the original sunday kind of life

I just got back from an incredible trip to London and Paris, where (I believe) the original Sunday kind of life began. I want to do the trip justice, so enjoy this photo essay. And then I will get back to writing more often because I've been very good at this Sunday thing lately...

Pimm's...the recipe for the beginning of a lovely Sunday afternoon by the Thames.

Columbia Road Flower Market in London. The birthplace of the Sunday kind of life. Imagine row after row of flowers like this on all sides of you. Wading through the crowds and listening to the great buskers (check out the Bonfire Band) is what it's all about.

Another from the Flower Market, this time in the courtyard around the corner, where patrons hang out and drink tea and listen to klezmer-style buskers. So many adorable families, I can barely stand it.

I will live there.

This sums it up.

This is it, too. I guess England just does everything better than we do.

If you can't read the fine print: "Come and snog in safety! they'll never know."

Le Fol Espoir, a play by Mnouchkine (a theatre god) at la Cartoucherie. The play is preceded by a communal dinner to create the right atmosphere. The dining room (pictured here) is exquisitely painted and has a really warm, old-school feel.

View from le Centre Pompidou. Not too shabby.

I just really enjoy this. Can't explain why.

This sitting room is perfect for reclining, sipping some G&T and reading the Sunday paper or a good novel. 

La Seine = le dimanche toujours

The banks of the Seine, as seen from a bateau mouche.

In my very limited blog skills, I have no idea how to rotate a photo. So turn your head 90 degrees and you'll see this AMAZING antiques market on la rue Mouffetard. My friend would attest that I was salivating.

La Tour Eiffel, as viewed from the bateau mouche.

Living here would require a Sunday kind of life. Any other kind of life would be a crime.

And if you live in that building, you are required to go to the Jardins de Luxembourg for a Sunday stroll.

And you will see this.

And that, my friends, is a European Sunday kind of life in a nutshell. I'm going to ruminate on this a little more, and then will discuss my trip in more depth, because really, Parisians know how to live right and we could all take a lesson from them.

The long awaited TWO DAY weekend

That's right, folks. I am that excited about my two day weekend. May is full of workshops, festivals, and special concerts at work, so I was at the office for part of the last two weekends. Feeling worn out and in need of some serious rejuvenation, I was determined to have a serious Sunday kind of life this weekend. And, here we are on Sunday night, and it appears that I've succeeded. I don't want you to fall asleep of boredom, so I won't really get into my night time activities (birthday party, dinner party, the movie "Date Night"), and we'll just focus on the Sunday Kind of Life aspects of the weekend.

THURSDAY
Thursday night started off the whole weekend atmosphere with the Dicks (my bookgroup). As usual, we enjoyed some delectable treats and three bottles of wine at my friend's cozy apartment. The menu was fresh homemade guacamole, toasted plantains, chevre and fig squares, celery and fennel salad, quinoa with pesto/feta/roasted veggies, mushroom ravioli, and very dense mint brownies. I came home feeling refreshed and ready for a good weekend.

(FRIDAY should go here, but isn't exciting, so it just doesn't exist.)

SATURDAY
On Saturday morning before 10:30 am, I had done laundry, worked out, cleaned, and gotten ready for the day. My parents and I went to the kickoff of the SoWa art market, which I've been looking forward to since October last year. "South of Washington" (SoWa) is in the South End in an up and coming artist community. The SoWa open market is held every Sunday from May until October. There are local artists -- everything from paintings to jewelry to ceramics to apparel, plus assorted food vendors (When Pigs Fly bakery and Danish Pastry House are two of my favorites). Although I try not to be frivolous with my money (and clearly don't always succeed), I like buying things directly from the artists and talking to them about their process. I confess that I bought a headband with a gigantic flower from "Utopian." The artist and her friends came over and gushed about how perfect the flower was with my untamed hair, and I couldn't resist.

After we methodically made our way through the rows of the art market, we wandered through the indoor vintage market. It's like a flea market, full of an overwhelming amalgamation of trash and treasures. The building is filled with old cups and dishes, records, costume jewelry, clothing, and black and white photos of solemn strangers. It takes a certain amount of patience and determination, but the goodies are there if you're willing to look.

As a special treat for the SoWa kickoff weekend, there was also an art walk. All the old warehouses that have been converted to art studios were open to the public. We meandered through hundreds of studios and chatted with the artists. It makes me want to be an artist, just so I can work in those spaces, whose brick-lined walls and paint spattered tables have so much character.

Paints and paintbrushes in one of the artist's studios. I want this.

By this point, our feet were dragging and it was time to devour some lunch at the Buttery, a South End cafe with delicious treats, sandwiches, salads, and refreshing drinks. The freshly brewed iced tea was a perfect balance of bitter and sweet, and really hit the spot after a day in the sun.

SUNDAY
Today, I woke up early and strolled around Cambridge, weeding through yard sales on my way into Harvard Square. Most of the yard sales were mediocre (gotta have high standards, people...there's a lot of crap out there that people want you to buy), but I found a wonderful coat hook with a rose on it that is exactly what I've been looking for, and I bargained the owner down to just $2. Success!

Yard sale find. Genius.

I met a friend in Harvard Square, and we wandered down Mount Auburn Street, Mass. Ave., Brattle, and sat by the Charles River for a couple hours watching the goslings in the water (so cute and fuzzy!). We continued our walk and got iced tea at Crema Cafe, then sat outside for a few more hours people-watching. Before we knew it, it was 5:15 and I began my slow amble home. I wandered into Stereo Jack's again (are you sensing a trend here?) and flipped through the records, but managed to extract myself without buying anything.

When I got home, my roommates and I proceeded to do things around the house. I hung hooks to pull back my curtains, hung up my new (old) coat hook, and then cooked up a delicious dinner of quinoa, roasted onions and asparagus (thin asparagus = summer is here), and a little feta.

New curtain hooks keep my curtains tied up so I can let the light in. 

After dinner, we went for a walk so we could get our favorite Richardson's Purple Cow Chip ice cream, and it was STILL LIGHT OUT at 8:15. I can barely contain my excitement. There's nothing like a good post-dinner walk around the neighborhood and watching the sky go from bright blue to vibrant cobalt and then fade to black. I think I might actually be ready to start a new week.

Miscellaneous thoughts from Patriots Day Weekend

Here's an old post I meant to publish a month ago, on Patriots Day Weekend. I know you've been waiting for this, so please accept my heartfelt apology.


This is one of my favorite weekends of the entire year.

1. When I was a kid, it symbolized the start of April vacation, which we kicked off with the reenactments and parades in Lexington. It's the holiday that only Massachusetts people understand. April 19 is just another Monday anywhere else, but here, you get to see Paul Revere riding around the north end on Sunday, and follow his route as he travels around the Boston countryside alerting the Minutemen that the British are coming. This is where our country and independence started. HOW COOL IS THAT.

2. Once I got to college, we started volunteering at the Boston Marathon. I miss the revolutionary activities, but the Boston Marathon is a legend in its own right. Boston becomes this hub of energy for runners, their families, and everyone else who comes to gawk at the crazy (and inspiring) people who run 26.2 miles. As we headed to our hydration station at Mile 25 today at 9 am, the city was already abuzz with excitement for the Marathon and the Red Sox game. Passing off the water cups to runners is quite an art, and we take it very seriously. There's nothing worse than dropping or spilling a cup and denying the runners of that desperately needed water. And there's nothing better than seeing a runner's face expand into a grin when you holler his name and tell him he's doing great and is almost at the end. It astounds me that these runners, who have already run the outrageously uncivilized length of 25 miles, still take the time to thank the volunteers and to tell us that we're the ones who make this happen. I'm fairly certain that I wouldn't be quite as kind and grateful after running that far. These people are amazing. Afterwards, when we walked around in our fluorescent volunteer jackets, everyone we spoke to was so appreciative and respectful of our volunteering. An inebriated BC law student gave quite a speech to our car on the T, informing us that we're much bigger people and much better humans because we took time to give the runners water, while he just drank beer. It wasn't quite the most eloquent speech I've heard, but the sentiment was there. The whole city seems to come together in this magical way every Marathon Monday. The best way to experience it is by volunteering and getting on the race route at a hydration station, where you're right in the midst of it. Being part of it will be worth the sore body parts, sunburns, and waking up early on a holiday.

Pre-marathon excitement: Poland Spring truck bearing hundreds of gallons of water, thousands of paper cups waiting for the runners, volunteers wearing offensively bright jackets, and police gearing up for the big day.

3. Record Store Day was Saturday, April 17. I spent 3 hours at Newbury Comics and Stereo Jack's browsing and buying, and generally just soaking up the atmosphere. For the most part (caution: music snob comment is quickly approaching), only people who are rabidly passionate about music know about Record Store Day. And that means you get these frighteningly devoted music fans flocking to their local record store, grabbing new releases, taking advantage of special sales, and bonding with fellow crazy people about their favorite albums. As I picked up a Magnetic Fields CD, I had a truly High Fidelity moment. As I picked up a Magnetic Fields CD, a guy came over and gave me a 5 minute spiel on why it's such a sublime album and why I had to buy it (I did). For the most part, everyone silently focuses on the goods, but occasionally you hear a gasp of delight when someone finds a treasure they've been looking for since 5 years ago. At Stereo Jack's, which is your quintessential old school small used record shop, I love flipping through the rows and rows of albums and listening to the chatter of the obsessive music geeks. Someday, I will be knowledgeable enough to converse with them.
When I got home with my new wares, I set up an old record player that one of my students left for me. I picked out a couple records and lay on the couch listening to the quiet and calming sounds of the record player. In case I haven't already made this excruciatingly clear, sometimes I like to pretend I'm in High Fidelity. It feels good.

I go out walking, after midnight

Patsy Cline's "Walkin after midnight" is on repeat in my brain these days...give it a listen.

Disclaimer: Thanks to my wonderful allergies to everything in the air right now, I'm not thinking too clearly. This may be a bit rambly and nonsensical, but hopefully, you'll get the point. And if not, blame it on the Sudafed.

Before a rockin, raucous show with Surprise Me Mr. Davis at Club Passim tonight, I was talking with a friend about small indulgences, and at the same time, we both said that walking to work is one of our favorite parts of the day. It may take a little longer to get to work, but I'm willing to miss a teensy bit of sleep in order to start my day with that glorious 25 minute walk to work. Even the blizzards typical of a New England winter don't keep me from my leisurely stroll to work in the morning. Now that spring seems to have actually arrived, it's even more of a cleansing, rejuvenating moment in my day.

There's something very communal about the morning. Walking down Mass. Ave., I often see the same college students on their way to class, the two realtors standing outside during their early coffee break, the older woman who sits at the same table every day sipping her coffee and making conversation with anyone who walks by, and the Harvard law students who scurry to class with their messenger bags and notebooks.

The best kept secret of the world is those morning hours when the rest of the world is just starting up. It's so peaceful and calm, and everyone seems to subconsciously go out of their way to preserve that moment as long as they can. Construction workers save their catcalls for later in the day (forgive the generalization, even though it's true), bus drivers hold off on honking, cyclists ride a little less suicidally, people in coffee shops even occasionally look up and smile at passersby. We're all in it together to hold onto that morning quiet as long as we can.

Maybe the Ella Fitzgerald, Preservation Hall Jazz Band, Margaret Glaspy, Sam Cooke, and Noah and the Whale on my ipod block everything out and paint the morning as a much rosier world than it really is, but that's still my reality. I can clear my head, get ready for the day, mentally prepare myself to face other people.

I realize that not everyone has the luxury of living 25 minutes from work, but I encourage you to find the time to go for a short walk every day. After work, get off the T one stop early, and walk the long way home. Just an extra 10 minutes of fresh air and alone time helps me shed any anger or stress I have from the day, and I'm ready to start winding down. I like to end the day with a stroll around my neighborhood, sometimes with a friend, sometimes by myself. If you hit it just perfectly, the sky will be that brilliant twilight color with the crisp white stars starting to pop out. With the rustling of the trees and the cool, brisk air, you may even start to believe that everything is going to be all right.

The Mad Reader's Tea Party

My parents are away for the weekend, so my sister and I are "housesitting" -- if you can call it that when it's your own house. I'm currently sitting by the fire listening to Gregory Alan Isakov and Etta James on Pandora Radio (the first song that came on the station was "Sunday Kind of Love"...how fitting!) and enjoying the quiet of Sunday morning. Even though my apartment isn't in an aggressively urban part of Cambridge, the quiet is very different from the suburbs. There's always a garbage truck, cars honking, dogs barking, people walking by. In the boonies of Lexington, I'm surrounded by tall trees, empty streets, and the stillness of Sunday morning. It would be a perfect morning for a cup of tea, but I'm going to need a day or two sans tea.

For the March meeting of bookgroup, we went to a 3-D screening of Alice in Wonderland, followed by high tea at Upstairs on the Square, a fancy schmancy restaurant in Harvard Square. It is a pricey and indulgent afternoon, but the scrumptious treats and amusingly decadent and ostentatious decor are completely worth it. Just to set the scene for you, the chairs are awesomely gaudy gold with rich pink velvety cushions, the booths are zebra print with pink trim, the walls are pink and green. In short, you walk in and you feel like you've been transported to some thrillingly exotic and luxurious land.

Our books this month (yes, a two-fer! We're an ambitious bunch...) were Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carrol and Alice I Have Been by Melanie Benjamin. Benjamin's book is about the real Alice, Alice Liddell, who inspired Carroll's book. We take bookgroup and our books very seriously, so we all came dressed in theme complete with pearls. One member wore an utterly fabulous flowered pantsuit made with enough fabric to outfit an army, and on her head was a "topper," a miniature hat with a veil. Like this, but green with small spots and a lot more glamorous. Another member wore Wellies, a yellow raincoat, and brought a picnic basket to fit with the theme.

The five of us sat at a purple table and created our own centerpiece with a stack of about 8 or 10 different versions of Alice in Wonderland. For the first or second time in bookgroup history, we spent 95% of the time actually discussing the book (our average is more like 15%...). From the movie to Carroll's book to Benjamin's book, individually and as they related to each other, we had an overwhelming amount of material to cover.

Our three-tiered tray of savory and sweet treats arrived quickly, as did our personal pots of tea (I got rose-scented black tea). We slowly made our way through the savory treats, interrupting our discussion with "mmms" and "you have to try this one!": miniature cheese pastries, chicken salad sandwiches, caprese sandwiches, egg salad sandwiches, date nut and cream cheese sandwiches, cheese tarts, and lox sandwiches. Eventually, the top two tiers were empty and we were ready to descend on the sweets. After some debate over how to divide the raspberry cupcakes and chocolate cupcakes, we plunged in.

I have to say that I'm a loyal chocolate girl and often scoff at fruity desserts, but shame on me! The miniature lemon tart had a creamy but light lemony filling, with a plump blueberry popped on top. Next, I had an eclaire, which came with just the right ratio of filling to pastry. Here, I took a break before diving into the remaining treats, and diligently sipped my tea. Over the course of the 2+ hours, I'm fairly certain that I consumed about 7 cups of tea, thus the need to be tea-free for a few days. Finally, I was ready for the mini vanilla cupcake with an elegant dollop of raspberry frosting. (Sidenote: I've realized that cupcakes are always pretty and photograph well, but they're just never quite as moist and satisfying as I wish they were.) The final two sweets made me swoon with pleasure, making everyone around me squirm with discomfort. There was a caramel turtle, filled with an unexpectedly coarse caramel paste. The texture was a little strange, but ultimately had more oomph than a normal caramel filling might have had. The last treat was an almond-infused chocolate cake/brownie. The almond flavor really packed a punch, and the cake's moist and dense consistency was right on the money. I'm going to have to track down some almond extract for my own baking...I think this may be the start of my Chocolate-Almond Baking Era.

I think that's enough food-talk. You can wipe the drool off your mouth and go track down some treat that will satisfy the craving you now have. More on our rockin' bookgroup later...

Happy Sunday!

Social Arithmetic

I blame it on the media. Thanks to our favorite TV shows and movies, we all think that our 20s will be nonstop Sunday brunch, happy hour drinks, and dinner parties with a cohesive group of friends. It's all lies.

If life were like "Friends," we would decide to get two apartments right across the hall from each other in a New York apartment building. None of us would need real jobs, and life would just be hunky dory all the time. Books/movies like "Bridget Jones" teach us that we'll have a friend family of 4 or 5 people, and we'll celebrate holidays together and meet up every night after work.

Let's get back to reality. The twenties are a rollercoaster that yanks us back and forth between feeling brilliantly on top of the world, and feeling completely and utterly alone. All of my friends -- whether they're engaged, single, living with friends, living alone -- seem to go through phases where they just feel heartwrenchingly depressed and confused about life. How is this possible? Most of us have a solid network of friends, a job that we love, and a pretty good (if not great) living situation. Really, we have nothing to complain about.

Never fear, we're human. We're pros at finding things to worry about and whine about. And I truly think a major part of it is that the media have misled us into thinking we'll have these close groups of friends. Except in rare situations, I don't know anyone who has that elusive cohesive friend group. Instead, most of us have strong one-on-one relationships with many friends who know one another as "the one I went to college with" or "the one I studied abroad with." Occasionally, when I feel wildly daring, I bring several friends together. It's a constant search for the perfect combination of friends that has the right dynamic, where no one overpowers anyone else, and everyone has enough in common that we can all contribute to conversations.

Since I think highly of Friend A and think highly of Friend B, then presumably, using a twisted version of the Transitive Property, Friend A should think highly of Friend B. The problem is that the mathematics involved in bringing together friends is a phenomenon straight out of the Phantom Tollbooth or Alice in Wonderland. Certain friends are never allowed in the same room together because the combination of their personalities might cause the northern hemisphere to implode. Other friends seem like the perfect combination in theory(music friend who I love, meet other music friend who I love), yet put them in a room together and you'll want to dropkick both of them. Rarely do you actually get to experience that magical moment when you feel like you've introduced a friend to The One (no, not The Romantic One, but The Platonic One) and you get so excited that you have a group of THREE for Sunday brunch from now on.

It would be so easy if someone would just write some theorems so I would know which friend combinations would make me want to shoot someone, and which would make me swell with pride at my ability to matchmake friends. I know my dream social mathematician is out there somewhere, so let me just give you an idea of what I'm looking for here:

Loud artsy friend + Loud artsy friend = 80% failure
Quiet, sweet friend + Loud artsy friend = 50% chance of awkwardness
Theatre friend + Theatre friend = 90% chance of instant excitement, with 80% chance of hostile arguing (same formula for intense music friends)
Old close friend + New close friend = 70% chance of awkwardness, followed by 80% chance of competition

Clearly, these are some sad statistics. Could someone find me some more uplifting numbers? Doctor the books, if you have to. Give a girl some hope!

I'm constantly searching for the perfect formula, and I'm not alone. No matter how fulfilling and supportive a one-on-one friendship is, sometimes you just need a friend family. The other night, I saw a photo on my roommate's bulletin board of 6 or 7 girls squished around a table, everyone in mid-laugh. Are these days gone?

These days, when I do gather a group of friends, I'm so distracted and worried about the group dynamics, I'm barely mentally present. Are we ever able to get back to those carefree group days? Now, there are always people who don't know each other, and someone's busy playing host and introducing everyone with conversation starters: "Madeleine, Laura works at a publishing company in NY and has her own jewelry business." My favorite nights were kitchen nights. We've all had them. You don't really have any set plans, so you have a few people over, and you end up just sitting at the kitchen table talking and laughing, and before you know it, it's too late to make it out to the bar before last call (note: in Boston, city of Puritans, this doesn't take much...1 am comes quickly).

Being the optimist I am, I'm pretty sure this will all get sorted out in our thirties, when we're not all in such drastically different places. Until then, if you have a friend family, please consider adopting me. I bake cookies.

Sunday > Saturday

It's a beautiful, sunny Sunday evening, and I'm ready to write. My friend's birthday festivities kept me up until after 3 am last night, so my brain is a little addled. Consider that fair warning for what appears below.

This morning, my sister and I took a long leisurely stroll through the South End, down endless tree-lined streets with row after row of warm brick townhouses. We stopped in the Appleton Bakery & Cafe, a cozy spot with delicious bagels, muffins, including a chocolate chip / peanut butter treat that I might have to try on a return visit. The bakery has cool lime green walls, brick, and customers who casually chat with one another, giving the place a friendly, neighborhood-y vibe.

As we continued along on our adventure, we meandered through little parks filled with giggling children and passed the beautiful people sitting at small Parisian tables outside cafes. We stumbled upon a church that had a raucous choir singing the most soulful and rockin' melodies, and stood outside for a few minutes, captivated by their energy.

That's a Sunday for you, folks. No set schedule, exploring an unfamiliar neighborhood, and good company are the perfect recipe. I don't stress out about the coming week (mostly because I'm fortunate enough to have a job I love) and I don't worry about things I have to do. I'm happy to include friends who are of a similar mindset and who won't interrupt the Sunday peace with their own stress. Other friends can wait until Monday.

At this point, I think I'm ready to explain why it's a Sunday kind of life, and not a Saturday kind of life. think it's rooted in my childhood, when Saturdays were devoted to softball games, volleyball practices, Bar Mitzvahs, homework, and other activities that belong on a to-do list or a schedule. I felt like my Saturdays belonged to other people. Saturdays in my adult life are less stressful, but still include doing laundry, going grocery shopping, going to the gym, catching up with friends, and running errands. I've made an effort to get everything done on Saturday so I can really enjoy Sundays. They're my selfish days. There's nothing I "have" to do. I just let the day unfold and try my hardest not to make a schedule (coming from the most serious overscheduler, that's a big deal). Sundays are the one day a week when I can really recharge. I've already done everything I need to do to start the week, so I can just enjoy. Sometimes that means turning off my phone, unplugging my laptop, and having an alone day. Other Sundays are perfect for exploring new neighborhoods with a pal or two, scoping out new cafes, and lusting after clothes that cost more than my monthly rent.

It takes some practice to take that Sunday mindset and make it last throughout the week. It's small moments that make the biggest difference. After an exhausting day trip yesterday, my friend and I decided to treat ourselves to fresh fruit from Whole Foods. If you've ever bought produce at Shaw's, you can understand our utter elation at our feast. My nectarine made me swoon, and I still have a whole cantaloupe waiting in my fruit bowl. Moral of the story: Life is good. It's just a matter of appreciating the little things. It's about noticing the ornate antique door of an apartment, or enjoying the first real tomato of the summer.

Zest for life, people. Zest. I think I'm going to start peppering my sentences with the word zest because it just makes me feel...alive! (Okay, and completely dorky.) In college, one of my friends received an email from someone who closed her messages with the phrase "Have a lemon zesty day!" We endlessly made fun of the poor unsuspecting prospective freshman, but looking back, I think she unknowingly had a happier and healthier approach to life than the rest of usdid/do. So, lemon zest girl, props to you. Who knew that a 17 year old could be so very wise?

May you all have a lemon zesty day.

Okay, now that I've seen it in writing again, I'm remembering why we mocked it. I don't wish for any of you to be ridiculed, so I don't recommend closing your correspondence with that phrase, but I do think we could all use a little lemon zest.

Let's just take a moment to appreciate that it's still light out at 6:40. Heavenly.