With a crunch, I fell through the thin layer of ice, sinking to my knees. Avoiding scraping my shins on the jagged corners, I pulled my foot directly up through the snow and stepped gingerly back onto the frozen Massachusetts countryside. As the sun set, I made my way across the snow-covered field towards the comfort of a warm fire and dinner. Every 10 or so paces, an overzealous step cracked the ice again, repeating the process.
The last flirtations of daylight retreated behind the hills as I kicked my feet together, in a hopeless attempt to remove the snow from my boots, before opening the backdoor. The smell of pan-seared steaks from a local farmer greeted me as I walked into the kitchen. "Fuck New York," I said to my roommates with a grin on my face like a thirteen-year-old that had just found a Playboy stashed in his older brother's dresser.
For two days, we holed up, watching the snow fall outside and the wind rattle the windows. Early in the morning and before sunset, I went on walks around the idylic New England roads that surrounded the Wijnberg's house. The honks and busy streets of New York felt worlds away.
Edge reading on Sunday morning.
Sunset on a lone birdhouse.
A nearby barn through an antique window.
Function over form. Nike SFB.