It is absolutely incomprehensible to me that it has been two whole months since my plane touched down on West Coast soil, two months since the sweetest two and a half weeks of my 2012. Maybe because I think about these places and those people so often each day that, in my mind, I've never ever left.
In a history of fine island summers, I'd say this was definitely one for the books. The finest visitors, the finest reggae mix tapes, the best berry picking and the very best and most adorable lighthouse docent I ever did meet.
I took three big fat rolls of photos this trip, and these are from one of the first orders of business we got down to: our annual boat camping trip. Mom, Dad, Dag, Dog and I all piled into the Albin and set sail for our favorite spot. We ate hot dogs and fried our spuds up with fresh rosemary and garlic and gathered feathers in our hatbands and slept outside so we could watch for shooting stars. Our own Moonrise Kingdom.
Summer is the city is not my idea of a good time, but every once in a while it has its perks. On this particular summer's day, we cashed in a year's worth of collected change and walked out of TD Bank a cool $52.00 richer. We blew it all on fancy French cookies, cold salmon, cucumber salad, and an hour and a half spent messing about in boats on the Lake in Central Park.
Oh New York, you just keep me hangin' on, you just keep me hangin' on.
Three days after my birthday, we left for a light speed tour of Scandinavia: Stockholm, Borlänge, Oslo, Trondheim, Bergen or bust in five sleep deprived days. It's all a little blurry, but here's what I remember:
Sunshowers in Stockholm--roses in a churchyard and eating fried herring wraps in the rain. The hands-down best Best Western I've ever stayed in, and fields of wild lupine splashing the green, grassy roadsides in pink, purple and blue. Late afternoon in Oslo, the sun setting slant-wise through the trees at Akershus Castle. Landing at the airport outside of Trondheim and feeling a wild, northerly feeling I've had once or twice before while slipping through some dark Inside Passage-way aboard a ferry boat bound for Alaska. We dined royally that night on roast Reindeer and cloudberry parfaits inside an 18th century smithy, inside the walls of a city that celebrated its 1000th anniversary all the way back in 1997. Glowering clouds over beautiful Bergen, its row of red, white and green wharf houses in a permanent state of Christmastime cheer. Best of all: finally finding a country that's named something truly worthwhile after me.