Hello, Arcata.

After an entire day of traveling, we finally arrived in Arcata late last night. Let the vacationing begin! I suppose technically it began when we touched down in San Francisco, or when we stopped in Napa and St. Helena for a quick tasting and some grub, but it wasn't until nine hours after touching down in SF that we entered the cool stillness of Humboldt County and truly felt we'd arrived.

Wine tasting at Turnbull Winery.

Shrimp tacos and other yummies at Taylor's Refresher, aka Gott's Roadhouse.

We celebrated our arrival by passing out immediately. An eighteen-hour day of traveling can have that effect.

Cozy toesies.

We got up early and walked to town for breakfast at Los Bagels, where the kind folks of Arcata offered gluten-free bagels for me and my people (the gluten-intolerant). Not used to making bagel decisions, I hastily blurted out that I wanted cream cheese and lox, with onion. Some of the best decisions in life are hastily made; that bagel was definitely one of them.

Then we went to the farmer's market, where a girl was selling poems, written on the spot on a typewriter in a box. In my heart, I felt the unmistakable twinge of someone in Williamsburg, dying of happiness (and maybe jealousy).

We bought beautiful heirloom tomatoes, poblano chiles, jalapeño peppers, an onion, cilantro and some arugula. Oh, and a loaf of gluten-free bread that was described as containing carob and molasses, but pretty much tasted like a really good rye bread.

I read all afternoon in a sunny nook, with a slice of the bread and two big glasses of milk. I read the entire first book of the Hunger Games series. That book was intended to last me for the entire vacation, and instead I read the whole thing on day one. Whoops.

We made chiles rellenos with the poblanos, stuffed with sweet corn and cheese.

Overall, a pretty excellent start to the vacation.

Hurricane, 3.

SUNDAY

Foggy Manhattan, post-storm.

At some point around 2am, we couldn't stay awake any longer. I slept uneasily, listening to the fighting of the cats, to Andrew turning on the rubber air mattress. I listened for the air conditioning, waiting for the moment when surely the power would go out.

Mostly I listened for the wind, the howling, whipping winds that would surely drive us into the safety of the bathroom. It never came.

I awoke with a start at 10:30 am, turning immediately to the window. Face pressed against the cool glass, I stared, dumbfounded, at the family on the sidewalk, children splashing in a small puddle. The air conditioning churned happily from the ceiling.

The storm was over. Had it even begun? I was right about the double-paned windows, in any case. We didn't hear a sound.

Satisfied that the storm had dissipated, I let the bathtub drain. We pulled on rubber boots and headed outside for a look at the damage.

Peanut butter welly time.

Puddle outside our door; umbrella casualty.

Wading on Main St.

Wading. Surprised how clear the rainwater is.

Evidence of wind?

Whose creepy doll is this?

Storm surge line, outside Bubby's.

Unnecessary preparations on Water St.

The gents on an untouched Water St.

And so goes our first hurricane. Back to your regularly scheduled Sunday brunch.

Hurricane, 2.

FRIDAY
After leaving work, the severe weather anticipation started to build. I hurried to the store, anxious to get supplies before businesses starting shutting down for the weekend.

Our block has two grocery establishments: Foragers, a high-end grocer and charcuterie, and Peas 'N' Pickles, a more standard-fare bodega. I giggled as I watched people streaming out of Foragers and into waiting Lincoln towncars, arms heavy with cases of Perrier. I hoped their brown paper bags carried delicate vials of saffron and truffle butter, as well.

The scene was fairly calm inside Peas 'N' Pickles, if a bit more crowded than usual. In fact, for the first time in New York's history, everyone seemed content to be standing in line. I took careful note of the varying levels of preparation. It appeared that the females of the species had carts full of bottle water, batteries, dried foods, bandages, candles and toilet paper, whereas the gentlemen each had one six-pack of beer (one?). The gent right in front of me, in fact, waited twenty-five minutes in line to purchase a box of Marlboro Lights and a jar of Skippy.

Amazing. That's Skippy there, with the army-green backpack.

I don't know if it was the reassurance of preparedness or the weight of the week, but I slept like a baby that night.

SATURDAY
We woke up Saturday morning to a blanket of humidity and an overcast sky. It was decided that our friend Andrew and his cat would seek refuge at our place in Brooklyn, as his Battery Park apartment falls well within the evacuation zone.

Note: Seated in DUMBO, we are, technically, less than one block outside of the evacuation zone. However, I'm pretty sure hurricanes know about and respect blocks and zones, so we should be good.

We puttered about; me, cleaning and laundering and readying ourselves as best I could, and Sir downloading as many natural-disaster related movies as he could think of.

12:00 pm: The city shuts down the trains.

Andrew arrived with his cat. I made muffins.

1:00 pm: The Perfect Storm
4:00 pm: Day After Tomorrow
7:00 pm: 2012

We cracked jokes at the bad movies and watched the cats interact, tentative (hilarity).

The day kind of lingered on, restless and drizzly at best.

10:03 pm: the first bolt of lightning, the first rumble of thunder.

It's supposed to hit overnight. I think my main concern is that the windows break (all of them, maybe all at once), and a shard of glass flies through the room to stab me or Sir (or Andrew) through the neck. Then what?

Note: don't worry, Mom! I'm being funny. We'll go in the bathroom or (windowless) hallway if the winds get bad.

I can't be the only person crossing my fingers that the subways aren't back up and running in time for work on Monday.

Hurricane.

This weekend, we're supposed to be hit by Hurricane Irene as she spits through the city, her final path of implicit destruction prior to her imminent dissipation.

It's my first time being in a hurricane, which leads me to believe I should be concerned. Grave voices on NPR, encouraging evacuation for anyone near the water (our apartment is oh, say, half a block from the river). Frantic texts from my mother, asking about our game plan.

Honestly, I don't have one. Normally I'm the first to freak out in nearly any situation, but today I'm not even concerned in the slightest. Our cozy DUMBO apartment seems an impenetrable fortress, double-paned windows framing our tenth-story perch. I'll buy water, batteries, fill up the bathtub; I just don't have it in me to panic, for once.

I turned 26 on Tuesday, in the midst of a mini-earthquake. That frightened me, but this just doesn't. Maybe  I'm mellowing out, settling into my newly-acquired old age. Or maybe I've got too much other anxiety crammed into my head right now to go ballistic over the rain.

See you Monday, maybe. Maybe I'll be under water.

Casual pirate.

"Just guide it down the neck with a bit of oomph," she instructs me, confident.

I grip the butt of the bottle in my left palm, finding the groove of the glass seam with my thumb. My right hand holds the sword firm around the handle, the heavy blade balancing on the cool glass right where the bottle begins to taper into the neck. She shows me the motion again, assuring me that there will be plenty of pressure, that it will pop right off.

Tentative, I slide the blade quickly down the bottle, flat against the glass. Nothing.

"More oomph!" She smiles, setting the blade back in place.

I bite my lip, adjusting my grip within the hilt and swing, round two. The top sails off as easily as if I had been beheading a banana. A flood of champagne, and everybody cheers. Squealing, I relinquish the dripping bottle, shake the champagne from my hand and pose for a victory photo, avec blade.

And that's how you saber a bottle of champagne.

Wednesday afternoon Vespa-riding.

There is only one acceptable way to do Times Square, and that is on the back of a Vespa on a summer day.

I, along with everyone else who lives on or around Manhattan, definitely have a love-hate thing going on with Times Square. It's kind of a mess, and New Yorkers tend to avoid it like the plague. I think it's one of those things that is fun/necessary to do one time and then never again. Unfortunately, there are a lot of really good things to do and eat around Times Square, so sometimes it's just unavoidable.

If and when you cannot avoid it, like when your friend wants to go to lunch at Esca (delish), don't fret - just hitch yourself a ride on the back of her Vespa. What taxis? What swarms of obnoxious tourists? What oppressive heat? It's a traffic-dissolver (squeeze on through!) with a built-in breeze-machine. Hike up your maxi-dress and slip on a helmet - you've just turned the likes of 'being on fire' into an enjoyable experience. My birthday is next week, in case anyone is looking for a last-minute gift. Vespa Vespa Vespa.

I wish, I really wish with everything that I have that I had taken a picture of my first motorbike experience this afternoon. I think my mother will be pleased that I did not, and instead was holding on tight. I guess you'll just have to believe me.

Beauty and the yogi.

iPad screenshots, from Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Seriously hilarious film.

Yoga, my latest foray into fitness. It's a good idea - I never do as much strength or flexibility training as I should. I think it's a combination of that and lack of athletic prowess that lead to my lukewarm marathon performance last fall.

Anyhow, I think some fond memories of childhood ballet classes lead me to brazenly believe that somehow I'd be really good at it. A born yogi, with the hips and mind of a Buddhist. Flexibility, like my dance talent, surely can't fade.

I think the great yogis of the past are chuckling down on me as I write this. Simple, silly, self-centered humans, always a product of their own egos. Typical.

I like working out, I do. I've just never been any good at it. And as my recent yoga practice confirms, any grace of movement I may have once had is clearly long-gone.

This past week, I took a summer Friday and headed to an afternoon vinyasa session at my gym. As per usual, I am a total hot mess on the mat. The hour spent in quiet is agonizing. In between wrestling with my mind and breath, I wrestle with my body, fighting through each pose. My flexibility, it seems, is stored somewhere deep in a closet, between my pointe shoes and core muscles.

I must conquer it. I will. I'm repeating it in my head, like some kind of sadistic mantra. I don't know if I'm referring to my mind, my body, my yoga or all three. It doesn't seem to matter.

I find myself falling out of backbends in a heap, huffing and puffing, whilst the ladies around me twist and arch themselves into delicate pretzels, breathing deeply. I'm jealous of their faces, their tranquility, their stillness. Even after shavasana, I gather up my sweaty limbs and crawl out of the studio all beast-like - panting, defeated and thoroughly ruffled. I can't even imagine what I might look like after bikram.

Obviously, it isn't a competition. Obviously, I've missed the entire point. I do feel better afterward. My posture is better. I feel longer, quieter, focused. I'm glad I went. But I still kinda wish I were good at it.

Someday I will be lithe and tranquil. Someday I will have clarity. Or not.

I guess all I can do is try to keep going and hope that someday I can get out of my own head long enough to get back in.