Nostalgia.

This past weekend, I visited my alma mater, Bryn Mawr College, for my ten-year reunion. It was, in a word, amazing. I'd never exactly forgotten how much I loved my time at Bryn Mawr, or how inspiring it was to be surrounded, every single day, by such brilliant, driven and remarkable women, but I'd forgotten the sense of wonder that experience gave me. No more, friends. Never again will I take those four years for granted.

And it doesn't hurt that the campus is unbelievably lush and full of breathtaking neo-Gothic architecture. I mean, this place was designed by Calbert Vaux and Frederick Law Olmstead (they of Central Park in Manhattan) - how could it not be stunning?

I visited most of my old dorms, even peeking into my senior year room, which was a ridiculously palatial single with thirteen-foot ceilings, a fireplace and a wall of windows (windowseat, too, natch).

I also paid a too-brief visit to Haverford College, just a mile down the road. Bryn Mawr and Haverford have an unusually close, cooperative relationship (same class schedules, same meal plan, ability to live, take any class or major at either college, and so on), and I majored in religion there.

I had cocktails with my thesis advisor and two of my fellow majors, and managed to snap a photo of Haverford's undeniably picturesque Skating House.

I really can't wait ten more years before I go back again. Even five might be a challenge.

Rainy travels, part five: Patisserie Fauchère, how I love thee...

While we were underwhelmed by our dinner at Hotel Fauchère's Delmonico Room, we were floored by the quality of every single piece of bread that passed our lips - the apple walnut bread served with our cheese plate, the bread served with dinner, the croissant at breakfast on Saturday morning.

Having been assured by the staff that all baked goods came from the hotel's patisserie (housed in a separate building next-door), we made a point of stopping by after our visit to Grey Towers on Saturday afternoon.

The patisserie is located in one of the hotel's two smaller, adjacent properties, both of which seem to be former residences. The patisserie has a cute little porch filled with marble-topped cafe tables and wire chairs - on a warmer, less rainy day, it would be a perfect spot to sit, enjoy a croissant and a paper (they sell the Wall Street Journal and the New York Times) and watch the denizens of Milford go by.

We perused the selections on offer and settled on monkey bread, a rhubarb madeleine and a cream puff, all to share (I also had, of course, a cup of coffee.).


The monkey bread was adorable - I'd seen loaves of the stuff before, but never an individually-sized version. (For the uninitiated, monkey bread is kind of a quick version of cinnamon rolls - but instead of rolling and slicing individual rolls, you coat the outside of small chunks of dough with cinnamon and sugar and pack them into a loaf pan. To eat, just pull a chunk of dough off of the whole.)

The rhubarb madeleine was pretty, but did nothing to alter my conviction that madeleines are truly meant to be eaten hot from the oven; after about ten minutes, they begin to go a bit spongy and lose the slightly crunchy outside that distinguishes them from plain old cake.

The cream puff was, in a word, awesome. The choux paste was light as a feather, but still eggy and rich in flavor. The pastry cream was judiciously mixed with whipped cream and flavored strongly with vanilla, all of which yielded to a deep flavor and a smooth texture. We had one of the "small" cream puffs, and it took a lot of willpower not to buy one of the big ones to take back to my room with me for some late afternoon alone time.

Rainy travels, part four: Those Milfordites make a damn good sandwich.

Upon arrival in Pennsylvania, Hall was determined to lay his hands on a hoagie.

Remember, we all went to college together outside of Philadelphia, so we know from hoagies. There's something about a Pennsylvania-made hoagie, with its soft, chewy roll, thinly-sliced cold cuts, and slightly plasticky cheese, that just makes Hall swoon.

And so, instead of searching out any upscale options for lunch on Saturday, we headed for the nearest deli, Jorgenson's. Hall ordered a turkey hoagie, but I went for a BLT, and it turned out to be one of the best I've had in ages.

I don't know if it was the sweetness of the soft white bread, the salty, just-crisp-enough bacon, or the juicy iceberg lettuce. Who cares? Whatever it was, the alchemy of the ingredients combined to make one damn good sandwich.

Rainy travels, part three: French toast, coffee, and crosswords.

During our visit to Milford, we ate breakfast at the hotel both mornings. While Hall read the New York Times and surreptitiously sneaked sips of my caffeinated coffee (he's trying to go without), Miles & I worked on the crossword puzzle and guzzled cup after cup of French press-brewed Joe.

The first morning, I went protein-heavy, with eggs, chicken sausage, and some home fries. It was a good meal - especially the sausage, which was made in town at Fretta's - but the French toast we had on Sunday morning was to die for.

I'm guessing the brioche was made at the hotel's pâtisserie, which was by far its strongest culinary feature. This is a place that knows how to make a damn good bread product. With the fresh strawberry sauce, I didn't even need much maple syrup to sweeten things up. It was, in all honesty, the best French toast I've had in years.

The takeaway? When in Milford, have breakfast at The Hotel Fauchère, and order anything involving carbs (or sausage).

Rainy travels, part two: I keep wanting to call it Grey Gardens.

On Saturday, after a leisurely breakfast spent chatting, reading the paper, and solving half of the New York Times crossword puzzle, the three of us headed out into rainy, leafy Milford to do some exploring. We hopped in the car and headed out of town to Grey Towers, a five-minute drive up the road.

Grey Towers was the family home of Gifford Pinchot, two-time governor of Pennsylvania and the first chief of the Forest Service. Milford prides itself on being "the birthplace of the conservation movement," and Pinchot is the reason why. He's considered to be the father of conservation, the philosophy that we should use our natural resources sustainably.

The house was built in the mid-nineteenth century by Gifford's father, and the Victorian influence is very apparent, particularly in the great hall - which was too dark to photograph effectively, thanks to the complete lack of windows and all the heavy, light-sucking woodwork. Though it was only sprinkling when we left the hotel, the rain had become an absolute deluge by the time our tour began, and, as a result, Miles, Hall and I were the only members of our tour group.

Our affable guide, Ranger Lee, showed us all around the house - the aforementioned great hall, a quick trip upstairs to see Gifford's bedroom, preserved in its monastic glory, and then the library and living room, both redone by Gifford's dynamic wife, Cornelia Bryce Pinchot. She's the one who created the outdoor dining room, where the table is a slate-edged pool, and where you passed the potatoes by pushing a bowl across the water.

Cornelia's also the one who created the landscaping that makes the house so breathtakingly beautiful. In the Victorian era, infection was rampant and typically fatal, and so houses were built, with as little greenery surrounding them as possible. This kept away insects, and also helped ensure a constant flow of air through the windows. However, by the time Cornelia came to the house, there was far less need of such extreme measures, and the stark, stone-house-on-a-bare-hill aesthetic could be softened.

The resulting lush greenery, terraced lawns and one trompe l'oeil reflecting pool (it's 12 inches narrower at the distant end, making it look far longer than it is) are, for me, what made the house worth visiting. I felt like I had entered the perfect setting for a 1930s Hepburn screwball comedy - there's the pool, ready for someone to fall into, and there's the playhouse, where the hero who's outgrown it can kiss his plucky heroine for the first time.

Though, hopefully, in drier weather.

Rainy travels, part one.

Last weekend, my friends Miles and Hall invited me to join them on a trip to Milford, Pennsylvania, in the Delaware Water Gap area. Nestled in a valley just west of the river, Milford is tiny but bustling, full of weekending New Yorkers and inhabited by a cast of characters worthy of Stars Hollow.

Our home base for the weekend was the Hotel Fauchère, established in 1852 by Louis Fauchère, then master chef at the legendary Delmonico's Restaurant in New York. Miles and Hall own a beautiful hotel of their own (Otahuna Lodge on New Zealand's South Island), and discovered the Fauchère through their Relais and Châteaux connections. The existing hotel was built in 1880, and is a gorgeous example of Italianate architecture, complete with clean, straight lines and flat roof.

Upon arrival, we were shown to our rooms, right next to one another on the third floor of the hotel, overlooking the garden. While the boys had a glassed-in shower in their room, mine featured a deep, claw-footed soaking tub. The rooms were pleasant, and the beds were very comfortable, but the bathrooms were gorgeous, all grey-streaked marble and Pennsylvania bluestone. Overall, the hotel gives off an air of summery ease, with plenty of spots to lounge, read, or play a game of dice (as Miles and I did on the super-rainy Saturday afternoon).

About fifteen minutes after check-in, Miles knocked on my door to let me know a little welcome gift had arrived: cheese, apple walnut bread from the hotel's patisserie, and an ice-cold bottle of Schramsberg. We headed out to the garden to enjoy these delights, enjoying one of the weekend's few hours of sunshine.

Next up, the sights of historic Milford, including a walking tour and a visit to Grey Towers. Oh, and, you know: food.