to hell and back

I counted up today and figured out that I was out of town for a little less than half of the summer's weekends, which is to say nine trips to various destinations from late May through early October. No wonder the BF and I feel so out of touch with New York.

Three weekends back we finally bid farewell to Fire Island with the last outing in our share. I think we both have mixed feelings about the experience. It's a gorgeous retreat from the city, especially during brutal dog day temperatures, but also not the relaxing oasis we thought it might be.

I came to see the Pines as even more cliquey than we previously surmised, and certainly a lot more fun if you know more people — or if you don't know anyone at all and can just spend the whole trip catching on back issues of The New Yorker, which I never got to do. Will we do it again next summer? Signs point to no, though there are many months between now and then.

Two weekends ago we made a fast stop in Atlanta to visit family. I had the usual airport drama going there and back, which always happens to me en route to that particular city. I've come to realize this is the universe speaking to me, saying I shouldn't be traveling back to Georgia in the first place. When will I listen?

This past weekend the BF found ourselves not only in the city, but in the glorious state of having no plans. Praise the Lord!

On Saturday, we took part in Open House New York, visiting five or six of the buildings and residences on the tour. The best was a sweet loft in the West Village, with a rooftop deck and old subway doors in the bedroom. The BF insisted we check out Washington Irving High School, which actually did impress me, in a sort of creepy Sixth Sense kind of way.

And speaking of creepy, last night the BF and I ventured over to Brooklyn for Hell House, a secular theatrical troupe's mounting of an actual evangelical outreach tool aimed at scaring teens back to Jesus. Think: dying AIDS patients, a school shooting and a reenacted abortion. Truly terrifying. No wonder this country is so fucked up.

After leaving the theater, we walked along Water Street and admired the amazing view of lower Manhattan. It was our first time exploring up-and-coming DUMBO and the lovely Brooklyn Heights, and the BF particularly liked the feel of the area.

"Do you want to move to Brooklyn?" he said.
"Why not?" I replied. "It's not like we're ever home in the first place."