A few weeks ago, a storm blew through the North Shore—the kind of storm that makes you feel unsafe to be driving, because of all the hundred-year-old trees that have started falling into the road. Our house lost power, as it is wont to do whenever the wind starts whipping. As the sun inched westward, its internal temperature climbed inevitably toward 100 degrees Fahrenheit.

As a child of divorce, I will say that this was pretty much the first time that I was thankful to have two houses (although the double Christmas thing hadn’t been too awful). My father had recently moved to a new city; since his electricity remained uncompromised and the renters hadn’t quite taken over yet, we decided to move in temporarily. It was Ted and Koko and I, an air mattress, and my laptop paired with one perfect DVD—Ever After, obviously. Also, a bottle of bourbon. We camped out in the living room, right by the only window air conditioning unit that was left.

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There’s a trap I fall into sometimes, and it’s called “life is so perfect for everybody else.” As in, nobody else’s hair frizzes into an ‘fro when August rolls around, or struggles to stay in shape, or gets obsessed with celebrity gossip in lieu of keeping up with their perusal of Nabokov short stories. Nobody at work sits at their desk cursing their job responsibilities, and nobody overdraws on their bank accounts or screws up their first attempt at home haircolor. Right? It’s so easy to romanticize, even when your good sense chides you for playing such a ridiculous mental game.

And then I discovered the food blogosphere, which is like being James Stewart in Rear Window. Except it’s a million little windows into the lives of others, and these people know they’re being watched. There’s an intimidating polish and structure to the whole thing. It’s not a complaint, really—I’ve found honest, sincere friends and incalculable inspiration here, after all—but it’s rare for someone to chat about a spectacular flop in the kitchen, or the mind-numbingly boring sandwich they eat everyday at noon.

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When’s the last time you wrote a letter? As in, an honest-to-God, pen-to-paper, put-a-“Forever”-stamp-on-it-and-drop-it-in-a-blue-mailbox letter? I’ve been exchanging cards with my grandmother recently, but other than that lovely occasional correspondence, I rely on the U.S. Postal Service to pick up my Netflix envelopes, the odd thank-you note, and not much else. Last summer, though, was the first time in my life that I made biweekly trips to drop letters in the mailbox, and rushed home every evening to see what our mailman had left. My boyfriend had left America for Siberia (as in, “You’ve been sentenced to exile in Siberia!”) to spend six weeks teaching English. (Did you know that Ted is fluent in Russian, and proficient to varying degrees in…let’s see, Polish, Serbo-Croatian, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian and Sanskrit? I’m so glad that I’m allowed to brag here, because you should really know how ridiculously smart this guy is.)

On the Russian border with Kazakhstan, at the base of the Altai Mountains, the lines of international communication weren’t exactly thriving. His town’s post office housed the one publicly-accessible Internet portal, but the connection was lazy and the post office only open during Ted’s working hours. Our text messages to one another were mostly lost in transmission. And so even though letters took upwards of two weeks to move between Washington and Siberia, it was clear that they’d be our most reliable means of communication.

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I can feel summer creeping into the air. This morning, I was wrapped in a light blanket of humidity as I walked into the office; it’s not overbearing yet, but having braved my first Mid-Atlantic summer last year, I know how thick that blanket will be by July. And with that first hint of the coming season, I caught myself thinking back to the summer of 2009, when I was a freshly-minted college graduate living in the city.

With the aid of Craigslist, I’d snagged the master bedroom in a house with dirt-cheap rent. My three roommates and I lived in Bloomingdale, a neighborhood in D.C. near Howard University, where all the neighbors sat on their front porches and called out friendly hellos as I walked by. There may have been chicken bones lining the sidewalk, but everyone took pride in keeping their little rowhouse gardens well-tended. Noisy liquor stores stood next to hipster-approved schools of yoga—the neighborhood definitely had character!

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After a few weather-bound weekends at home, there was nothing that sounded better than throwing a duffel in the car and winding along the highway to someplace entirely new. Even better, the trip would mark a delayed celebration of Ted’s and my anniversary, making the adventure meaningful. But we only had 24 hours, so the destination had to fit a few criteria: be about an hour away, small enough to explore in a day, and sweet enough to wander together hand in hand.

Enter Annapolis, little harbor city of cobblestone streets, fantastic seafood, and about ten square blocks — all just a stone’s throw from Washington. The description “quaint coastal town” doesn’t conjure the hippest imagery, but with St. John’s College and the U.S. Naval Academy within city limits, the numerous Irish pubs there aren’t exactly empty on a Saturday night. I’d never been to Annapolis before, but its eclectic mix of adorable and rowdy ended up making it the perfect weekend escape.

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Since Valentine’s Day is traditionally a recognition of romantic love, many people rightfully have strong feelings about the day, based on whether they’re single or coupled. But I enjoy thinking back to my elementary school days, when the holiday recognized platonic affection too. Surely you remember buying little valentines for everyone in your class, and receiving about twenty-five others in return? I do. Back then, Valentine’s Day was a pure, sweet, childlike celebration of love — and it needn’t have to change as you grow older. This year, even as I celebrated with my boyfriend, I made sure to recognize all the other kinds of love present in my life.

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