I know I put a lot of emphasis on the magical draws of summer. And really, who doesn’t love the warm patio nights, the shorts and swimwear lifestyle, the resulting socially acceptable tan lines, and the cliché of “rosé all day”? But even summer’s biggest fans will admit that the first day that refreshing breeze gently rolls through town on a sweltering August afternoon, you can’t help but feel the relief. Like a breath of fresh air. It’s not a sign of your wavering loyalty to the slowly fading golden season, but rather an instinct to embrace coming up for air because even too much of a good thing can welcome a change.
Full disclosure, fall is my favorite season so I tend to idealize it beyond measure. I embrace all the basic characteristics associated with it (from blanket scarves through pumpkin spice everything), but most of all, I appreciate fall for the color show it puts on year after year, something I never got to experience until moving up to Canada. And when nature has celebrated its last hurrah here in southern Ontario, I drop in on my favorite metropolis for round two. “But isn’t Manhattan just made of concrete” you ask? As a whole, yes. But if you let yourself wander the tiny parks scattered around each neighborhood, you will be surprised at the magic that you uncover. The air is fresh and crisp, laundered by the morning rain, and smells like the browning leaves littering the sidewalks and parks. The sun is still warm, though growing more distant each day. It casts rays of sunlight that make your skin tingle and illuminate each leaf, bringing out the brightest hues of red, orange and yellow. This is fall.