Last weekend, I went out to Connecticut to keep my friend Ellie company. She was home alone at her parents' house, studying for her medical boards. We grew up in the same town, but my mother moved away when I was a senior in college, which makes homecomings (despite their requiring little more than a fifty-minute train ride from Grand Central) hard to come by.
My friend Cristin came out on Saturday afternoon, but before she arrived, I dropped Ellie off at the library and headed down to the water and to my old stomping grounds. I grew up near the beach; only a block from the water, as a matter of fact. My friend Caroline and I used to ride our bikes all over the place, sneaking onto secret little beaches and into tiny little coves. So, I parked the car and took a little walk.
And promptly discovered that trespassing, while cute in the 1980s and at 8 years old, is just plain creepy at 30 in 2010. Yeah. I only made it to two or three little spots before deciding it was time to admit that I am now too old to sneak onto people's property and stopping the madness in exchange for an iced coffee.
Of course, I had to make one last stop, at our home itself, a beautiful old (built in 1898) shingle-style house. A good number of the houses in the neighborhood were built in the late 19th century as summer homes for New Yorkers, our house among them. It was a decidedly summery place, even in the coldest, snowiest of winters.
Sigh. I do miss it.