The past two weeks have been a blur of travel, the kind that leaves your suitcase barely unpacked before it’s time to hit the road again.
Over Memorial Day weekend, I made my first trip to Nantucket. It happened to land on Figawi Race Weekend, which Wikipedia nails as “the spring break of the well-heeled 30-somethings.” Crowds filled the island, but in between catching up with friends I slipped away with my camera. At Surfside Beach, just before sunset, I pieced together a panoramic of the dunes and sea grass under heavy skies.
Just a week later, I was back on the move — trading island quiet for urban sprawl. Flying south to New Jersey for my girlfriend’s brother’s high school graduation, I looked out the plane window and caught the New York skyline stretching across the horizon. From the air, the contrast was sharp: one weekend of seagrass and harbor, the next framed by skyscrapers and bridges.
On the ground, the celebration unfolded in classic fashion but tickets for the ceremony were scarce, so instead I made my way into New York City with her extended family to visit the Museum of Natural History.
Two weekends. Two completely different kinds of travel — one windswept and coastal, the other crowded and curated — but both reminders of why I carry a camera everywhere.
