offManhattan

On the northeast shore of Long Island, there is a 170-year-old maritime village that loves to be explored. Rustic pleasures, boutiques, and acres of award-winning local vineyards abound. And for the relic-seekers, a 40-foot carousel built in the 1920s. Walt Whitman and George Washington used to summer here in what remains a scenic and romantic respite from metropolitan life.

It has been a long, few months of hibernation. Finally, you can shed your layers and meander outdoors towards nature trails, fresh seafood, and the Bronx.

Remove those quizzical looks, and throw out any stereotypical misconceptions you may have about this borough. With a spring in your step, lace up your Nikes and get out of town.

Arriving at Pelham Bay station at the end of the 6 train, you will marvel at how residential and almost suburban the neighborhood feels. You may wonder what a one bedroom will fetch for and why you never heard about Pelham Bay Park, the largest park in the city—three times the size of Central Park—a place with a public beach, horse stables, and a golf course.

I stepped out of the Brighton Beach subway stop to meet a clear blue sky and endless horizon, a scene untouched by skyscrapers and cars; there was a strong unfamiliar smell of pastries and kebabs, and the screech of seagulls. This was my escape from Manhattan. “Dos Vedanya!” one woman yelled as she waved to someone still underground. Russian? Then I noticed the Cyrillic signage, the guttural sound of the language swirling through the air along with the salty sea breeze. This will be more than I bargained for.

COLD SPRING, NY— An hour and fifteen minutes after you’ve left Manhattan— approximately 50 miles—you arrive in one of the most pleasant, preserved communities you never knew existed. Take a left out of the train station, walk down the ramp and into Main Street’s endearing hustle and bustle; a collection of antique shops will charm you first, then you’ll push through bell-strung doors into places full of tchotchkes and vintage toys followed by clothing boutiques and a surprising number of well-regarded restaurants for this petite village of approximately 2,000 people.

There are 21 days left until that doorbell rings. Whether you are outside going in, or inside adjusting the trimmings, before then, there are gifts to be bought, cards to be written, a budget (to attempt) to obey, a diet conscience on your shoulder, and a family feast to mentally and physically prepare for.

This article will disregard the aforementioned. So relax, rest easy. Have a little fun, because let’s face it, not everybody is in a constant holly jolly spirit when there is so much work on top of work to be done.

Brooklyn is a favorite place of offManhattan’s - if you loyal followers haven’t noticed by now - and what better way to unwind during the holiday season and escape the tourist crowds than with an easy jaunt to the other beloved borough where an old classic French film and a delicious French restaurant await—with a complimentary glass of wine with your dinner (and BAM ticket). Bon Appetit!

“My dad’s a barber, my mom’s a seamstress, and my brothers are named Vinny and Joey,” said Tony Muia, turning up his thick Italian accent to humor the busload of passengers. “You can’t make this stuff up. I’m a first-generation Italian-American, and I know pizza. And in Brooklyn, we take our pizza very seriously.”

It was a sweltering day in early September, and the last thing I wanted to do was go on a 4 ½ hour bus ride through Brooklyn. My mom, visiting from California, had bought the tickets without consulting me. As we approached the pick-up point at Union Square in downtown Manhattan, I was certain the tour would be a Mecca for tourists.

It was one of the last warm weekend days of the year. We had plans to travel to the northern most point of Long Island, taste regional wines, learn about the harvest. But instead of rallying and getting out early, we dilly dallied. Brunch, a run, and the BBC took up those precious morning hours so that by 2:00 o’clock, we were just leaving the house. Our pace quickened and the question was on our minds: could we still salvage the day?

George Harrison’s My Sweet Lord is wafting through a speaker that is camouflaged as the shape of an unsuspicious rock. The peaceful melody is in stark contrast to the hulking metal monster looming just ahead. Six Flags New England Theme Park in Springfield, Massachusetts has just the thrills that will have you screaming, ‘Oh God’ on your very first run.

Our weekend started early on Friday afternoon, a clear, sunny September 7, 2007. My best friend Katy was getting married in a true New England wedding in Longmeadow Massachusetts, where I attended high school.

As a straight guy living a good part of his life in San Francisco, and just a stone’s throw from the Castro District, I figured that I’d seen it all, if from a safe distance. But New York’s Fire Island, specifically the small hamlet of Cherry Grove, gives San Francisco a run for its money, and in parts makes some of the flamboyant areas of the City by the Bay more resemble Pittsburgh during the height of the steel trade.

I set out with a friend for our day trip on a Friday morning in August, taking the subway to Penn Station and buying two round trip tickets for Sayville on the Long Island Railroad. Despite rousing the displeasure of those with a taste for the architectural glory of its predecessor, Penn still provides a respite from the relative tranquility of midtown and a foray into a space with some serious urban crowding.

I moved to Manhattan about two months ago, drawn from my Midwestern home to the infectious energy of the big city. I immediately fell in love with everything New York, from my Upper East Side apartment to the myriad of museums and parks to the yellow taxi cabs zooming treacherously fast through mobs of pedestrians. It’s easy to forget that a world exists outside of these paved streets and soaring buildings.