Irony at Its Finest

New England is charming. From the beach to the mountains, and the little towns and villages in between––I am happy living here, exploring here and feel that the area is now a part of my mien.

But New York City is “home.” I can look at every curb, every street, every bus stop and recall an incident, a memory, a story, a party, a fight, a cocktail, a falafel wolfed down at 4am and unfortunately yakked back up by 4:05.

So while I love the life I live elsewhere––returning to congested, noisy, expensive New York feels like a breath of fresh air.

Memorable Rains

I once hiked in the driving rain for seven hours on Mount Washington. The narrow trail is blazed through the open mountaintop, meaning the trail sits above treeline with no tree cover. Walking on trail, I was fully exposed to the lashing of high winds and driving rain (that drove at me sideways, not from up above). My waterproof jacket, pants and boots turned out not to be as advertised. With no place to stop and take cover from the rain (that never once abated during my seven-hour trek), I was unable to take breaks, eat my sandwich or relieve myself. I also had to walk at a slower pace than I had originally timed for because the wet rocks were slippery. Wearing a 40-pound pack (and pretty darn exhausted), it was easy to lose my balance and my footing; I had to be extra careful not to become injured. Conditions were so bad that I didn’t even have the option of complaining. I pressed forward and arrived at the hut before dark.

Another time, I biked home in the driving rain from the upper west side of Manhattan (the GWB) to the lower east side (Avenue A, East Village). Not only was I freezing and thoroughly saturated, but my helmet’s shape funneled a single drip drip drip of rain on the tip of my nose the entire way; that’s a total of 150 blocks, 10 miles. Through the slish-sloshing of their windshield wipers, cab drivers were unable to see me and erratically pulled out in front of me. Every time I thought about bailing out and going to a subway station, I thought: “I'm already wet.” So I just pedaled forward and made it home in one piece.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t recount two other memorable rainstorms (both with Jeff)––perfect timing that worked out to our advantage:

Car camping, Vail, Colorado – cooked a steak dinner over the campfire, readied for bed, zipped up the tent and the sky opened up without a minute to spare.

Backpacking, section hiking the Appalachian Trail, Kent, Connecticut – the rains came right at the end of our longest day (12 miles). Cooking a hot dinner that night was disrupted but we were so tired, we ate trail mix and goldfish crackers and fell deeply asleep to the patter of rainfall on our tent.