line: bold blue skies and views across the Hudson, public art and the sharp angles of skyscrapers and the pounding of my own feet. After my run, I stopped at the Hudson Cafe for oatmeal and a cup of strong Earl Grey, and fell in love with a little dog named Stella. Her owner invited me to sit down and chat, and we talked public transit and city life and unexpected career moves. “How long have you lived in the neighborhood?” I asked her. She grinned, a little wickedly. “A hundred and fifty years!”

I fell in love with the cheery red-striped awnings at the Cornelia Street Cafe just off Bleecker, and with their excellent eggs Florentine (oh my). I fell in love with the stunning array of artisans in the maker space at Chelsea Market, and with the quiet, unpretentious Epiphany Library branch on East 23rd Street. I ended up there when I needed a place to rest my feet and charge my phone (because Hermione is right: when in doubt, go to the library).

I bought a rush ticket to Saturday night’s Live from Here with Chris Thile at the Town Hall. And while I knew I loved Thile’s mandolin music (I’m a Nickel Creek fan from way back), I fell completely in love with his warmth and charm onstage. When he invited the audience to sing along with a few lines from a John Denver song about home, it felt both magical and holy. I’ve been humming those lines ever since.

Some trips to New York are full of new discoveries, and some are about revisiting old favorites. The best are a bit of both, and this was no exception: I made sure to pop into Three Lives for a browsing session and a bit of eavesdropping on the friendly booksellers. I visited Pink Olive and refueled later with Earl Grey at Joe. I went back to Bar Six, back to the Strand, back to the Bryant Park holiday market at the main NYPL branch. I went back, most of all, to the city whose streets I find endlessly fascinating.

I didn’t make it to Rockefeller Center or walk down 5th Avenue to see all the decked-out department stores. But I did get a little of that holiday sparkle. And I did my favorite thing to do in New York: wander to my heart’s content. It was, as always, exhausting and lovely.

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Weekend in Falmouth

Despite living so close to Cape Cod (we’re only an hour – maybe less – from the two bridges that provide a way in), we don’t get out there very often.

But when some friends who were traveling offered us the use of their house on a recent weekend, we looked at each other and said: yes. We badly needed to get out of town, and also the offer of a free, lovely place to stay – during high season! – is nothing to sneeze at.

So we spent a weekend in Falmouth. And it was lovely.

Our friends’ house is cozy and airy, with a sun porch (above), a lovely living room, a sweet little kitchen and a resident gray-and-white cat, Percy. I didn’t get any photos of him, but he did eventually jump up on the couch for a snuggle or two.

Friday was the only sunny day, but we made the most of it, heading down to the beach in the late afternoon. Half the town was also there, it seemed, but we sprawled on the sand and read for a while.

We ate dinner that night at Epic Oyster, which lived up to its name – the local Cape oysters were perfection. (The crab cakes were also quite good.) They brought us chocolate chip cookies with the check, and we headed home full and happy.

Saturday was grey and cloudy, but we spent part of it wandering in town, which of course included a trip to Eight Cousins, the local bookstore. I had to get a photo in this wonderful alphabet chair outside.

After a tasty lunch at the Bean & Cod, we took a long afternoon walk along the Shining Sea Bike Trail, which winds through woods and cranberry bogs. We could hear the music from a wedding starting up across the fields, and ran into plenty of cyclists and dog walkers.

We ate dinner in Woods Hole that night, sampling appetizers and (more) oysters at Water Street Kitchen. (We though the wait would take ages, but we were seated quickly at the bar, which was fine by us.) The atmosphere was lovely and twinkly, and the gin cocktails were wonderful.

The next day, we had a lazy, cloudy morning – I spent part of it on the sun porch reading the paper – before grabbing brunch and then ice cream on our way out of town.

All in all, a delicious weekend. We will (I hope) be back.

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Andiamos en Sevilla

When people ask us what we did in Sevilla this summer, I usually arrive at some version of: we walked. And walked. And walked.

Walking is my favorite way to explore a city – whether treading familiar paths in Boston or Oxford or NYC, or discovering entirely new settings in cities I’m visiting for the first time.

Fortunately, Sevilla is highly walkable, with rambling cobblestoned streets lined with beautiful, brightly painted buildings, and dozens of plazas that appear around unexpected corners.

We walked several miles a day while we were there – through narrow twisting neighborhoods, along broad avenidas, down to the river and back again.

My feet were plenty sore by the time we left, but I enjoyed every ramble. Andiamos, indeed.

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Saturday in South Park

On our previous two trips to San Diego, J and I have mostly spent time on Coronado, the idyllic island across the bay from the city proper. It was home base this time, too, and we took full advantage of its delights: Bay Books, the Hotel del Coronado and its adjacent beach, tacos at Clayton’s and several long runs through its beautiful streets in the sunshine.

This time, Allison and I also spent a good chunk of our Saturday exploring a new-to-me neighborhood: South Park. We began with a yoga class at Pilgrimage of the Heart Yoga, up in Normal Heights, then hopped on bikes for the rest of our journey.

First stop: acai bowls at Captain Kirk’s Coffee. I’d never had one, but they’re sort of like a cross between a smoothie and fro-yo, topped (in this case) with granola, fresh fruit and coconut. Yum.

We popped into Target (always worth a visit, right?), wandered the neighborhood, and found – what else? – the bookstore. The Book Catapult, to be exact.

It’s no secret that I love an indie bookstore, and this one was just perfect. It’s open and airy but crammed with good books of every kind, from fiction and travel to local interest, nonfiction and a fabulous children’s and young adult section in the back.

Allison and I had a wonderful chat with Vanessa, who was working the register and is a contributing writer for Book Riot. We bonded over YA novels (The Hate U Give, Moxie, When Dimple Met Rishi) and our respective book-nerd haunts online (mine is Shelf Awareness). I came away with a wonderful travel guide to Spain and a fun travel-themed novel.

We were starving by then, so we enjoyed tacos at Del Sur (above) – it was Tacopocalypse, after all. A bit more wandering and then we headed up to North Park to meet the guys. I couldn’t resist a stop at Verbatim Books, a wonderful (mostly) used bookstore.

I could have spent so much money, but restricted myself to a like-new copy of Ruth Reichl’s My Kitchen Year, which I loved but hadn’t quite brought myself to splurge on.

We dipped into Pigment, which is full of whimsical and gorgeous things, before meeting up with our husbands and heading back home.

As I joked to Allison, our Saturday was like a postcard of California: yoga, a bike ride for acai bowls, wandering, tacos, flowers, blue sky. But in case you couldn’t tell, I loved every minute.

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