It’s the Hap, Hap, Happiest Season of All: Winter in Tucson

 

Sunrise in the hood, Catalina Foothills

We went to Tucson for The 12 Days of Christmas, December 20 to Jan. 1. Well, I don’t know if those are the official 12 days, but those were our 12 days. And each day was filled with joy, Two mourning doves, three roadrunners, four calling quail, five golden cheese crisps, six people a-hiking, seven hot tubs a-steaming, eight days a-cooking, nine people dancing, ten lords a leaping (away from cactus), 11 pies a- piping, 12 tortillas, and a jaybird in a cottonwood tree. 

Casa Blanca

We stayed at a beautiful Santa Fe style pueblo VRBO rental in the Catalina Foothills, called Casa Blanca, not to be confused with Casablanca or the Casa Blanca on Pennsylvania. The house was crazy spacious, a family room so large it was hard to see the TV, large bedroom suites with separate patios, and a primary bedroom with sliding glass doors onto decks on the north to see the sunrise and the south for sunset. And a fireplace. And a heart shaped tub. And double sinks with terrazzo tile. 

Sabino Canyon

I go back and forth on moving back to Tucson. But this time I was all in. I would have made an offer on the house if it didn’t have so many stairs. And such a saturation of Western décor, baskets, feathers, Native American art, even the curtain rods were made from copper and shaped like arrows. The Catalina Foothills neighborhood is the shiz and I don’t know why I haven’t been renting there right along.

H. Darr self portrait

The Christmas Grinch was packing the flu and other ailments this year. Franky arrived fresh from a bout of COVID. Nila arrived with the flu, and Peter arrived with his back and neck thrown out from dancing at a wedding. At least he won “best dancer.” Darr’s sister Margie, who now lives in Scottsdale, had rented a house in Tucson to see us but got the flu and was bedridden. 

Finger Rock

The air, the quiet, the sky, the “cold” mornings that melt away with the sun. We walked at sunrise and sunset. We hiked at Sabino Canyon three times. We mounted the Finger Rock.  We napped daily with a deadline of being "up for sunset" at 5 p.m.

We did some last minute Xmas shopping at Old Town Artisans, a non-mall mall, stopped for a latte at the adorable Dandelion Café and ate lunch at El Minuto. I want to cry when writing this but they don’t serve the white cheese crisps anymore. They are still effing outstanding, but El Minuto used to have an exclusive on white cheese. I prayed for their return at the El Tiradito Wishing Shrine next door. 

Maley and Margo at Michas

On Christmas Eve we took a field trip to San Xavier Mission, where a packed mass was taking place, we resisted the fry bread stands because we were sure we would have our choice of Mexican food restaurants for lunch. Except everyone takes Navidad very seriously here. Karichimaka was closed. Mi Nidito was closed. Micha’s was closed. So we had to settle for Guillermo's Double L. Not bad for a B-Lister but why have sturgeon in a city filled with caviar? Also Casa Molina, which I gave an A minus last trip, has gone back to a B. Too much cheese on the cheese crisp, salsa that was too thick, and I rarely say this, but too hot.

Bark Scorpion Sabino Canyon

To everyone's dismay, the landmark tortilla store Anita's Street Market had gone out of business. We scored tortillas at St. Mary's Mexican Food . A review says "don't bother with anything that isn't made with their house tortilla, which must be made with lard from heaven." The expression "Lard from heaven" would only appear in a Tucson restaurant review. 

One of our other favorite tortillerias, Doña Esperanza, was closed so we picked up a few dozen at Tortillas Don Juan but sadly they were moldy oldies. We got a tip about Tortillas Bryan. Huh? Bryan didn’t even sound Spanish. This little hole in the wall is the whole enchilada. Mexican music is blaring, the tortilla makers are dancing. And a dozen of the “seconds” which would be first anywhere else in the world were only $2. A perfect dozen was $3.50. We went back again and again and Franky got six dozen to take back to Berkeley. 

We had lunch at the Blue Willow, a cafe that has stood the test of time for so long it should get a longevity award. To accommodate its long wait times, it has set up a gift shop with everything from desert socks to obscene refrigerator magnets. We had breakfast at the kickass Baja Cafe serving extra large portions and endless coffee refills. 

El Torero

The California Beisers came to Tucson after Christmas and we went to the flashy Light's Up Festival of Illumination at the Tucson Botanical Gardens and then to the decidedly unflashy El Torero for a divine meal and a cheese crisp that surpassed all others. 

I met my writing teacher for coffee at Exo Roast Co., a café that reeked of all the good things Tucson has to offer, slow service, mellow moods, Leonard Cohen music, a confluence of mismatched antiques, as cozy as a fireside in winter. Without winter. 

Barrio Bread is nationally famous and has won the James Beard award. He uses local grains. I hadn’t braved the line until this time. God was it worth it. I got a loaf of Walnut Wheat. We had toast for breakfast, sandwiches for lunch and it was bye bye bread loaf by the end of the afternoon. Yes, it’s that good.

Backyard with Peter and Nila and Franky

We celebrated New Year’s Eve with the Beisers at our house. Franky baked an exquisite apple pie, and we played a game that had us crying with laughter, a combination of Telephone and Pictionary.

When I told my friend how much I loved Tucson this time she said “well, nobody doesn’t love Tucson in the winter.” 

 Oh yeah. But still, I want to move.

Sunset Gates Pass

SoCal Sojourn So Fun

Beauty and the beach

I am so lucky to have a Southern California vacation sandwich, with Judy in Beverly Hills and the Beisers in La Jolla.  I can take a bite at anytime, and in November I get particularly hungry. Usually I barrel down the freeway without stopping. But this time I chose to see what's in between with visits to  Newport Beach and Oceanside. Again, why don't I live there? 

Bunny rice lunch for Marlowe in a bento box

The big news at the Zimbert house is a beautiful granddaughter named Marlowe. She and Max and Kristina live in Laurel Canyon, another place I had never been. As groovy as advertised. Staying at Judy's is always a delight.  “My bedroom” on the second floor, is bright and spacious, with an East facing window where I can see the sun come up. I’ve got my big bed, big screen TV, big bathroom furnished with a kimono from Japan. They had a new coffee maker called Bruvi which offers options of “extra hot” and "extra strong." Brilliant! 

Beverly Crest

Morning walks in their hilly neighborhood are extraordinary. The weather is always perfect. The houses, the hedges, the gates, the work crew of hundreds transforming the Warner Mansion into Jeff Bezos’ dream house. God knows what's going on in there…maybe a small Amazon warehouse to keep the raw sound of capitalism nearby? The luxury car of choice by people who can make any choice is the Tesla. People with private planes, second homes, and great wealth are doing what they can do protect the environment. 

Talk about manicured landscapes Beverly Hills

Having lived in Washington DC so long, I am sort of museum minded and wanted to see the new Academy Museum. The museum restaurant Fanny's (Fanny Brice) had some of the best fries in the business with an espelette aioli sauce, and a Caesar salad with green chili dressing with a bold display of anchovy filets. The museum was spacious and modern, with a room dedicated to Casablanca (including the piano that Sam played (but did not really play), a room on the Godfather, and a room for Alice Varda. The exhibits break down cinematic structure, image, sound, performance, animation, and effects. I am not much on musty costume displays, but I loved seeing the Edward Scissorhands costume. 

The Pope of Trash

But the topper was the whopper, an entire floor dedicated to John Waters  (now through August 4, 2024). You are immediately greeted with a best-of reel, reminding us of the greatness of Miss Edie as the egg lady, and Divine eating the doo-doo in Pink Flamingos. 

The electric chair from Female Trouble

At the end of Mary's street, Newport Beach

My lucky friend Mary Keenan lives just two blocks away from the ocean in Newport Beach. We strolled along the boardwalk and she showed me the famous Blackie's bar. She knows everyone, she is kind of like Mayor Mary. I met Mary at Darr's high school reunion and claimed her as my own. We grew up in Tucson at the same time, drank at the same bars, went to the same restaurants, but didn’t meet until 40 years later. We ate breakfast at Malarky’s. No malarky. 

 

La Jolla casita

Mermaid guest room

Heavenly La Jolla, talk about feeling at home. I have been going to the Beiser house for 49 years. “Our room” has shape shifted a few times but right now it is covered in mermaids, a veritable fin-land.  I know every inch of the area. No trip there is complete without fish tacos from Rubios; I also had a deconstructed gyro sandwich (gyro plate) at Cafe Athena. 

Ross and Jacquie

I went to another beautiful coastal town, Oceanside for a first-time meeting with my half brother Ross. We ate salty snacks at Pacific Coast Spirits and caught up on our lives.  Oceanside is famous for its surfing which Ross has been doing since he was 13.

I am eternally grateful to my friends and family for being so geographically desirable.

My niece Lisa 

Herded through the Grapevines

Nila, Peter and Franky, Berkeley's best chefs

Back in the day, the student body of the University of California, Berkeley, and the community itself were all riled up. They wanted the war in Vietnam to end, they wanted free love, they wanted to smoke dope freely.   Sather Gate was often the backdrop for the evening news for hundreds of protests, marches, lie-ins in the late 60s’.

But now, from a visitor’s perspective, I don’t see much to protest in Berkeley. Even weed is legal. The city is calm, the campus is lovely, the weather is perfect. When we visited, it was only the first week of classes, so maybe the Bears hadn't developed a cause yet. The job fair was the biggest attraction. 

Berkeley Bear

When we say that our sons live in Berkeley, people invariably say: “Oh Berkeley! Great school. What are they studying?” No, they are not at Berkeley, but they are in Berkeley. No, they are not in Berkeley, they live in Berkeley. Berkeley has come to mean UC Berkeley. Berkeley the city has lost its branding. 

Franky hit the Berkeley housing jackpot. He lives on Panoramic Way in the Berkeley Hills, enjoying a million dollar view, in an arts and crafts bungalow that was built in 1918.  And hasn't seen much updating since.  

But the kitchen is spacious, well equipped, and the light turns golden during sunset. Franky, Peter and Nila spent most of their summer cooking. Indian recipes, vegetarian dishes, and even gluten-free delights. They served us an amazing dinner of Saag Paneer (Peter made the paneer), Dal Tadka, spiced basmati rice, beet raita (yogurt with grated beets, a Barbie pink) followed by a stonefruit, blackberry, and strawberry crumble with vanilla ice cream for dessert. 

At the "Panoramic Way Cafe"

Golden Gate Bridge view

Darr and Franky and I walked across the Golden Gate Bridge the next day. Round trip is only 2.8 miles, so don’t do it for the steps. It is not a quick walk, you have to accommodate bicyclists, runners, strollers, tourists, and Marines in training, and you have to stop frequently to breathe in the view. Franky spotted a sea lion and a dolphin. 

We went from there to lunch at Taqueria Los Mayas. If you order "Small Bites," ask for two. Guacamole came in a mortar and pestle. Why?

Crazy salad at Cha-Ya

We had an Italian dinner with our niece at Lucia’s Berkeley which thinks more of itself than we thought of it. We had a decent Mexican lunch at Cancun Sabor Mexicano; and a crazy vegan sushi dinner at Cha-Ya. We had brunch at the Berkeley Social Club, and before I was able to stop him, Darr ordered Barbie Pancakes with a mysterious pink syrup. 

Zach and Ruchi

When your son’s grade school friend sends a save-the-date exactly one year before his wedding you take heed. You surely can’t say you’re busy that day. And who would want to miss this one, a summer wedding in Sonoma County, California, home to rolling hills and beautiful vineyards. I love a wedding, especially one with friends we've known for years. Plus, if the bride is supposed to “wear something new (something borrowed, something blue)” why shouldn’t I? My COVID-collapsed closet was so happy to have a new garment. We stayed at the charming Geyserville Inn. 

The bride is from a large Hindu family who hosted a Mehendi reception Friday night, with instructions to dress colorfully. Music to my ears. We got henna on our hands, flashy bracelets, and danced the night away to Indian music. I felt as if I was in a scene from RRR. We who were not in the know were taught the basic Indian dance moves—move your shoulders, screw in a lightbulb, and flush the toilet. 

Redwoods make you taller

The day of the wedding we took a side trip to Armstrong Redwoods State Natural Reserve, a shady cool forest with excellent trails, and trees too big to get your arms around much less your head. 

The bride and groom are perfectionists and after a year and a half of planning, they delivered the perfect wedding. The ceremony was held at the Trentadue Winery at 4 p.m. The timing and setting seemed made to order for a movie. Here’s the scene, with the guests in white chairs on the bright green lawn, the bride, in her mother’s red wedding dress and groom under the canopy, and the light on the hills bathing the background. We were in movieland, after all, a few minutes away from the Coppola estate and DreamWorks was nearby. 

Peter wearing a kurta, Nila dressed in a lengha

There was a sit-down dinner with grapes hanging overhead each table on latticework canopies of grapevines for 150 people. The table was so long it seemed to reach into infinity like a hall of mirrors. 

Zach's and his expanded gang 

The reception was raucous. The fabulous dee-jay broke into ferocious drum solos, accompanied by a versatile musician who could play everything from guitar to tabla to saxophone. 

The wedding cake seems to have gone the way of the typewriter. The old tradition of smearing each other’s faces with icing has mercifully been put to and end. The reception featured an ice cream cart. The previous two “youthful” weddings I’ve attended offered donuts.

Wait, where are my shoes?

Besides it's much more important that you start dancing. Remember the basic moves. Screw in the lightbulb, move your shoulders down, flush the toilet.

Oh, here they are

Trying on the Michigan Mitten

    

Michigan Taco Truck

    Any reader of this blog knows of my great fondness for the Southwest, for the Northeast, for our stunning coasts on the Pacific and the Atlantic oceans. But you don't know how I feel about the Midwest, because neither did I. Oft dismissed as the flyover states, I fly over with a certain wonder about what the hell is down there.

    So when my friend Judy suggested a trip to Michigan’s Great Lakes region, I jumped at the chance. It was almost like a trip to a foreign land without the currency or language barriers, unless you count the Michigan accent. 

Child at the helm on Nauti-cat cruise

     Judy and I met in Traverse City, Michigan. I brought matching Lake Pajamas, and she brought  matching fishing vests. We never got a chance to go fishing, to get our vests all slimy and wormy and punch holes in the pockets with the hooks. Our only aquatic outing was a two-hour cruise on the Nauti-cat, a large catamaran with a laconic captain who had HOLD FAST tattooed onto this toes. Good advice for the passengers, as he regularly steered with his bare feet, and let small children take the wheel. 

 

Sun reluctant to set in Northern Michigan

     Traverse City is the Cherry Capital of America, and we arrived on the last day of the annual Festival in time to see the closing ceremony--fireworks over the bay. We thought they would start around 9 p.m. But no. They started at 10:30 p.m because that's what time the sun goes down.   This was a phenomenon we faced all week. The sun won’t go down in northern Michigan. We saw a road sign saying we had passed the 49th parallel which I thought meant we were in the Twilight Zone, but we were really in the Light Zone.  It was hard to know when to get into our Lake pajamas.

French fries in the news, Hotel Delmar

     We stayed at the Hotel Delmar in a very nice bay view suite. When Judy asked about an upgrade we were told there was nothing higher than what we had. The hotel has a small beach on the lake, where I could easily swim without turning blue.

    

Trattoria Stella burrata with salami "rose" 

   The Artisan restaurant at the hotel was one of the best in the city. We enjoyed many a lunch of Caesar salad and truffle fries presented in a faux newspaper. But the restaurant we really went nuts about was Trattoria Stella, housed in an old insane asylum, now full of gift stores instead of ghost stories. There we had calamari cornmeal dusted and fried, with roasted red peppers, shaved caperberries and hot Calabrian peppers, and a burrata to end all burratas.  

Back to Judy's summer camp

      Judy grew up in Cleveland, and Michigan for her is like Maine is for me. Some of her best memories came from her summers at Camp Tanuga in Kalkaska.  So we decided to visit, her first time in decades. Trips down memory lane like this can be dangerous. But this visit was all success. She was impressed by how little had changed, how nothing looked smaller, how the cabins were the same, the mess hall identical. She showed me the the spots where she was standing when she saw the Northern Lights, where she got her Red Cross badge, and where she was when she got a letter from her friend Wendy.  

Inn at Bay Harbor, Petoskey

     Onto the Inn at Bay Harbor in Petoskey, a glamourous lake resort with grounds as manicured as a new gel set. The shape of the lawns, the outdoor chess set, the sweep of the shoreline. 

Our Big Bear Adventure

     In Petoskey Judy and I were ready for an adventure. The hotel concierge was off that day, but a staff member handed us a brochure for Big Bear Adventures in Indian River, Michigan.  The drive there was adventure enough, 45 minutes of back woods and dirt roads. And there was nothing there for us. They no longer rented canoes, the river kayaks weren’t recommended for beginners, the raft trips needed at least three passengers and we were the only two there. We returned to town to do what we do best, have a ladies' lunch at Julienne Tomato and go shopping. 

East Park, Petoskey

   

Petosky

    My morning runs in Michigan were lovely,  I ran on Tart Trail in Traverse City, the East Park in Petosky, and around the perimeter of Mackinack Island. Weather perfect, clear air, an abundance of flowers, and very few people. 

The shore on Mackinac Island

     You have to take the ferry to get to Mackinac Island, There are no cars allowed, only horse-drawn carriages. The island smells of eau de equine. And fudge. Mackinack Island reminded me of Bar Harbor for Midwesterners. Except it's possibly even more old fashioned and conservative. 

    We stayed at The Grand Hotel, which might be better called The Grandmother Hotel, fraying at the edges and falling apart at the seams. There was a dress code for the dining room, where dinner was $120 a head. I felt terrible for the children I saw, packed into blazers and khakis, hobbling down the corridors in their “good shoes” to dinner. 

     In our room at the Grand Hotel, we couldn’t get the refrigerator open or the closet door unstuck. The handle on the French doors fell off. There was an antiquated coffeemaker, and the operation of the TV was so mysterious that we had to call the Front Desk. The long flights of stairs to path to the pool seems to be open defiance of ADA laws. The Grand Hotel got a call from the new millenium, but it hung up the phone. 

     Two good dinners in Mackinac, at The Jockey Club (plush on the inside, anywheres-ville for outdoor seating) and the 1852 Grill. We met a producer for 60 Minutes on the carriage ride there.

Arch Rock, Mackinac Island State Park

    We had a private carriage tour of the island. We learned about the wealthy industrialists who developed the island as a getaway from city life and built many a Painted Lady Victorian. 

    I get it now!  "Pure Michigan" offers clean air, bright and bold clear and calm lakes, intensely green forests, and lots of fudge shops. What's not to like?  Maybe the absence of a certain crustacean?

    By the end of the week I was tired of Whitefish, and craving a Red Lobster. 

Lush life on Mackinac Island 

Ft. Williams Park, Cape Elizabeth

Maine fits me like a glove. It’s a warm and cozy fit. I would never have been acquitted at the OJ trial if I had to put on the Maine glove. But please acquit me of my undying love of this state, exuberant descriptions, and a plethora of positive adjectives. 

Kettle Cove, Cape Elizabeth

I’ve been going to Maine since I was four. They say you can’t go home again, but you can go back to the feelings of a place. And Maine serves up a bucket of feelings. The feel of the salty damp air that makes everyday a bad hair day, the ocean spray, the fog, the endless ocean, the righteousness of a rainy day when the water says “I’m the ruling element here, so back off earth, wind, and fire.” The unflappable Maine natives, who aren’t going to operate at your speed no matter how hard you try to make them. And of course, that crazy crustacean and its friend the bivalve. 

Old Orchard Beach from the Pier

We were staying in Cape Elizabeth but headed first to Old Orchard Beach, where I was greeted with the familiar odors of grease from Bill’s Pizza, and vinegar from Pier Fries. We went out on the creaky old year Pier, celebrating its 175th  birthday, and walked through the Palace Playland amusement park where everything stays the same. 

First lobster roll, Johnny Shucks, Old Orchard Beach

Palace Playland, Old Orchard Beach

I had a business agenda for the week. Visits to Bowdoin College Museum of Art and the Library, tour of Westbrook, Maine, the Maine Historical Society, the Maine Irish Heritage Center, and meeting new cousins. 

Bowdoin College looks like the prototype of an East Coast liberal arts school. My father and grandfather went there, as did Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Nathaniel Hawthorne, US President Franklin Pierce, and Admiral Robert E. Peary. Our famous, eccentric, openly gay cousin Edward Perry Warren donated a collection of Greek and Roman antiquities to the Walker Art Museum, and was bestowed with an honorary degree from Bowdoin in 1926. 

Edward Perry Warren Collection Walker Art Museum, Brunswick with David and Pamela

That’s where we met our terrific new cousins David and Pamela. We've known about each other for years but had never met. They are also Warren history devotees, so we teamed up on this trip. The only staff member on hand knew slightly less than nothing, but we found our way. The next day  Bowdoin Hawthorne Longfellow Library hosted us for a look through the Warren archives.

From the Edward Perry Warren collection

Class Standings 1896  from Bowdoin College Hawthorne Longfellow Library 

On a rainy Maine day we went to Westbrook, Maine, the paper mill town that the Warren family owned for most of a century. The SD Warren Paper Mill employed 3000 people and produced the finest paper in the country, favored by all publishers. Samuel Dennis Warren was known as a compassionate boss who provided housing, a ball field, a pool, tennis courts, and an ice rink for his employees. 

Memorial for John E. Warren, my great grandfather, modeled by his grandson Peter Warren, my father
 Cornelia Warren Park, Westbrook

We knocked on the door of The Elms, an elegant riverfront mansion once owned by the paper mill, now an inn. We were greeted by the surprised owner Greg wearing PJ bottoms (“sorry about my work at home wardrobe”) who gave us a full tour and history of the house, which he is lovingly restoring. 

The Elms, Westport

Darr and I fortified ourselves for a fourth day of research with a hearty breakfast at Becky’s Diner, chugging down thick-lipped mugs of black coffee, Maine blueberry pancakes, and Seafood Benedict. David and I met at Maine Historical Society where the librarians presented us with another harvest of historical riches on the Warrens, from 1915 to 1974. 

My father Peter Warren, Bowdoin Class of 1938

Thursday morning three first cousins walked into a bar…I mean a Starbucks. Sounds like a set up for a joke, and it might as well have been with all the laughing we did. We had never met, but these women were immediately warm, friendly and funny. 

My cousins Susan and Janice, South Portland

But wait, who are these people? After my parents died, I found out that my mother was not my biological mother, she had adopted me as a baby. My birthmother was Margaret Rita Foley (Peggy) from Portland, Maine. It’s a big story, it’s big enough for a book, so stay tuned, because I am writing one. But for now, among other surprises, just know that I have gone from an only child to one of six siblings, from having no first cousins to a band of eleven. And this was the first time we Foley cousins met.

Peggy's Senior Photo 1941 Portland High School

DNA research angels, Margaret, Maureen, Helen, Maine Irish Heritage Center 

Also thanks to Peggy my DNA is 50% Irish. Portland Maine is filled with descendents of Irish immigrants from the Galway region where my ancestors are from.  I had learned about Maine Irish Heritage Center through a Facebook group called  Galway Irish of Maine, New England and Everywhere Genealogy and History. I have them to thank for finding me the first photo of my birthmother from a 1941 Portland High School yearbook. In Portland we met with volunteers who showed me my 12,000 Irish DNA connections. 

With fellow U of A Wildcat alum Anne

We capped off the week with lunch at C Salt with Anne, a friend from the University of Arizona Journalism Department, class of 1976. We hadn’t seen her in 47 years, but thanks to Facebook we had followed each other’s lives. We compared our favorite professors and had a bunch in common. 

Sea Glass Restaurant at the Inn by the Sea

We define local dining as any restaurant under five minutes away from our house  Our first dinner was two minutes away at the beautiful Sea Glass Restaurant at the Inn by the Sea, where waiters described the meal in excessive detail. Something about the salmon marinating for three hours in yogurt and pomegranate before blah, blah. So tasty. We went a half  mile away to The Good Table Restaurant, which was filled with homey goodness, serving real clam chowder, brothy instead of starchy. A couple of times we ventured slightly farther (6 miles) to South Portland to eat at Saltwater Grill, best view and best fries. There was no choice but to go nightly to the Kettle Cove Creamery was a one minute walk from our house. 

 Lupines 

I have never rented a house in Maine that didn’t have a lobster pot. Until now. It’s like having a house without a roof as far as we’re concerned. We cook lobster at home, a decades-long tradition. One night we brought home cooked hard-shell lobsters only to find ourselves without nutcrackers or picks. Undeterred, we smashed the shells with a can opener. We decided we could try to fit two small lobsters into the inadequate pot that was provided. We bought our live lobsters at the local nursery. When the nursery employee heard about the great injustice being done to us at our rental, he ran to the back and gave us a lobster pot to borrow. 

Japanese orchids

Our rental cottage, an apartment adjacent to a 200-year-old Victorian was a bit like a railroad car, long and narrow with a former exterior door serving as the “headboard” in the master bedroom. Another former exterior door led to a windowless bedroom in the barn. But hey, the place was sparkling clean and there were fresh flowers, a bottle of wine, and the location was top notch, just a half mile from the beach. I went on beautiful springtime morning runs on Kettle Cove and Crescent Beach, and got my plunge into the Atlantic Ocean. Talk about a perfect fit.

To boot, we went to LL Bean, Freeport