I’m writing this entry on a dark, chilly evening in late November in northern Florida, where I am spending Thanksgiving with my girlfriend. The rain and mist have been ever present today, and I am reminded of the Pacific weather of northern California that I love so dearly. The algid, foggy air endows the surrounding branches with its moisture, which soon joins the light rain on its drifting descent to the ground. My breaths hang suspended in the air; white, vaporous clouds that bespeak the arrival of winter. It is a far cry from the numbing cold of a New York winter, but still enough to impart a chill in my bones.
It’s Thanksgiving today, that quintessentially American holiday most often celebrated by the consumption of far too much food. Growing up outside of the United States, Thanksgiving does not have the same inherent significance in my heart as other holidays, but it is as good a day as any to remember where one came from. This entry is devoted not to the common topics of style and art that I usually write about, but to my own roots.
As this is an image heavy entry, please click the link below to view the full post and all of the photos.
