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When I met my wife in college, I had never been to Long Island. In fact, I never wanted to go there. Most of the cantankerous fraternity-types I had nothing in common with came from there, and all the literate Long Islanders I met couldn’t be any happier to have left.
On my first trip to Long Island, I remember how the border-less villages blended together, me leaning into her and asking, “And what’s this village called now? When did we leave the other one?”
But eventually the strip malls disappeared and we pulled in to Port Jefferson, the quaint, maritime village she grew up in that was full of small shops, varied eateries and a classy hotel. And there were the boats, too: small ones, large ones, yachts, a ferry and a tugboat moored in front of the power plant.
Then I moved to Long Island, and today I still smile when I escape from the strip malls and land in Port Jefferson, where the boats sail into the Long Island Sound.
I visited Port Jefferson the other day to work overlooking the port, snapping a few photos in between phone conferences.
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