Between New Jersey and Pennsylvania, there runs a river. The Delaware River, to be precise. Ask any cartographer to point it out. (Are there still cartographers in the world? If you are one and happen to be visiting this little corner of the internet that I call my own, please raise your hand and let’s be friends.) (On a related note I recently decided I really needed to procure a good and precise volume of road maps, detailing all the states of the United States that we call home. I am unclear from whence this mad desire arose, but it doesn’t seem to be abating. So if you know of such a collection please refer me to it ASAP.) Along one point of the snaking river that separates these two states is a green bridge that connects Lambertville, NJ, on the east, and New Hope, Penn., on the west. Such was the setting of last weekend’s wedding. The day after said festivities, we returned to the scene to further explore what I had proclaimed to be the most marvelous and quaint village ever to be established. (I tend to declare this every time I visit any little town, anywhere on the face of the planet, but particularly on the east coast. So take such statements as you will.)
There were Revolutionary War veterans buried in this tiny, plot of land. It made me feel nostalgic for a time I didn’t live through, which is probably silly, but still true.
Green shutters and porches, such things will always decorate my imaginings of the east coast…
…As well as really good slices of delicious, fold-over pizza. (Buffalo chicken right there, fellas. Glorious.)
It was so hot. So hot. And the humidity clocked in at 236 percent. Really, scientists everywhere were shocked and dismayed at the sheer intensity of the humidity that day. And yet, despite this, my traveling companion still ordered a hot latte when we retreated into an air-conditioned and adorable coffee shop. It baffles the senses.
Trying to pretend I’m not melting, slowly into the Delaware.