It’s true that to be truly happy we must appreciate not only who we are and what we have but also where we are. This means to make the most of wherever we call home. There are several places close to my heart, but these last 5 years, it’s Paris that I am lucky to call my home. With all it’s flaws and imperfections (those who have lived here know what I’m talking about), but much like a person, no place is perfect. There are certainly days in which I miss the chaos of New York City, or the calm of Westhampton Beach, but there is certainly no place as beautiful as Paris. And I have seen a lot.
A few days ago, I took a walk along the Seine.
It is here that I often find myself on early evenings.
I had a rendezvous with my Italian, but kept walking and walking…
Captivated by the light on this late summer evening.
And this is when it occurred to me exactly how lucky I am.
When I was a kid, Montauk was home to fisherman, a place where surfers would congregate to ride the waves and locals would take day trips. It was a tourist destination with it’s mysterious lighthouse, even for those of us who grew up on the east end. When I brought my Italian there five years ago, this was the place he found most charming and authentic. A sleepy village just steps away from gorgeous sandy beaches, considered to many ‘The End’. There was nothing chic about it, until now. But it’s not simply Brooklyn’s hipsters who discovered this surfer haven, it’s Manhattan’s social elite too, who have made this their summer home, thus creating Montauk into a surfer chic enclave. (Cap Ferret, where we recently spent a summer holiday, is often called the ‘Montauk of France’.)
Just after Labor Day we drove the length of the island, eager to see the village’s evolution.
What we found were designer boutiques and chic hotels, seemingly abandoned after a full season.
Montauk was left to the locals once more, just as I had remembered it.
The once trendy but now tranquil Surf Lodge was an ideal spot to enjoy an end of summer sunset.