Oh, New York.

It occurred to me that I have never taken a vacation in New York.

I had never visited before I moved there, and then spent 11 years learning how to become a New Yorker. Dropping my hint of an accent, learning the acceptable boundaries of being rude and pushy and nice concurrently in order to get what you want, dodging and being dodged on a busy sidewalk, navigating the subway through many boroughs, eating my way around the countless cultures that call the city home, bullshitting my way into clubs and jobs, making friends, keeping friends, dropping friends. Living in a shoebox, and being grateful for it. I feel like this was where my life's education happened, and it has changed me and influenced me as only New York can.

Still. I stand by my decision to have left. Going through numerous tragedies and events in the city makes you aware of how vulnerable a series of sea-level islands, connected to the mainland by only bridges and tunnels and heavily reling on underground trains to carry the masses might be. From overseas, I watched two summer blockbusters in which the city served as the backdrop for terrible happenings. True, otherworldly beings might not be opening a portal over Grand Central anytime soon, and a 'roided super villain probably wouldn't get away with such a complex plot to hold all of gotham hostage with a nuclear divice.

Watching the real destruction of real places when a hurricane hits from my comfortable perch thousands of miles away was hard. These were places I knew all too well, and everyone I knew was affected.

The city seemed a bit somber, but a month after the storm, most of Manhattan had returned to its usual self.

We worked out a nice apartment swap deal with a co-worker and ended up with a very posh studio right near Washington Square Park.

Having lived in Brooklyn for the last four years of my time in the city, I was suddenly not horribly inconvenienced by the still-recovering subway system and I could pretty much walk to anything.

The urban pine forest made for a pleasant olfactory break.

The city seemed so familiar to me in so many ways. The same bars and shops and restaurants, exactly how I remembered them in the same quirky maze of streets in the West Village.

Now I am a tourist here.

It was most enjoyable. It's exactly what I want to be.

Cold Souls

No matter what comforts technology might bring, I prefer to stay on the sandy part of the beach from September to May.

And, let's face it, the gulf stream misses this part of Maine entirely. July might bring a lucky storm that pushes warmer water into the gulf. I'm usually optimistic about August being swimmable, and even then you don't want to be out there too long without a wetsuit.

Cruel as it might seem, the best surfing comes in winter. Like odd red-faced buoys bobbing offshore, the fully equipped and dedicated surfers head out to their exclusive breaks. Inch-thick wetsuits, hoods, boots and mitts and you might still have the agility to catch a wave. I am more suited to terrestrial pursuits this time of year.

I also have much respect for the few birds in the area that don't migrate. I'm sure they have slight distain for those who choose to be the proverbial snowbird.

The beach pretty much to yourself on a chilly morning is one of the many small pleasures of Maine in deep fall and winter. Bundle up and enjoy.

The Maine Coast

We lucked out with the timing of our trip weather-wise. I think I got more sun in a week than I have gotten in Paris in months. It was a cold, brief sun, but the vitamin D was a nice hit, and it enhanced my mood for the best.

A trip up the coast to see the sights.

A stop at Two lights ended up being a tad more lingering than expected due to the keys being locked in the trunk of the car, but I could think of worse places to be stuck. The heroic and hunky AAA guy showed up to the rescue soon enough, and all was once again right with the world.

Once that little issue was solved, we were on to Portland Head Light.

As a kid, this was a great place to explore old ruins and bunkers, but most of it is now fenced off. Boo.

Afterwards, a nosh in Portland and a trip to the lovely Portland Museum of Art.

It's a small museum, but well-curated. Lots of local artist are featured, as well as summer residents that Maine puts a claim on as well: Winslow Homer, Edward Hopper, Rockwell Kent, the Whyeths Three, plus a nice foray into French Impressionist.

I am a big fan of the city of Portland, and it's a great base for exploring the nearby area. There's a really exciting food scene happening that emphasizes the fact that it is indeed a working port city. It also might be your only chance to find good bread in the area, with its many inspired bakeries and bakers. It seems like every time I'm here, a new amazing microbrew pops up, and the towns creative spirt makes for a lot of galleries and small shops to browse. It also seems like everyone you meet is in a band and playing the many bars and clubs.

Ode to a Turkey

Thanksgiving was fantastic, as usual. I am one to not take entertaining lightly, and my mommy dearest and I spent a couple seamless days in the kitchen together throwing everything together from scratch with very little panic.

I'm not a huge fan of turkey, but I belong to the school of thought that it's just not thanksgiving without one, and you might as well get the best free-range bird you can find. A little unorthodox, but I found that spatchcocking the bird and salting it a few days beforehand was a good move. I've only ever spatchcocked chickens, and the more robust turkey was a bit of a challenge. You cut out the backbone and then give it a good CPR-style thunk on the breast to break the breastbone, which flattens it into a more ideally cookable shape. Also, it looks completely obscene when it's on the roasting pan, which was amusing me to no end.

We didn't do it up on the grill this year, which meant the house was soon filled with thick black turkey grease smoke that the ancient stove hood couldn't even begin to suck up. The smoke detector was quickly disabled and it was warm enough out so windows could be comfortably opened. All was well. I used this recipe from Serious Eats (bookmark it for next year!) to help me on my way- A 12lb bird took only an hour and a half, and I added some cheap red wine to the roasting pan so it could steam in a bit of an alcohol vapor.

The results:

The wingtips were a little crispy, but it came out perfectly, with dark bronzed and crispy skin (just like the many denizens of Bay Ridge).

No one went hungry, and we ate well for days to come. It was warm enough to relax by the firepit out back without risking your derrière freezing over, and there was mulled cider and plenty of wine to warm your heart.

Warming myself with Cold

While the highlight of the flight over was seeing "Magic Mike" on the small screen, I was so excited to be home for Thanksgiving.

In November, Maine drops its title of "Vacationland" and just becomes a coldly quiet place. It's lovely. While I miss the warm sun, the cold months here have their charms as well.

Compared to the all-gray skies of Paris though, it seemed like a vacationland dream for me.

The one thing that I can't seem to get used to about Paris is the lack of sun. I don't mind the cold so much, but the damp grayness gets a little old. But I guess that is part of the charm of Paris, no? The gray city and the gray sky and the pavement and the slate roofs and the late afternoon light giving the gray peach tones.

Aside from catching up on comfort foods, I was content to take long wintry bundled walks with the dog and spending long nights with with friends and family, eating and drinking well, contemplating the densely starred sky, and shedding my ability to retain all the French I've been struggling to learn so. Merde.

Despite growing up in a French-Canadian populated town, I still have no idea what they are saying. Even in France, if a TV show is imported from Canada, it is subtitled. All the more easy for me to forget everything I've been learning.

While the woods are off-limits during hunting season, the beaches were wide open. The hurricane gave the coast up here a pretty good beating, and at high tide there was nothing to walk on at all.

Try Not To Imagine The Shrinkage.

Hello! I am back in Paris after a really nice break- our first trip back to the states since we moved to Paris way back in April. Seeing friends, family, and visting old haunts was really good for the soul. It was the Tour de Comfort.

I did miss writing. I generally don't have the attention span to write unless I'm on a schedule and feel like I have some quiet time to collect my thoughts. Vacation is not that time for me. I have some catching up to do now that I'm "home", with thousands of pictures to upload and organize, unpacking and cleaning up, and getting back into life here. Battling jetlag is especially tough when the sun barely peaks out, and the sky is a light gray for only a few hours before it turns to black. Winter is really, truly here; it arrived while I was still holding on to the impossible dream of a bit of a tan this year.

Also, while I was sleeping, winter surfing in Maine has become a thing. Wow. Just wow. And I thought I was tough for getting out there in July.