A Lady in Boston

Since March of 2015

noreply@blogger.com (Elena) — Sat, 02 Jan 2016 18:54:00 +0000

2016 is a strange development, despite the awareness we supposedly had of its impending arrival. I suppose we are all too lost in the concept of busyness to remember that years have expiration dates. It's funny, but the new year is like the arrival of a house guest we forgot we invited. My mind is left shocked at the doorway, wondering what on earth I have to serve this house guest.

The last update to this blog was almost a year ago, and yet it could just as well have been last week. Despite that feeling, many things occurred between then and now, many things that could have easily been the stuff of blog posts, but will now be distilled into a handful of photographs I share below that are in some way meant to encapsulate the places I went. At least a few of the places, that is-including photos from two different trips to England and a lovely holiday to Prince Edward Island, a piece of floating land as charming as Lucy Maud Montgomery led us to believe in her Anne of Green Gables stories. I have more photographs to show for in 2015 than words, but deep down I hope 2016 will be different.

The arrival of spring after a horrific winter in Boston

Two photographs of lovely Brookline, Mass

Summer in Beacon Hill, Boston

View of Boston from Cambridge, along the Charles River

Sherborne Castle in Dorset, England

Sherborne, England

Natural History Museum, London

Albert Memorial, London

West End, London

Deer Isle, Maine

Southwest Harbor, Maine

Prince Edward Island

Nearby: Parker River National Wildlife Refuge and Sandy Point

noreply@blogger.com (Elena) — Sat, 21 Mar 2015 20:22:00 +0000

Last July, a few weeks before I visited Ohiopyle, I explored the Parker River National Wildlife Refuge and Sandy Point State Reservation on Plum Island. The island is about an hour's drive north of Boston just beside the quaint town of Newburyport, one of my favorite towns on the North Shore. On my first visit to Newburyport, I passed the sign to Plum Island only because I did not have sufficient time to explore it properly. So I returned a couple months in the height of the summer, when it was flocked by not only birds, but beach-goers and the like. Situated along the Atlantic Flyway, the Parker River Wildlife Refuge's most important visitor is the migratory bird, of whom this refuge was established for in the 1940s. It's a place of multiple habitats including salt marsh, forest and sandy beach. The latter was by far the most popular destination when my mother and I visited, but it was the paths we found in Sandy Point Reservation, found on the tip of the island, that were the most enjoyable for us. The good weather prompted by abundant sunshine allowed us to enjoy the island to the utmost as a nearby escape from Boston. Though I imagine both sites offer a different type of allure on a damp day when its features are hidden by fog. This morning Boston endured the presence of snow yet again, and I think we will take any type of weather at this point, besides the cold. Fog and rain would be infinitely better, though we'll hope for blue skies like the ones from last summer found on Plum Island.

Ohiopyle State Park

noreply@blogger.com (Elena) — Wed, 11 Mar 2015 23:36:00 +0000

March is the month I give myself permission to think of summer. Spring cannot truly be called thus in New England-what we experience, if we experience anything besides winter at all, is something called mud season, and it's as uninspiring as it sounds. What thrills me at the moment is the thought of July and a land called Ohiopyle. It's an area south of Pittsburgh, happily positioned in the Laurel Highlands. Last summer I made a journey during one of my visits back to the burgh, and I never had the chance to share the pictures. Now is something of an appropriate time, all these months later, when I'm daydreaming about hiking through the highlands and having picnics beside waterfalls. The first two pictures are of Cucumber Falls and it's truly a must see in the state park. Besides the many waterfalls, the natural waterslides are also a sight to see and beckon throngs of swimmers in the summertime. There's also rafting on the Yough River (Classes III-V) and two Frank Lloyd Wright homes to tour including Fallingwater. In addition, the Great Allegheny Passage Trail, which runs from DC to Pittsburgh, goes right through Ohiopyle. It's a lovely area and one I am all too happy to think of during this last stretch of the New England winter.

January and Santa Fe

noreply@blogger.com (Elena) — Sun, 01 Mar 2015 00:10:00 +0000

Since my return to Santa Fe nearly two months ago, the city of Boston has received more than 100 inches of snow and suffered from the harshness of brutal temperatures that seem unshakable. When I left for New Mexico, our still budding winter could be called "mild," with an enthusiasm that was premature. All the trials of a true and proper New England winter have been realized since then, and no doubt will continue to be experienced through the beginning of March. It has been beautiful at times, but in a city, winter is more annoying than anything else. It's quite a shame.

In Santa Fe, however, winter could be revered. The delicious, intoxicating smell of piñon wood wafted through the town from the start of the day to its end, just as we knew it would. It's an aroma I wish we could live with each day (or at least each winter) here in the Northeast. I can't imagine ever tiring of it. It's the type of smell which kindles a sense of fulfillment. Though we were a few weeks past Christmastime, the luminarias were still lit each evening atop the adobe buildings. It's a reason alone to visit Santa Fe in the winter months. My neighborhood in Pittsburgh had an attachment to lighting luminarias on New Year's Eve, and they've always had a spellbinding effect on me. I thought they might be gone in Santa Fe by Martin Luther King's weekend, but I was pleasantly surprised.

Crowds were few but eager, and at times we felt we had the town to ourselves. During the days, the sun shone like it was a proud duty to uphold. As soon as it set behind the mountains, the fires were lit and we exchanged our sunglasses for shivers. 50 degree temperatures during the day relinquished themselves to what felt like more New England nights, with highs only in the teens. Winter seemed civilized. We could enjoy our few, but precious days of visiting Bandelier, horseback riding, and shopping near the Plaza, without the burden of cold that is a daily reality here in Boston. Yes, it was cold at night, but only appropriately so. The mountains needed their presence to be felt in the dark, when we could no longer see their peaks. We only had the pleasure of a few days, but they were surreal ones, dominated by a landscape that inspires almost an immediate forgetfulness of our daily realities. The airplane rides back were painful ones. And then came our 100 inches of snow.

Cheers to New Mexico, then, and to spring, should it ever choose to arrive.

A Yankee Girl Visits the Southwest: Part Four

noreply@blogger.com (Elena) — Sun, 11 Jan 2015 16:56:00 +0000

Part Four: A Yankee Girl Visits the Southwest and Prepares to Return

In August, I ventured to New Mexico for the first time. When I left, I had every intention of planning my return. So in a few days, I will return to the land of enchantment to be charmed once again by the high desert, in the height of our Bostonian winter.

I went, only a few months ago, to whet my appetite for what John Muir called "soul hunger," and I go to do the same once more. A week was not at all enough in the varied altitudes of New Mexico, and the once capital of New Spain, the once space of the New Mexican American territory, the forever home of the Pueblo Indians.

When I left, I walked backwards on the pioneer trail, back to the sea from whence I came, to a New England world satisfied with itself, a tamed land that rebels only during winter, in protest of convenience. The skyscraper reigns in the eastern world I know, but it's the sky in the west that I want to be near again. So I'll go back, this time just to Santa Fe because that's all I have time for.

The photograph above is from Williams Lake, nestled in Taos Ski Valley. Wheeler Peak lies ahead. I would love to go back to Taos and the valley, but it will have to be another time. When I took this photograph, I had walked by foot, reaching 11,000 feet above sea level. The next day I crossed the tree line by horseback and felt as alive as I ever have. The western forests look and feel so different from the Appalachian woods I know so well, and it was invigorating to explore them in the Taos Ski Valley. Snow assuredly covers that valley now, and instead of hikers, it's filled with skiers. On the morning of my hike, I thought of D.H. Lawrence and how he wrote, "I think New Mexico was the greatest experience from the outside world that I have ever had." Most of the world had already been given over to industry and commerce and matters of reputation by Lawrence's time. Nature had already become "the other" in a way. I felt the same sort of release he undoubtedly felt as I walked the trail to Williams Lake and as I rode a very stubborn horse the following day, although he (my horse) probably wouldn't have minded an adventure in the city as a break from his own routine.

But I, I regularly feel dissatisfied with my own disconnect from the "outside world" and even calling it that seems somewhat sacrilegious. Northern New Mexico will once again temper that dissatisfaction for me and I can't wait to get back.

It's the mountains, the forests. The architecture which feels one with the earth because it is. Certainly, novelty impacted my experience. Travelers are ever besotted with the new. And perhaps there's something to be said about genes. My father has loved northern New Mexico since he was a teenager, and my mother has always appreciated it since my father introduced it to her, so long ago. That we should all find some communion with the same space is not only a comforting coincidence, but it's intriguing to me, as if it belies some greater truth about how we connect to certain places, at a very primal level.

The generations of families who have lived at Taos Pueblo would probably be able to say something about that connection. I could understand why they would never want to leave. When I was visiting the UNESCO World Heritage site, I met an artist who had come to Harvard back in the 70s and left after two years because he missed New Mexico so much. I understood him. He missed his tribe, he missed the land, he missed the mountains. And he could do without the humidity of the east and our winters, as well. Now he has a life dedicated to his craft, where there is no distinction between worlds like there was for D.H. Lawrence and for wayward travelers like myself.

So it's time to go back, and let New Mexico rejuvenate me with it's enchantment once more.

A Yankee Girl Visits the High Desert: Part Three

noreply@blogger.com (Elena) — Sun, 09 Nov 2014 17:23:00 +0000

Part Three: The Journey to Taos and

the Magic of the Mabel Dodge Luhan House

I left Santa Fe how I imagine most people do-with a desire to stay longer. But I also had plans waiting for execution and the first included taking the high road to Taos. Like most things in Northern New Mexico, "the high road to Taos" has an almost mythical quality to it, both for the religious towns that dot the way north, and also due to the shifting terrain through the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. The towns are living remnants of Spanish colonization, with names that would never be found in New England, names like Las Trampas, Ojo Sarco, Truchas, Cordova.

The one I looked forward to knowing was Chimayó.

Chimayó exists not too far from Española, where one turns sharply east to continue up the high road on route 76. Most go for religious reasons: the village is home to the El Sanctuario de Chimayó, a Catholic church and shrine that is now a National Landmark. Some people say it's one of the most important pilgrimage sites in the country. I believe it. When I went on a beautiful Friday morning, it was packed with visitors, the majority of which seemed to be present due to spiritual inclinations rather than a tourist's curiosity. The place has a long history dating to the early 19th century and is a somewhat sprawling site, filled with lots of small adobe shrines and even trading posts, like the one pictured above, selling things like holy dirt and other sacred materials. Despite this commercial aspect, it felt untouched by modernity, which is remarkable given how many people visit each year. I didn't linger long-there was another place in Chimayó I wanted to see for myself, and that was the shop of the Ortega Weavers, a family who has been weaving for centuries. Chimayó has a strong weaving tradition - the Ortega family is not alone- and I'm fascinated by how this one particular craft defined the town, not only in the 18th century, but even still today. I, of course, left with a few beautiful pieces that serve as a daily reminder of my trip, now so many months ago.

Afterwards, I continued my journey north, imagining how incredible this land must have appeared to the once Spanish settlers. Many times, I felt propelled to pull over, take pictures and record the transition from the more arid, high desert to rampant forests that seemed more appropriate to the nearby state of Colorado than New Mexico. The road was indeed winding, and one I would not like to find myself driving during a winter's night. This road is meant to be enjoyed at the height of the day, when all it's glory is bathed in sunlight.

And then I reached Taos. My first stop was to see the famous Rio Grande Gorge Bridge, a place not for those fearful of heights. It's the seventh highest bridge in the country and I've never seen anything like it before. Of course, the bridge itself was a beautiful feat of engineering, but it's the gorge below that's the main attraction. People stop, park their cars, and walk across the bridge to view it from all angles. It's hard not to be a tiny bit nervous, even if you feel exhilarated by what you see. It's a long way down.

The town itself is charming, and is home to the native Pueblo tribes, celebrities and hippies, among others, of course. I heard one person say that Taos plaza reminded her of what Santa Fe used to be, before it became such a tourist destination. But I found the same type of shops and restaurants in Taos that Santa Fe offers, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing. The experience was unique in Taos not because of the historic plaza, but because of the landscape. You can almost touch the mighty mountains with your hands.

I could behold those mountains from my room at the Mabel Dodge Luhan house, the other highlight of my trip further north. I couldn't wait to arrive. I had read the memoirs of Mabel Dodge Luhan before my trip, a woman who had once entertained the likes of D.H. Lawrence and Willa Cather, among scores of others. She was quite a wealthy patron of the arts and had both the liberty and luxury to move to New Mexico as soon as she first set her eyes upon it. It was love at first sight. She had lived and moved through the artistic circles of Florence and New York, but chose the beauty that Taos had to offer and never left thereafter. Instead, she invited everyone she knew to venture west for a taste of her 'escape to reality,' as she called it. With the help of her new husband, an Indian man from the nearby Pueblo tribe, they built the house that now serves as a conference center and inn, a house I couldn't wait to see for myself.

It was truly glorious. If Mabel's intent was to create a nest of inspiration that was both stimulating to the senses and comforting, then she succeeded. Even all these years later, one can move through the rooms of the inn feeling energized by its atmosphere, created by not only the stuff of the architecture, the furniture, etc, but also by the legacy of creative souls who visited here. Two nights for me was not at all enough. I don't think a week could have been. To pass through a space that writers I've long admired and loved also knew was thrilling. In a way, it felt like home.

A Yankee Girl Visits the High Desert: Part Two

noreply@blogger.com (Elena) — Tue, 21 Oct 2014 00:13:00 +0000

Part Two: Abiquiu

Abiquiu is a place befit for epiphanies. It exists on its own accord, defined by its hard, red earth floor and the cerulean sky that overlooks all below. It brings to mind the Jurassic Age and life of an altogether different kind, though the man-made lake at its center is evidence of our own footprint. Located about an hour northwest of Santa Fe, Abiquiu is an easy trip to make and one I personally looked forward to with great eagerness. I went for the same reason that most people go : to follow in the steps of Georgia O'Keeffe. Once she had discovered the almost mystic spell of New Mexico, she let it charm her better sense for the rest of her life. Abiquiu was her playground, the ultimate environment in which she could realize her full artistic potential. "It's the most wonderful place you can imagine. It's so beautiful there. It's ridiculous," she wrote of New Mexico in 1945. I felt her presence strongly at Ghost Ranch, what is now a retreat center but once was home to the artiste herself. Now the site is dotted with buildings that serve for various educational uses, but it's also covered with trails that one can take by foot or by horse. Alone on the trailway to Chimney Rock, I felt what Georgia must have always known in the years she lived there-a sense of complete liberation from the modern world. The mountains seemed to speak to each other, as if in constant conversation, and I was privy to their chatter. A thunderstorm threatened in the distance, but rain never fell in my path. I never felt so far from my Boston reality as I did in Abiquiu, and the distance was intoxicating, in the way that dreams can be. That red earth, so unabashedly naked, could not have been more different from the shy, dense forests of New England that I hold in deep reverence. I have no doubt that this exhilarating difference was part of what enthralled O'Keeffe. Development is scarce and frankly, it's a relief. It's a relief to know that visitors can still feel the full effect of this great land, and that locals can live their lives defined by it.

A Yankee Girl Visits the High Desert: Part One

noreply@blogger.com (Elena) — Mon, 13 Oct 2014 00:52:00 +0000

Part One: Land of Enchantment

In the middle of August, I took myself west. My mind left many months earlier, however, and part of it is still there now, roaming the high desert. Up until recently, the all great American West existed in my mind as a myth, a vast area less of a geographical reality and more as romanticized vision, which largely kept to images of covered wagons and the pioneers who walked the way beside them, with all the tales of their trials and tribulations. I keep to those stories because in truth, I love them. The stories of how the west became American are not fairy tales in the least, but I've had a love affair with them my entire life. And still, my travels have always taken me eastward-to Europe or beyond. My American life has been spent overseas or strictly in the Northeast, leaving anywhere west of the Mississippi to the domains of my imagination and historical understanding.

But on my vacation, I only went to one place. And when I write, "one place," I mean one particular region of one state, so the 'west' of my August in the year 2014 was northern New Mexico, land of enchantment. I chose it as my destination not because I was drawn by the history of the state, but rather because I was intrigued by the history of my parents, who went in the years they were married. In fact, I knew very little about the particulars of New Mexican history, let alone geography-which brought to the surface so keenly the Northeast's preoccupation with self, not to mention New England exceptionalism. One thinks of the desert as they envision New Mexico, and he or she would be right to do so, but they do not know of the altitude. With delight I marveled at the peaks of Albuquerque, Santa Fe and Taos. The fact that Santa Fe is the highest state capital in the country seemed to shock everyone I mentioned it to. More often than not, people were bewildered at my choice of destination.

Once I firmly decided to go, I wasted no time in conquering my long-serving ignorance of the area, which had only made an exception during the times I read of Georgia O'Keeffe's life there. I started with travel guides, which gave me brief overviews of history, politics and sightseeing. I scoured the web for anything to watch, including Smithsonian's 'Aerial America' episode on New Mexico; C-span's collection of short videos on Santa Fe landmarks; and multiple re-viewings of Ken Burns' documentary"The West." One day during my lunch break, I stumbled upon the wonderfully penned, Land of Enchantment: Memoirs of Marian Russell Along the Santa Fe Trail in the always reliable Brattle Book Shop. Somehow I had managed to remain unaware of this book until that moment, despite a class I once took in college called "Women's Literature on the Frontier." Marian Russell's recollections placed me right on the Santa Fe Trail in the second half of the 19th century, with all its violence and significance. From there, I was reading Mabel Dodge Luhan's memoirs of a half-century later, when she invited the creative luminaries of the age to her house in Taos, including the likes of D.H. Lawrence, Ansel Adams, Willa Cather, and scores of others. I read the essays collected in Tony Hillerman's "The Spell of New Mexico" and naturally Cather's "Death Comes to the Archbishop." I daydreamed of my future travels. A lot. I planned what I would bring with me a month before, including newly purchased items like a wide-brimmed black hat -perfect for the cowgirl I am definitely not- a Midori Traveler's Notebook, and the hiking boots I would wear in Taos Ski Valley. I savored with each and every day the steady sweetness of anticipation. My New England adventures dropped to a minimum. I was too pleasantly distracted by the planning and intellectual preparation for my journey to fully appreciate summer's arrival in Massachusetts. And suddenly, it was time to go and actually experience all I had thought about for months on end. At least part of me wanted another week to prepare. Though I embrace spontaneity in my local travels, I strongly believe in the necessity of place preparation, but then I am a lover of history, art and literature, which collectively form so many of the reasons an area is unique unto itself.

Let me be the first to tell you if you don't already know : New Mexico is truly unique.

***

One may question the practicality of a summer vacation in New Mexico, but I found the dry, mountain air just as refreshing as the New England sea breeze that I left behind. The altitude, however, was a force to be reckoned with and one that left me feeling seemingly tipsy in the middle of the night. The heat of the sun bothered me only once: on my arrival day hike at the glorious Kasha-Katuwe Tent Rocks Monument. Despite the blaze of the sun, it could hardly succeed in distracting me from the majestic rock formations, the result of volcanic eruptions several million years ago. The place felt quite isolated, and because of that, all the more wild. A few other hikers were nearby, but on the whole, the site was quiet, as if to say, left to itself. At one point, a rattlesnake made his presence known on the trail, inviting us humans to watch as he feasted on his chosen prey. That seemed a natural turning point, and my travel fatigue made the better of me. I left and took off for Santa Fe.

My temporary place of home was at the utterly charming Madeleine Inn, a rare piece of Victorian architecture in the land of the adobe structure, and one covered with ivy like the Boston buildings I pass every day. I couldn't have chosen a better place to stay and for this particular traveler, that meant a kind staff, comfortable room and very good breakfasts. From the inn's location on E. Faithway Street, I could walk anywhere I liked in the city of Santa Fe. And so I did.

In many ways, I was predisposed to liking Santa Fe-first by my genes and then by months of research. However, I'm certain that even without those two predetermining factors, I would have fallen for the place. It has aged remarkably well and is so comfortable with itself, like the towns and cities of Europe whose identities have long been established. We, Yankees of the North, revel in the history of our forefathers and take pride in the footprints they've left behind, all with a sort of smug satisfaction in the belief that our streets and houses are the oldest of this country. How refreshing it was to find the stamp of the Spanish on Santa Fe and the residue of the 1500s! Before it was hailed New Mexico, it was the northern capital of New Spain. And before that, it was land used by the Pueblo Indians. After the Indian revolt of 1680, Pueblo Indians held Santa Fe once more, but only until 1692, when the city was re-captured by the Spanish. So the city was Spanish, until it became Mexican, and then it became American, but not a state until 1912, which seems shockingly late given that it was a territory in 1848. Thus, New Mexico is a place where multiple traditions mingle and yet still flourish, despite the passing of time. Santa Fe is its best example. The result of this mixed history is a city so beguiling it's hard to believe it's real. There's shadow play on the Plaza and courtyards with hanging chilies; churches with spiral staircases and rows of doors painted blue. There are more museums than one has time to see and literally hundreds of art galleries, most of which live side by side on the famous Canyon Road. People watch opera as thunderstorms roll through the valley and in the winter time, luminaries cover the streets.

And though it is a cliche, I now know where enchantment is found: in the high, American desert.

Nearby: Coggeshall Farm Museum

noreply@blogger.com (Elena) — Sat, 09 Aug 2014 12:41:00 +0000

It seems surprising now, but I went to Coggeshall Farm Museum in Bristol nearly three months ago. I suppose that is how one can measure the swiftness of summer, upon realization that the glorious month of May is already three months past. Our New England bounty of oak and maple had already opened their leaf buds, and though our minds could easily refer to the brutal hardships of winter, the land was once more renewed. That renewal was in plain view for us at Coggeshall, a small yet quaint farm museum in coastal Rhode Island. The place doesn't boast too many structures, but there are plenty of animals, and what's more than that, plenty of workshops to enjoy both. I went to their annual sheep-shearing festival, which made for a great visit, but they also have workshops that focus on hearth cooking, backyard poultry, as well as seed collecting. Each Saturday they host a "breakfast in the barnyard" and in late September they'll have an annual harvest fair. As always, it was wonderful to get out of the city and onto a farm and Coggeshall easily afforded me that opportunity.

A Lady Escapes: The Exterior of Fallingwater

noreply@blogger.com (Elena) — Fri, 08 Aug 2014 00:23:00 +0000

Continuing on the Pennsylvanian theme, I had the pleasure of visiting Frank Lloyd Wright's magical Fallingwater during my recent stay back home. Located in Mill Run, very close to Ohiopyle, it's about a 1.5 hour drive from Pittsburgh through the gentle, rolling hills of southwestern PA. The place is very dear to Pittsburghers, for it was designed in 1935 for the Kaufmann family, whose iconic department stores filled the city landscape from 1871 to 2006. I grew up going to Kaufmann's, as did everyone else from the burgh. The flagship store (or 'big store'as it was always known), was located downtown on the corner of Smithfield Street and Fifth Avenue. Frank Lloyd Wright had a hand in designing certain offices in the store, and then was commissioned to design a summer home for the Kaufmanns', and Fallingwater was the result. Pittsburgh was still a sooty, dark sort of place and though the family had their residence in cozy, comfortable Fox Chapel, they wanted a true escape from the steel city. They found it at Fallingwater, the house that made the cover of Time magazine in 1938 and that has been enchanting visitors since it opened as a museum in 1964. Literally built on top of a waterfall, the house is unlike any I have ever seen. It feels like an extension of nature, as if it was born from the very water it touches. That, of course, was Wright's desire: he wanted the home to be a true representation of organic architecture. The materials all come from the region- he used only steel, sandstone, reinforced concrete and glass in his construction. Long before baby boomers and millenials became obsessed with leading an "organic" lifestyle, Wright was using the term to develop an architectural philosophy that sought both inspiration from and unity with the natural world. I've heard the criticism from people I know that Fallingwater already seems dated, but I can't wholly agree with that statement, which I think may stem from its over-popularity. Perhaps because I live in a world of New England saltboxes (which I DO love), Fallingwater still feels relevant and is still a sight to behold.
The Kaufmanns' imagined a home built with a view of the waterfall, but Wright was a visionary and did the unthinkable (with a staggering price). I took the standard tour on a week day in mid-July and the place was packed with tourists. The tour was certainly extensive and led by a very informed docent, but it was crowded, and impossible to linger in the rooms or on the many decks. There are other tours available and I'll be interested in taking another when I'm back in the area, because I'll be able to appreciate it in a nuanced way during a different season. For me, the place was too extensive for a summer home. However, most of the space is taken up by balconies- everything inside is meant to lead you back from whence you came-to return you to the source of the home: the falling water below.

A Lady Escapes: Phipps Conservatory

noreply@blogger.com (Elena) — Sun, 27 Jul 2014 19:01:00 +0000

A week ago, I was travelling back from Pittsburgh, my sweet home of homes and bringing with me four days of freshly made memories. One of them was a return to Phipps Conservatory, a well-known landmark in the East End of Pittsburgh where I grew up. Built in 1893 as a gift to the city, it still stands as glorious as ever, lending pleasure to the city's residents, as was its original intent. I went fairly frequently as a child, but haven't returned since-only in an occasional dream. The place is magical, at once reminding the visitor of America's gilded age from which it sprang while at the same time sharing all the wonder of the world's flora and fauna. Pittsburgh's industrialists always strove to remind its workers of beauty and education, whether through Carnegie's libraries or through the creation of this conservatory by Henry Phipps. There are close to twenty distinct gardens, ranging from a space filled with orchids to a desert room covered with succulents and cacti, to a "parterre de broderie" and the grand Victorian palm court. I have been to many botanical gardens, and though I am truly biased in this case, I can honestly say that Phipps is a masterpiece. Botanists and avid gardeners will undeniably fall in love with it, but artists will thoroughly enjoy capturing its beauty and children will race through it with excitement. So many years had passed since I visited. I won't make the same mistake again.

Nearby: Oldies Marketplace in Newburyport

noreply@blogger.com (Elena) — Tue, 15 Jul 2014 23:19:00 +0000

When my mother came to visit a few weeks ago, I chose to take her to the little town on the North Shore that has recently taken my fancy: Newburyport. I took her so she could see the lovingly restored homes of 17th and 18th centuries and the quiet beauty of its town center, composed of wonderful shops that few Bostonians strangely never seem to mention.

One such shop, which proudly announces itself with its wild storefront and creative facade, is located on the rear of Water Street and goes by the name of "Oldies Marketplace."

And what a place it is!

We did not prepare to spend the better part of an hour there, but would have had it no other way-for there was too much to see and consider - too many objects to momentarily hold in our hands while questioning their possible place in our decorative lives.

I left with a pewter creamery; my mother with a nautical print to give as a gift.

The best thing about Oldies Marketplace is its size and its inviting layout. Naturally, one can easily find the good and the bad in places like these. But unlike other similar stores, Oldies effortlessly creates the desire in the visitor to stay and search. One is neither overwhelmed by the array of items available nor the dust that they may carry-one is only enthralled.

And pretty soon, you have spent an hour collecting treasures you never expected to find in the old shipping center of Newburyport.

Nearby: Georges Island

noreply@blogger.com (Elena) — Sun, 29 Jun 2014 20:16:00 +0000

I had high hopes of a June filled with entries of my small explorations. Alas!
July arrives on Tuesday and I'm waving goodbye to June of 2014 without the pleasure of truly knowing it. But there were at least a few adventures I was lucky enough to experience, some of which I shall try to write of in the coming weeks and the rest that I'll remember only in my mind.

I met Georges Island on the first weekend of the month. One of the harbor boats led me there from the wharf and in an hour I found myself seeing Fort Warren for the first time.
Named for the Boston revolutionary Dr. Joseph Warren, it was built in the mid-19th century and is known today for it's significance during the Civil War. This is where imprisoned Confederate soldiers and political prisoners, such as Confederate Vice President Alexander Hamilton Stephens learned of the cruel New England winter for the first time. They could direct their gazes towards the untouched city of Boston and they could long for their own homes. But this fort became their Northern home in a way, and I could wander silently through it, with only the sound of nearby families exploring at their own pace (faster or slower depending on the courage of the children). The walls are splattered with the memories of the past 150 years, memories of those who dwelt within its rooms along with the ones who have since visited them. A dark quiet lingers throughout the insides of the fort where shadows seem to reign.

But then there are the ramparts and the green pathways that cover the dark rooms and they are all beauty, as if they are rooftop gardens dating from the Civil War.
Prisoners could take their walks and look out to the sea, to either think of places like Shiloh and Antietam and Fredericksburg or choose to forget about them entirely. As I walked, I thought of ghosts, like the Lady in Black, who is said to still haunt the Fort.
Yet, it was a perfect June day, dominated by sunshine and blue skies, and I could only feel invigorated to be there and happy the fort still stands, to impart knowledge to anyone who is curious enough to accept it.

A Lady Escapes: Camden, Maine

noreply@blogger.com (Elena) — Sun, 01 Jun 2014 20:55:00 +0000

Midcoast claims my childhood summers. It claims those of my mother as well. Though she now lives in the far reaches of Downeast Maine (where few tourists explore) and I myself used to dwell on Mount Desert Island (where most tourists go), the seaside towns of Camden, Rockland and Lincolnville speak to our comfortable youth and cherished summers, filled with the sight of the still cold sea from atop Mt. Battie and ginger from Dorman's Dairy Dream. They were filled with the color of blue from the native berries and red like the cooked lobsters eaten in all the restaurants by mainly out of towners. Camden, in particular, is a romantic vision of coastal Maine, and it's easy to forget that any other kind exists. And yet I still love that vision after all these years, and it's why I recently drove four hours north from Boston to see it alive again. In late May it was still fairly quiet, but in the next few weeks, Camden and the other midcoast towns will be filled to the brim with vacationers eager to experience what I have known my entire life, and that is a calm only towns this far north offer, in the sweet, gentle villages along the rocky coast. It is a calm that inspires the phrase, "the way life should be," which greets visitors to the state of Maine after they cross the Piscataqua River. Visit the little shops and walk the main streets, but do find a bench that overlooks the harbors, and watch as the fishermen come and go, and watch the happy visitors enjoy their first schooner ride and breathe deeply. You're in Maine.

Nearby: The Rooms of Blithewold Mansion

noreply@blogger.com (Elena) — Sat, 24 May 2014 00:42:00 +0000

In New England, Blithewold is known for its gardens, and for good reason. Their beauty covers 33 acres of land, much of which faces the calm Narragansett Bay. There are rock and water gardens, a rose garden and enclosed garden, and even a lover's lane. Like Tower Hill Botanic Garden, each spring promises an enchanted display of daffodils, and Blithewold always celebrates their arrival. But when I went, it was the rooms I adored. These were my favorite out of the forty-five rooms the mansion holds, a mansion that was built not once but twice at the turn of the century (the original was destroyed by fire and luckily, the fire was so slow burning that most of the furniture could be saved). Blithewold, meaning "happy woodland" was the summer home of the prestigious Van Wickle family, who had made their money in Pennsylvania coal. Instead of Newport, they chose this wonderful spot in Bristol and hired a Boston architectural firm to build their home by the bay, in the English country manor style. Even inside, one is always reminded of the great outdoors beyond, for the place is filled with an abundance of light and views of the sea. Not surprisingly, Blithewold is a favorite wedding venue and in fact, one was in the works as my friend and I left. Tourists race to Newport to see the mansions, but Blithewold is just as worthy for a visit, not only for its magnificent grounds, but also for the rooms that overlook them.

Nearby: Tendercrop Farms

noreply@blogger.com (Elena) — Sun, 18 May 2014 15:10:00 +0000

Like many wonderful things on the North Shore, Tendercrop Farms was a complete surprise. A missed turn in Newbury led me straight down High Road to the bustling Tendercrop, a place as busy as it could be on a late Sunday morning and a cloudless sky. Children laughed as they said their hellos to the farm animals; gardeners sighed when they saw the beautiful collection of plants and flowers on sale; and I smiled widely as soon as I beheld the great bounty of food waiting for me inside (naturally, the dried flowers hanging from the rafters were a perfect added touch). Tendercrop Farms sells much of its own produce and meat and I was sure to take home a healthy helping of each. The taste of the sausage alone would be enough to bring me back. I often struggle with the ethics of being a carnivore, but this sausage may have been the best I've ever had. What a difference! In addition to sausage, they offer their own chicken, turkey, and steak, along with the normal assortment of produce offerings: strawberries, blueberries, apples, tomatoes, asparagus, onions, garlic, herbs, carrots-and the list trails on. It's a special spot, and one that I wish were so much closer to Boston. It's about an hour's drive, but one that's well worth the journey.

Nearby: Tower Hill Botanic Garden

noreply@blogger.com (Elena) — Tue, 06 May 2014 00:37:00 +0000

Early May is the time of the forsythia and daffodil, when the color yellow reigns over the New England landscape. At Tower Hill Botanic Garden in nearby Boylston, you can find both in abundance, though the woodland trees are still bare against the spring sky. It's an hour's drive west from Boston, and the daffodil field, containing 25,000 bulbs, is worth every minute of it. It was like a dream, even with clouds threatening rain.

There is an apple orchard, numerous gardens, and two very romantic greenhouses, including an Orangerie and Lemon House, better known to those with green thumbs as a "Limonaia." From the highest point, one can see Wachusett Reservoir in the distance. This is a place of not only quiet, introspective walks like the one I had myself, but also of weddings and flower shows and concerts. Even yoga.

Then there are the woods. The trails are wonderfully maintained (no doubt due to the high entry fee), with an intriguing mix of classical elements, including various sculptures and shrines like the "Folly" or the "Temple of Peace." It was cold when I went, but I lingered in the "Inner Park" and beside the mossy steps, wishing I had brought along Edith Hamilton's Timeless Tales of Gods and Heroes. Instead, I delightfully studied the little fairy houses along the pathways, constructed in honor of Sibylle Olfers Story of the Root Children -a very nice surprise. Go to Tower Hill Botanic Garden to chase the whimsical, but also to embrace the color of the season. Go to seek the daffodil.

Nearby: The Town of Plymouth

noreply@blogger.com (Elena) — Fri, 02 May 2014 15:23:00 +0000

A short continuation of the last post on Plimoth Plantation-above are shots from the town of Plymouth itself, a couple miles north of the plantation. In the town is where you can find the replica of the Mayflower, along with the Plimoth Grist Mill, a reproduction of the mill built in 1636, which made the lives of the settlers (or at least the lives of their hands) a tad easier. Plymouth Rock is also nearby, and sadly, is not at all exciting. Important? Maybe. But certainly not thrilling. The town itself is as quaint as one can expect, and in fact, I will look forward to returning to the area come fall to see the cranberry fields. The day we went really could not have been lovelier and was a true sign that spring is here.

Nearby: Plimoth Plantation

noreply@blogger.com (Elena) — Sun, 27 Apr 2014 02:38:00 +0000

Until recently, the history of seventeenth-century America has never quite intrigued me. I privileged the stories of our patriots over those of our pilgrims, and dismissed Puritanism, along with other realities of seventeenth-century life in the colonies, as wholly uninteresting. But to live in Massachusetts is to be regularly reminded of our country's roots, and to explore its old environs is to be left wanting to know more. In the remnants of our villages, the small can suddenly become significant and an interest is sparked. I'm slowly cultivating my own interest, and chose Patriot's Day to visit Plimoth Plantation. Though the admission fee is a tad pricey, I thoroughly enjoyed my visit, most especially to the English Village. There was a beauty to the rusticity that left me feeling enchanted, no doubt helped on by the bright azure sky and sea. There was also an honesty about the reenactors that was refreshing, even if there were few of them present to share their stories.

Those who were present were happy to talk about how their current spring was progressing-the spring of 1627-and what brought them to the New World, either on the Mayflower in 1620 or on a later voyage. I would have enjoyed even more exchanges, as the ones I had were both amusing and enlightening. But what I appreciated most of all was exploring the simple interiors of their homes, which had a quiet elegance all of their own.

The Waterworks Museum

noreply@blogger.com (Elena) — Sat, 19 Apr 2014 18:58:00 +0000

These days, it seems like we are in the age of the technological small. What was once large yet effective, is now clunky and cumbersome. The public wants their machines to be not only powerful but elegant, and elegance arrives in slender designs that fit into the palms of our hands. At the Waterworks Museum in Chestnut Hill, however, I was reminded that the titan machines of our industrial past hold a beauty of their own. The museum shares the history of the Chestnut Hill Reservoir and the pumping station that became an integral part of the city's water system. Built in the 1880s when Boston's population was rapidly growing, this Richardsonian Romanesque structure with its incredible machinery would help supply the city's new and old inhabitants with clean water. In fact, this site was one of the first in the country to regularly test the quality of the water. For an entire century the waterworks served the citizens of Boston. Now, it embraces it's new purpose of telling the tales of our industrial roots by preserving these big and beautiful pieces of progress.

April in Boston

noreply@blogger.com (Elena) — Sat, 05 Apr 2014 22:17:00 +0000

A Bostonian April flits between winter and spring. One never quite knows if the day will resemble the bleakness of January or the pleasantness of May. Today, at least, the skies looked ahead and claimed spring as their own. The Public Garden and Common were full of happy tourists and even happier locals, who have endured a long and difficult winter. But what a difference the hue of the skies can make!

We've waited for the blue of today for a long time.

Caffe Vittoria

noreply@blogger.com (Elena) — Sun, 30 Mar 2014 21:40:00 +0000

One doesn't go to Caffe Vittoria to work. One goes for pleasure. One goes for the cappuccino and the conversation and perhaps the pastries as well. There are no laptops propped on tables or coffee drinkers with headphones stuck in their ears. There is no pretension here and no championing of elitism, as so often felt in other cafes. Caffe Vittoria has already won the race against time, having established themselves in 1929 and still just as popular. You can linger in your seat for as long as you like, and when you are done sipping your cappuccino you can stare at the walls, covered like a gallery with the institution's most precious memories. Caffe Vittoria tries to be nothing but what it has been for 85 years, and what it has been is authentic, satisfying and successful.

The Public Library of Brookline

noreply@blogger.com (Elena) — Sun, 16 Feb 2014 22:22:00 +0000

The Public Library of Brookline is a magnificent building inside and out. Tourists and locals alike flock to the Boston Public Library (and for good reason), but I prefer this lesser known gem, which has an impressive history of its own. Though the library itself was established in 1857, the present building dates from 1910 and is probably most well known for it's lovely, oak-paneled reference room. I find myself here on most winter weekends, embracing the cold on my walk there and then distracting myself from it by the books that await me. It has been an eventful winter in Boston, dominated by frigid temperatures and snow that temper my yearning to explore elsewhere, even beyond my own neighborhood.

So instead, I hibernate within the walls of this library or my apartment, exploring new worlds within the books I hold in my dry, dry hands.

A Lady Escapes: A Downeast Holiday

noreply@blogger.com (Elena) — Sat, 18 Jan 2014 17:58:00 +0000

For the Christmas holiday, I journeyed north to downeast Maine. The photographs above have already become reminiscences of that time, now that we are closer to February and December has quickly turned into a memory. But I have been remiss in sharing the details of what was a wonderful time with my mother in the small, coastal town where she lives, tucked away in the woods by Flat bay. For four days in a row we lost power due to an unrelenting ice storm, but our wood stove kept us warm and my mother's resourcefulness kept us contented. When the sun set at 3:30PM, giving our world over to darkness, we lit our tapered candles and took turns reading from Laura Ingalls Wilder's The Long Winter, which seemed an appropriate amusement for us given the circumstances. During daytime the color of gray ruled the skies and the sound of snapping trees filled the woods. I played with our dog Jethro on the ice that covered the land on our tidal bay, waiting for the day when the sky would turn blue.

And it did, exactly when it should have-on the morning of Christmas day.

A Lady Escapes: Florida's Flagler Museum

noreply@blogger.com (Elena) — Sat, 07 Dec 2013 21:12:00 +0000

Two months ago I took a bit of a joy trip to southern Florida, where my family very conveniently has a vacation home. Though I have been visiting Palm Beach County since before I could walk, I somehow never made it to the Flagler Museum. Once home to industrialist Henry Flagler, "Whitehall" was built as a grand estate for a true, Gilded Age tycoon. Constructed in 1902 as a wedding present for his wife, Whitehall ranks as of the greatest representations of American wealth and luxury and is now today a National Landmark. Boasting as many as seventy-five rooms, it took a friend and me two and a half hours to see it all. Unfortunately, Henry Flagler's legacy has been somewhat lost amidst the histories of other great industrialists, of men like Carnegie and Vanderbilt and Rockefeller. However, the Flagler Museum gave me two opportunities: one to address my own ignorance regarding his influence and one to admire the absolutely beautiful (and sometimes strange) interiors in which he resided.