Hiking Old Rag

Hiking Old Rag

April 28, 2026

Because sometimes, you have to skip work on a Tuesday so you can tackle one of Virginia's most challenging hikes

My friend, Michael, is a prolific hiker, climber, camper, biker, and general nature wanderer. I would be utterly unsurprised to learn that some Yellowstone visitors managed to catch a glimpse of him scaling a rock face in the background of their family photo and currently have it displayed as evidence of Bigfoot's existence in their living room. 

All to say, it's utterly unsurprising that he would be hiking Old Rag on a Tuesday. 

 

My participation was a bit more of a production. Namely the fact that I've never hiked Old Rag before and every YouTube video, Reddit thread, and blog post I frantically googled about it proclaimed Old Rag to be the hardest hike I'd ever do in my whole life that I probably shouldn't even attempt because I'd inevitably squish myself between rocks or, alternatively, find myself utterly incapable of pitching myself over a boulder. 

(I did find two videos particularly encouraging, I'll say! This one from @emilygoesplaces and this one from @mirandagoesoutside—love ya, Emily and Miranda. Tacos on me next time.) 

I digress. Around the turn of the year, my beloved friend, Tessa, proclaimed this year: "2026—f*ck it." Thus, I decided to do the hike and ignore the heaps of fear mongering I'd waged on myself. Old Rag—f*ck it! 

I snapped this gorgeous sunrise photo of the mountain on my drive to the trailhead 

I woke up at four (!) a.m. so I could get on the road by 4:45. Old Rag is about 2 hours away from Richmond and we wanted to hit the trail early. The full loop is 10 miles. The first half is one long, steady climb and then, of course, the famous rock scramble along the ridge line. The second half, I could barely find any footage of because it's apparently "so boring." (Let me tell you, around 1.7 miles up, when you've already shed two layers, gnawed through at least four of your pocket Twizzlers, and have energetic eight year olds flying past you—"so boring" sounds like heaven.)

It was around 40 degrees when we set out, quite a refreshing feeling to experience cool air on my cheek after several 80+ days. Was the ascent steep as hell? Yes. Did it go a lot quicker than expected? Also yes! Despite the aforementioned kids (and their parents) zooming past, we made it to the scramble relatively early. 

(I was very impressed by the speed of those parents, TBH, though it's probably yet another drop in the bucket of evidence that I am a slow walker—allegations I've been fighting for years.)

The first of many (many) false summits. Oh how optimistic we look!

Michael says, "Not bad for like the sixth picture we’ve ever taken together."

Turns out, the scramble IS hard as hell. It's also the most FUN part of the hike. Like...by far! It's bizarre to even try to describe...I have no idea how the first people to traverse this path managed to make it through without serious bodily injury. 

I was supremely grateful to be tackling it with Michael, somewhat of an Old Rag regular. (And at the very least, I figured, he's like 6'4" or some such ridiculous height and I could use that to my rescue when needed.)

(I'm extremely proud to report that I never needed it!)

There are places in the scramble where you legitimately belly-flop and shimmy through an impossibly tight squeeze. Others where you have to lower yourself down ~7 feet in a deceptively narrow ravine-looking space where the risk of being over-zealous or careless is smacking your face into a rock that's older than Pangea. (Literally....the Appalachian Mountains are kind of the spinal column of terra firma. They're older than trees. For real!) 

At one point, I found myself suspended in a full skandasana between two boulders. It was very Spiderman, if I do say so myself. There were several places where I had absolutely zero clue how to maneuver myself up and over—the rock either seemed too smooth or too steep. But at every challenge, there are well-worn hand and toeholds hidden in the rock that can offer much more support than at first glance. 

I am certainly in no position to offer climbing or Old Rag advice—being an ardent abstainer and absolute beginner, respectively—but I found two central truths helped me navigate successfully. One, a climber's motto, became my mantra: 3 points of contact. You always want three separate parts of your body to connect with the rocks. That could be hand, hand, foot or foot, foot, hand, or hand, hip, foot, or foot, ass, shoulder...you get the idea. 

The second was a particular piece of advice I received from a fellow yoga instructor, also a woman, when I was training to become a teacher: lead with your center of gravity. Women tend to have a lower center of gravity than men. It's why you see more guys that are able to ride a bicycle with no hands while women tend to have better standing balance. My ability to successfully maneuver through the rock scramble is, I believe, directly linked to me directing my body over and over to follow my center of gravity because that's where I experience the most stability. If I'd bailed on a decision mid-air or grip and threw more of my weight and energy towards my shoulders, for instance, I could've really injured myself.

(One third piece of advice, if I might be so bold? Bring gloves.) 

Hauling yourself up, over, underneath, and around rocks does, in fact, get old. Around the fifth or sixth false summit, I was super over it, TBH. But the only thing more impossible than going on is going back, so....thank god for pocket Twizzlers. (Seriously, best hiking snack ever!) 

Finally, finally!, we reached the true summit. And...wow. It really is breathtaking. Like...Maria and the Von Trapp children wearing her curtains in the mountains and learning to sing breathtaking. We took a nice, lengthy rest here—tucking into our pack snacks, snapping pictures, eavesdropping on other hikers' conversations, and—if you're me, anyway—changing socks. (Extremely grateful I did, BTW. No spoilers, but that definitely saved my feet a lot of unearned grief on the descent.) 

Camping isn't allowed at the top of Old Rag, for several good reasons, but I understand the impulse that might've encouraged some thrill seekers to try it. Every worldly problem, annoyance, and sensory overload seems SO small and far away from the top of any mountain. (See: my voyage to the top of Wapuwoc in Maine.)

All the vloggers and reddit shitposters were right about the descent from Old Rag, though: it sucks. Not only is the fire road that you eventually reach rather interminably long, the descent is rocky and HARD on the knees. Once, a tattoo artist named Brian, who has an ineffable way with words—which came in handy when he was an hour-deep into tattooing New Person's jutty shinbone— described his knee as nothing but "a bag of rocks." Michael has at least one of those and, after that descent, I fear I'm well on my way to joining them.

I cracked my ankle a few good times on the way down, which at least starts off just as scenic as the ascend. It quickly tapers off into a dusty, rocky, deserted road full of nothing, though.

(Another tip for you because I simply can't stop myself: when you get to the final fork in the path, when the ancient trail marker says you have 1.2 miles left to the parking lot and points you back towards the thicket of jungle onto a path that will have you scaling back UP to rejoin the path you traversed several hours ago on your initial climb, only this time in sweaty, cramping reverse....ignore that sh*t. Stay on the paved, FLAT road and you'll get back to your car a hell of a lot faster. Trust me, you're not missing anything but one more chance to swipe up against some poison ivy and for the skeeters to nibble.)

A snap I took on my way out of the park (and immediately towards the nearest McDonald's with a working ice cream machine)

We began our hike just after 7 a.m. and finished around 1:30. Honestly, not a bad split for a first-timer, in my humble opinion anyway! God, this hike was hard. But it was SO worth it. I am so proud of my body?! It's so capable and strong and resilient in ways for which I hardly give it adequate credit or gratitude. Yeah, this rocked (no pun intended). I certainly feel no urge to do it again anytime soon, but I doubt that's my last journey up Old Rag.

Top photo credit @SpencerWirkkala

Camping in Kiptopeke State Park

Camping in Kiptopeke State Park

April 11, 2026

Inaugural camping trip of 2026 set the bar HIGH

Virginia, I love you. I love your mountains, I love your coastlines, I love your universities, I love (most of) your cities, I love your small towns, I love your mourning doves, I love your dogwood trees, I love the James River, I love the Chesapeake, I love, love, love you, Virginia!

Sorry, just had to get that out of the way. Last weekend, Gravy, New Person, and I fled Richmond for a weekend of camping on the Eastern Shore. 

Kiptopeke State Park was our glorious host, and she did not disappoint. I'd never been to the Eastern Shore—the little strip of land separated from the rest of the Commonwealth by the Chesapeake Bay, home to the famed Chincoteague ponies (and the same-named National Wildlife Refuge, NBD). 

It was much easier to access than I thought, thanks to the 18(!) mile-long bridge-tunnel that connects the peninsula to Hampton Roads. Eighteen miles of bridge is...a lot of bridge. (Apparently, there used to be a restaurant and fishing pier in the middle of it that were recently shuttered because they're expanding the bridge? Honestly, kinda pissed I never had the chance to eat there....what a cool gimmick! Kind of the coastal American version of dining inside the Eiffel Tower, no?) Anyway.

We arrived late on Friday night—delayed not once but twice by stagnant McDonald's drive thrus. Not entirely sure why the universe felt the need to really protect me from my filet o' fish, but I (eventually) accepted and (begrudgingly) appreciated her guidance. (We went to Taco Bell instead.)

So, the fun really started Saturday morning. The weather was beyond perfect—blue, cloudless skies, warm but not hot. After a glorious camp breakfast of egg burritos, we decided to walk down to the closest boardwalk and (finally!) lay eyes on the water. The universe (undoubtedly feeling guilty for my numerous filet 'o fish disappointments the night before) gave us a special gift: a pod of dolphins bellying up to the breakfast buffet right in front of us! 

At first, we only saw one lone dolphin bobbing through the waves. I was halfway to convincing myself this was about to become a Nim's Island situation where this dolphin was lonely and abandoned and we were going to be her new, unfortunately human but still very lovable, best friends when we spotted 3 others in a tighter grouping behind her. (The gasp of delight that NP and I let out simultaneously when we spotted the others could've registered on the Richter scale.) 

We watched until the mini-pod was out of sight to return to our campsite and prepare more properly for the day.

Picture shows Kate smiling, eyes closed, post-dolphin elation still evident on her face, smartly framed by two slender cedar trees and the thick swath of blue water behind her by a smart photographer with a keen eye for detail who is definitely not writing this certainly unbiased caption.

One of the as-yet untasted fruits of last summer's hobby shopping was the deceptively enormous and bulky bag at the bottom of the trunk containing my inflatable paddle board/kayak and related accessories. (As yet another feeble attempt to liberate myself from the patriarchal economic system, I received the set as an alternate form of payment for a relatively benign week of dog- and housesitting that occurred during Wave III of Finding Myself™ in which I was attempting to "get back to nature" and "embrace my coastal roots." Mind you, my mother sent me to an expensive (and Jesus-y) surf camp as a child and, over the course of that week, I made 19 sandcastles because I refused to get in the water even once. Sorry, Mom! (...and Jesus?))

I was feeling quite shy and shrunk away from the water under the imaginary weight of the eyes of the handful of other beachgoers. I couldn't get the image of me tumbling ass-over-tea kettle off my board, not to mention the graceless gymnastics it would take to get back on my board. Luckily, a gaggle of kayakers soon paddled around the inlet into our little cove and I borrowed their courage to get on my board for its inaugural journey. It was so f*cking fun! I didn't go very far, focusing as I was on reactivating the long-dormant muscle memory of oar mechanics.

I have no idea where my occasional, deep-set fear of water comes from, especially as a lifelong competitive (and leisure) swimmer. I lived in the water growing up! One summer, our family's black lab, Ellie, was diagnosed with a nasty case of swimmer's tail because she was trying to keep up with my gleeful paddling around and around my grandparents' pool. And yet, I bailed on my final scuba certification dive/test in high school (sorry, Mr. Carlson!) and I didn't actually get into the ocean until very recently.

I don't fear drowning if I fall off my board, the way I did when scuba diving, though I know there are lifeguards and ocean rescuers tsking at me right now. It's the ingrained fear of embarrassment, of which I am, naturally, embarrassed to admit. Sigh. Anyway, NP took a turn on the board and—the highlight of my year so far—I went paddling with Gravy, too! 

I was so focused on not tipping us into the water, I almost missed NP's frantic waving from the beach. Turns out, the dolphins had returned and I was unawaredly paddling....very close to one of them. (I'd like to think it was my fiercely independent friend from the morning.) I was so focused on safely and expeditiously getting out of their way, it wasn't until I was back on shore that I reflected on how magical it was to be so close to such a majestic, intelligent creature.

That afternoon, we made some camp lunch (veggie hot dogs FTW) and took a leisurely drive up the road to Cape Charles for some ice cream and sightseeing. It wasn't too long before I was in heavy need of a nap, though, so we returned to camp and I promptly fell asleep in the hammock. Gilligan's Island, who? 

TW: toes

We rounded out our perfect day with another walk, through the canopy this time. Then, NP made dinner on the fire, which was both wildly impressive and turned out madly delicious. A pescatarian take on cowboy campfire dinner, we had little roasted potatoes, ahi tuna steaks (and a little tuna fillet for Gravel!), and green beans. I showed NP how to make Girl Scout cherry pie for dessert (cinnamon graham crackers + canned cherry pie filling) and we fell asleep nestled into each other under the stars. 

Eager to scoop every bit of enjoyment out of our time, we hit the beach again on Sunday morning. I somehow coaxed NP into plunging beneath the water with me, but the waves were much choppier, so paddling was out of the question. The kicked-up wind gusts brought another surprise from Mother Nature, though: a real, live bald eagle!

I didn't believe we were actually witnessing a bald eagle in the wild until NP snapped this photo. I mean...a bald eagle?! The entire time we watched, the eagle never once flapped its wings, instead riding the gusts of wind. It was so masterful and graceful and moved with ease...am I a bird person now?? It was astonishing.

In my yoga class on Wednesday, undoubtedly inspired by my sight of the majestic creature, we practiced garudasana (eagle asana) and I couldn't help it, I had to tell the class about my weekend sighting. One of my semi-regular patrons spoke up, then, and said the James River has the highest concentration of nesting bald eagles in the United States outside of Alaska! The more you know. 

Cover photo credit @graciedavis27 

Watching the Sunrise on Cadillac Mountain

Watching the Sunrise on Cadillac Mountain

September 19, 2025

We spent months preparing for the Main(e) event

A few months ago, Jess, Tessa, and I were dreaming of how to escape our bleak winter surroundings. Well, they were trying to escape winter. To put it succinctly, I was channelling all of my energy into not losing my sh*t. My life felt utterly in pieces this past winter, from fresh heartbreak and apartment lease limbo to my childhood home hitting the market, ailing grandparents, academia's funding collapse, my therapist on maternity leave....you get the picture.

As two of my closest friends, J&T (correctly) surmised that planning a trip would be a great outlet for my various LARGE feelings. And the Maine roadtrip was born! In late July, we put my color-coded spreadsheet to the test and headed north.

On Sunday, Gravel and I packed ourselves into an extremely full car around 4:30am and scooped Jess, fresh off her redeye from Seattle. Off to Portland we went! (Tessa was smart enough to skip one leg of the roadtrip and flew to Portland a day early. Her official excuse was a concert on Sunday night.)

The drive, rather remarkably, was pretty easy! It took us ~11 hours in total, and we were only nearly rear-ended once during a sudden stop on the Jersey turnpike. Gravy has certainly had plenty of practice being the ideal roadtrip companion, and the time passed quickly in a flurry of yapping, singing, playing games, and cooing over Gravel's low purrs.

Speedbump #1: Jess and I planned to dine at Eventide Oyster Co. in Portland that night while Tessa was busy losing her voice at the concert. I'd read rave reviews and loved the look of the menu, though I always get a little suspicious of places that don't accept reservations. The threatening sky that had so far held off on the rain opened up as soon as we headed for dinner (but of course!) and when the hostess told us (exhausted, dripping wet, starving) it was currently a 90 minute wait, Jess & I knew we were going to have to pivot. Across the street, a darling little neon-lit sushi bar named Mr. Tuna beckoned. (If you go, you HAVE to try Blackbeard's Delight. I'm still dreaming about it!)

A Day in Portland

The next day, we set out to actually explore Portland. We began with breakfast at Miss Portland—an adorable local diner in a restored Worcester diner car. The setting alone is enough to pay Miss P a visit, but the food was also delicious! Standout favorite was the buttermilk pancakes with fresh Maine blueberries, of course.

After breakfast, the three of us puttered around old town Portland, stopping at Sherman's Books, Mainely Frames, and several other of the cute shops that surround the wharf. Tessa scored a lobster sweater (because...duh), I bought a dress, some books (naturally), and a funky retro storybook art print that caught me totally by surprise in the endless basement of the map shop.

We also stopped in a place called Strange Maine, and boy was it. The music was vaguely reminiscent of being in a whale's womb and the oddities on the shelves weren't quite compelling enough for me to warrant spending significant time there, though Jess did end up with some packs of retro baseball cards. 

After a solid afternoon spent napping in front of Murder She Wrote in our Airbnb, we rallied to head to Fort Williams—home of the iconic Portland Head Light.

We walked along the cliff just as the sun was starting to set and had to stop every few feet to marvel at the brilliant expanse of blue. Though the lighthouse and museum was closed by the time we got to the park, we still got to enjoy the view and park our hinies on the top of a breezy hill as the sunset to tuck into our next couldn't-miss Maine delicacy: lobster rolls. 

As a kid, I went to Maine on a mini family road trip. We saw Young Frankenstein at the Ogunquit Playhouse, peered at the Bush family compound, and ate such huge lobster rolls that I genuinely couldn't fathom eating lobster for another 2 years. The lobster rolls from Bite Into Maine were much more appropriately sized and incredibly delicious.

Two Nights in Acadia

I swear Gravy is in this photo, too

We hit the road early on Tuesday morning (Jess' birthday!) and went north again towards Acadia National Park for two days of hiking, swimming, and camping! Or, at least, so we thought.

Speedbump #2: Last year, I spent five weeks camping in national parks as I road tripped across the country with my cat. (Re: trying to cope with my life falling to pieces.) Gravy & I camped in the snow at the Grand Canyon, slept with the bison in the Badlands, fell in love with Montana's sky, and tried to avoid rattlesnakes in Amarillo. Through it all, even at the Grand Canyon, I never felt crowded. So that gave me an entirely unrealistic expectation for our time in Acadia during peak summer. 

To put it simply, it was a NIGHTMARE trying to get around the park. We couldn't take any shuttles from the campground because they don't allow pets (understandable) and parking was utterly impossible to find. On that Tuesday, we had planned to hike from the Bubbles around Jordan Pond, stopping halfway through at the famous teahouse for popovers, before heading to setup our campsite. (I was particularly proud of this plan that incorporated hiking & snacking, our two top park activities.)

We arrived at the park before 9:30AM and found not a single free parking spot. We spent over 90 minutes listlessly driving in circles behind tour buses and other people desperate for spots before giving up. It was still too early to set up our campsite, so we decided to continue aimlessly driving around, Bar Harbor also being quite crowded and nigh-impossible to find a parking spot. 

We were driving on the road that stretches towards Northeast Harbor when we discovered an open parking lot nestled by a rocky cove! We cooled off by wading and skipping stones over the calm water. (The next day, hungry for s'mores and lacking the proper supplies, we popped into a small grocery store in Northeast Harbor. That town is just as picturesque as Bar Harbor and not nearly as crowded. I'm sure it has far fewer restaurants and stores and things, but well worth exploring when you're tired of the crowds.) 

We decided to try our hand again at popovers and, another mercy, found a rare parking spot in the lot by the teahouse! Things were looking up when we encountered Speedbump #3: the teahouse was jammed with people (the theme of Acadia, turns out) and their signage was nearly nonexistent, so everyone was all kinds of confused. You could sit at a table on the lawn for their full service restaurant, if you were willing to wait 2 hours. Or you could go upstairs to their roof deck restaurant that usually has sandwiches, salads, and other to-go lunch items, but, turns out, only had popover sundaes that day. There was also a champagne bar(?) somewhere...? 

Needless to say, we were all overstimulated and underfed, Gravel was tired of being in her backpack, and we did not stay long at the adorable-in-theory Jordan Pond Tea House. We did get to sample their famous popovers, though! I found them underwhelming, TBH, but I can't tell if the frazzled energy of the day is clouding my judgment.

We finally got to our campsite, setup our tent, and enjoyed blissful quiet for the rest of the evening. Jess is a closet pyromaniac, turns out, and built us a roaring fire. Tessa and I cooked campside crunchwraps on the little stove I found hidden in a dark corner of my dad's basement last summer. I taught J&T how to play Peanuts, one of my favorite card games, and we settled for bed soon after dark because we had a very early date the next morning.

Catching the earliest sunrise in the U.S.

That little speck of orange is Jess getting much closer to the edge than Tessa & I cared to, TYSM

Trying to soothe Gravy, who was upset AF about being awake so early

On Wednesday, my alarm went off at 3:15 AM. Using an alarm while camping was already jarring enough for me—I prefer to sleep with the rain cover off so dawn rouses me. The special combination of the ungodly hour, the cold air, and trying our best to not wake our neighbors while we desperately made some hot chocolate made for a very...unique morning. Spoiler alert: it was worth it!

Seeing the sunrise from the top of Cadillac Mountain has a long tradition for the people who have inhabited Acadia for generations, the Wabanaki people. Wapuwoc, the name by which the Wabanaki people know the mountain, is the tallest point along the Atlantic Coast in the U.S. and the first place in the continental U.S. to see the sunrise, at least from October to March.

The experience of being on top of Wapuwoc at dawn was incredibly moving, even with gentle cloud cover blowing in from the ocean. The entire crowd of strangers huddled together in small groups under blankets was awed by the sight, you could feel it. A hush fell over us all when the sun first appeared, and there were audible gasps of wonder. It was entirely worth the stupid-early wakeup call and one of my absolute favorite memories from the entire trip.

Some brave people get up even earlier than Jess, Tessa, Gravel, & I and hike the summit to watch the sunrise. I have no doubt that experience is incredibly moving and worthwhile. The four of us chose to try our hand at securing car tickets to the summit road for sunrise and snagged 'em over a month in advance.

After (reluctantly) coming down from the mountaintop, we swung by camp for a quick change of clothes and promptly went back to the park in our desperate attempt to find a parking spot. We nabbed one of the last spots near Sand Beach around 7:30AM and headed out on a light hike along the Ocean Path Trail.

We joined the crowd admiring the famously clamorous slap of Thunder Hole along the path, but otherwise enjoyed little company on the trail. For the first time in Acadia, I didn't feel surrounded by people. Each vista was more beautiful than the last and we made quick, delighted work of the ~4 miles. 

Of course, it was only fitting that we then encountered Speedbump #4. After hiking, we'd planned to spend the afternoon lounging on Sand Beach—one of the only sandy beaches in the area. It happened to be the hottest day of the trip, so we were so ready for the sweet relief of a dip in the ocean. We dropped our hiking gear, grabbed our towels, and wound our way down the brambly path to the beach, only to encounter a large "NO PETS" sign at the very edge of the sand. I swear Gravel and I both gasped in surprise. 

Turns out, when I had done all of my careful research in planning our trip during the winter, it was during the time of year when pets are allowed on the beach, so the very helpful National Park website was correct in telling me she was welcome! But from June through September, pets are not allowed. Alas! 

We decided to return to camp, after making a stop at the highly recommended Sunrise Cafe in Bar Harbor. How could I go all the way to Maine without trying a slice of their legendary blueberry pie?! I'm still thinking about it, TBH. We devoured our slices at camp and the four of us promptly crashed into lovely, leisurely naps—Tessa and Gravel cuddled together in the tent, Jess fell asleep in her hammock, and I conked out on a large towel underneath the shady trees.

That evening, we popped into Bar Harbor for a spin around all the requisite souvenir shops. I picked up a Bar Harbor magnet for my friend, Daniel; an Acadia keychain; an oversized Jaws shirt (for sleeping, naturally); and some blueberry tea. We thought about going kayaking in Long Pond to watch the sunset, but our tired muscles were incredibly grateful we decided to sit by the fire and relax instead. 

Acadia, you were beautiful and I do so hope to return one day soon...in the OFF season. 

A Weekend in New York

A Weekend in New York

August 24, 2025

In June, I hopped back on my old pal, Amtrak's Northeast Regional, for a long weekend in New York. My friend, Erin, joined me on the train as it passed through Baltimore and we gabbed about how excited we were to be going home. 

E & I met when we taught 9th grade ELA together in Manhattan.

She's always had this effortlessly cool energy that makes me feel like her overexcited little sister. Not because of anything she does! She just has this unflappable exterior that exudes a very integral element of chill. It's (part of) what makes her a really fantastic teacher; kids love consistency, and our students knew they could rely on her steadiness even amidst the turbulence of the pandemic. 

Erin was already teaching 9th grade ELA at our school when I joined the team, and she was so patient with me, a baby-faced recent grad trying to embody any element of authority in front of the classroom. She made me a better teacher with simple, direct reflections and tips, and her creativity was unmatched when trying to brainstorm ways to engage our students in the books we read with them. 

I love gabbing with her about...anything, really, but especially books, contemporary trends in education, and what she's listening to lately. Her music taste is unparalleled, as is her sense of humor. One of my favorite memories involves the two of us laughing literally to the point of tears streaming down our faces while sitting on the floor of my classroom after school. Or the time she literally changed my life when we went to New Jersey just so we could go to the Cheesecake Factory and Erin introduced me to the magic that is their Four Cheese Pasta. (Erin's a lifelong vegetarian—another thing that's just f*cking COOL.) Needless to say, I was pumped to spend the weekend catching up and exploring our old haunts. 

Our first stop was Tacombi for piña coladas, esquites, and tacos. It's probably the nostalgia, or the insane price tag, but I feel like I can genuinely taste a difference when I'm eating back in the city. Unfortunately, I am one of those assholes that proclaim the superiority of NYC bagels and pizza dough. (It's the water!!)

On our first night back in the city, Erin & I decided to pop into The Morgan Library & Museum. Neither of us had been before, and it turned out to be a free entry day! 

The library is gorgeous, all stained glass and lush mahogany wood, filled to the brim with rich paintings and, naturally, thousands of books. Three of the books in The Morgan's collection are Gutenberg bibles—three! The Morgan is the only museum in the world to have that many copies. It was rather astonishing to come across a copy of the ancient text rather casually encased next to a breathtaking edition of Charles Dickens. 

On Saturday, Erin and I made a beeline for old stomping grounds in Brooklyn. We picked up our usual orders from Bagel Pub, took a spin through the Saturday market in Grand Army Plaza, where I sadly did not see my pickle guy (I've been yearning for his wasabi dills since I left the city over 3 years ago), and settled on our favorite bench in Prospect Park.

Prospect Park is one of my absolute favorite places on Earth. My life in Brooklyn revolved around that park. I've been witness to the countless weddings, quinceañeras, memorial services, baby showers, birthday parties, little league games, marathons, pot lucks, open mic nights, frisbee tournaments, dog shows, Bible studies, Mommy & me classes, Tai Chi lessons, roving stand up comedy shows, improv practices, photoshoots, picnics, pick-up soccer matches, & going-away parties (including my own!) held on the regs in the park.

Taking a little walk down Prospect Park memory lane...

Baby Kate's first-ever time in Prospect Park! I think I'd lived in the city for 5 minutes by this point.

I love this photo of me saying goodbye to my friend, Allie, because my face looks like a cartoon character but I was genuinely trying not to cry

Erin & I sat in the park for hours, watching the old neighborhood go by. Eventually, we got up and made our way to the Brooklyn Flea—a Dumbo mecca for all the Brooklyn hipsters. (I had forgotten in my time away that you really can clock the borough where someone lives based on their outfit...sometimes down to the specific neighborhood or cross-streets. Imagine a lineup of tote bags from people that live in Chelsea, Bushwick, FiDi, LIC, and Washington Heights and you'll see exactly what I mean.) We also popped into powerHouse books, where I picked up a copy of Brigid Brophy's The King of a Rainy Country. (Review coming soon—TLDR: WOW!!)

Even though Erin and I once literally walked home from school across the Manhattan bridge (only took us ~4 hours), neither of us are used to how much walking you do by simply existing in New York anymore. We absolutely collapsed upon our return to the hotel room and decided to settle in for a night of scary movies & pizza. 

Erin and I returned to the city for another reason besides Prospect Park: we had Sunday tickets to Gov Ball! 

I've been to Gov Ball once before—it's where I discovered my undying love for MUNA. Sunday's lineup this year was stellar, including Raye, Clairo, Glass Animals (!), and Hozier (!!). The looming rain (mostly) held off and we bopped for HOURS, noshing on ice cream sandwiches and pierogis. Even the heat, which had been pretty punishing the day before, wasn't overwhelming in the massive crowd. 

I know I'm conforming to the stereotype of being yet another non-native New Yorker who lived in the city for a brief stint in her twenties and talks for the rest of her life about being "forever changed" by her time in the city, but.....oh well! I still think about the Miriam Adenay quote I used when posting the pictures from my goodbye party several years ago:  “You will never be completely at home again, because part of your heart always will be elsewhere. That is the price you pay for the richness of loving and knowing people in more than one place.” 

I'm not itching to move back to New York, necessarily, but there is something to be said for the first place you get the chance to build your own life completely from scratch as a young adult. It's like your first kiss, first love, first pet, first anything of value—it'll always hold a special place in your heart. And how lucky for me that I still get to visit that love (alongside the people I love)?! I <3 you, New York. See you soon.