A few photos from our first trip to Fire Island, my new favorite place in the New York area (sorry, Medieval Times).
By virtue of its simplicity (no cars, few stores, spotty wi-fi service, deer aplenty), Fire Island had the reductive effect of stripping each of us down to our 'truest selves', which meant the four-year-olds spent the entire weekend whispering to each other in matching dinosaur pants.
My husband's basic self apparently means matching man shirts and glasses of rose.
And the birdie grilled Mingus on the best way to sneak out of the house in the hopes of finding cooler people to hang out with.
Don't follow me.
As for me, it turns out my truest self meant taking 176 pictures of a staircase and snuggling a glass of wine on the beach.
I think I'm okay with that.