Any trip, unless one is driving, from the Cape to New York involves Boston. There is a Bonanza bus that leaves Hyannis and meanders through Rhode Island then invariably gets caught in rush hour traffic in Connecticut which is almost unbearable. I like the train that runs down the coast; the harbor in New London and the Long Island Sound are so pretty, day or night. This is the park on the Back Bay side of the Charles River. Says Boston all over, at least to me.

Taken from the end of the boardwalk that transverses the moors, the remains of a previous one crossing the last of the marsh before the cove becomes the bay, there is no better place to watch the sun set in Yarmouthport. In fact, it is quite the popular destination; the evening I took this, snapping away and ignoring the little crowd on the deck with me, I was interrupted by one of the residents who asked if I'd like him to take my picture in front of the sunset for me. I was appalled, I didn't say so but I was, the very idea, my face in front of this, no way. 

Now I ask you, who wouldn't want to live here? The last time I was in Yarmouthport, a bad Nor'Easter had blown through two days before and flooded the cove. These docks were visible under the water and there was soggy seaweed fifteen feet up the beach. The boardwalk over the moors was missing planks that the rising water had knocked out. Dramatic, but with the sun shining, it was still as beautiful as ever.

Outside a Gorey House window, and guarded by dense, wasp filled, lilac bushes, is a cluster of little tombstones for the characters in the Gasklycrumb Tinies. ("A is for Amy who fell down the stairs, B is for Basil assaulted by bears"...) Too hard to shoot, I simply admired them, and later shot this ancient cemetery, on a suitably gloomy Sunday, beside the road to Grey's Beach, instead.

The Edward Gorey House is in Yarmouthport; once his home, it is now a museum. They have his famous fur coat on display, the one he wore in The Unstrung Harp, as did a skeleton on the cover page of The Vinegar Works, among other books. I acquired a pair of his little etchings there, one is of a dead tree with several eerie birds. Perhaps it was one of these two trees. Maybe not, but they are uncannily similar.

I'm not ready to go back to New York; let's take a little vacation, shall we? 
This is Grey's Beach in Yarmouthport on Cape Cod, we will be visiting here for the next few days because it is so lovely. 

One of my dearest friends, a former born and raised New Yorker, lives here now and I go as often as I can. Most of the people she knows on the Cape are former New Yorkers as well. How I wish I could be there as a former New Yorker myself. These two shots are actually the same spot; in the duskier one, I'm closer to the rocks. You can swim in this cove, although it's surrounded by moors that have a murky smell of muddy as opposed to sandy beaches. Beautiful though, perfect for walking and sunbathing. And photography. It's all about the light on the Cape, as you can see.

Not New York, obviously, this is Martha's Vineyard. After several months of negotiating with a gallery for a job there and finding an apartment through the internet that I adored, I went up for a few frigid days and had my heart set on living in Edgartown. What? You thought I'd never leave Manhattan? Get real. But, as fate would have it, because of crisis in the gallery owner's family life, the deal crashed and burned. I can not begin to tell you how disappointed I was, am, and today is the first anniversary of having that dream crushed. So, in memory, here are two visions from that fantasy; now, let's move on.