We started on the east bluff on the south of the lake’s shore. Initially the plan was to hike the east bluff trail, but we thought it would take more time than planned. The shorter route was through the Balanced Rock, the Devil’s Doorway, Potholes trail, and Grottos trail. In hindsight, it was easier than we thought, we made it back to the car well before sunset. This is a photo essay of the hike, below the jump are photos from everyone’s cameras.


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P1010128-19Over the Easter weekend, a bunch of us drove to Wisconsin. We hiked up Devil’s Lake, fed deers at a deer petting zoo, walked around Madison, and freed four wizards.

This is a photo essay of the trip. I included photos by Megan, Randy, and Mark. The ones that look VSCO-ed are mine, and a few more. The one above is a shot of the Devil’s Doorway in the Devil’s Lake State Park by Mark.

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When I first moved to Illinois, I pictured meeting the hot guy who didn’t know how hot he was, as described in Anne Friedman’s essay. I forgot that this supposed guy would be a long drive from the north, where the quiet suburbs are spread out generously, where restaurants close at eight in the evening. There are no late night deliveries in the burbs, shocking my midnight snacking burger-and-fries-while-marathoning-Gilmore-Girls-on-a-weeknight New York self.


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It’s the middle of the coldest month of the year, and I’m indoors, wearing three layers of clothing (including a down jacket). For two weeks, Vera, my beloved laptop, has been in a coma. The one time I use my laptop as a tray. But today I learned that her brain is still working, I just need to hook her up to a different screen in the meanwhile.

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A few days ago, I found myself hoarding as much of New York as I could. After the finality of moving, I went back to my places, to remember the things that happened between the grime of its grids, trying touch every crevice again. But why hoard something you can’t really take away with you, especially when it’s something that will also pass. Hoarding isn’t a show of trust either. So I’m embracing it, and letting the nostalgia run it’s course.

The places I’ve called home are easily erased of my being there. Like the crumbs of a Levain chocolate chip cookie, only a sprinkle remain; in a whiff, it’s gone. It’s so easy, removing evidences of myself, that it’s infuriating. The hardest part is for the emotions to catch up with the mind. My room in Astoria, bathed in the soft light of muslin curtains painstakingly hung, will belong to someone else once I’m out the door. When my friend walks her dog past 2717, I won’t be there. After my name is peeled from the mailbox, it’s like I was never here.

I think I’ll always feel embarrassed about how I feel about New York, because, in as cliched I-heart-NY-shirts get, I love New York. It’s not the perfect city, or the best place in the world. But it’s the first place I grew up beyond my parents’ roof, a city I was tossed into, unexpectedly, and saw me come into my own person. It became home to me. Even if it meant packing up and leaving things behind, thrice, the canvas of the city has been space enough to breathe, sweat, and grow. I made friends, and friends became family. It’s been a lot of work, but it’s been wonderful. But the less stuff there’s been in my room (living in an empty room kind of takes it’s toll on you), the more I’ve had to give away due to the impracticality of taking them with me, the more see you laters have been spoken, the more I feel like I’m disappearing, because these are the things that mean that I’m here, that I’m home. And now, “home” is stripped off or given away, contained in a handful of boxes and bags, some possibly lost in transit, and there are the fare wells. I’m filled with an indescribable yearning for what looked like inhabited by me and where I have been, even while I’m still here, for a few more hours. I feel like a kite, with strings about to be cut.

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