The first few weeks of September could easily wear the crown of my favorite of the year. The air is cooler in the mornings; it’s not quite crisp yet, but it’s getting there. I wear a long-sleeved shirt on my early morning runs, but it’s warm enough that I strip down to a tank top as soon as I enter the park and jog onto the main path. Once out of the shade of the tree-lined edges of the park, sunshine floods the road ahead and I feel a light sheen of sweat on my skin.

I’m sitting in a plastic chair outside the terminal A gates at Newark airport. It’s chilly inside; the recycled air feels both stale and cold. It’s barely 7 AM. The early morning energy at the airport is nice—despite not being my top choice of places to sit, I like the bustle of travel around me. At this time of day, people aren’t yet harried and exhausted—they’re all intent on getting somewhere, all purposeful and excited or focused and rushed. The people-watching is excellent. I wait for my cup of hot water with lemon (a safe bet while traveling) and watch people order. The world of early-morning coffee and breakfast orders in an airport is a fascinating microcosm—some people, barely awake and still sleepy-eyed, stick with coffee and milk. One woman opts for some sort of whipped cream-topped caramel-spiked macchiato. Two teenage boys ask for breakfast sandwiches with bacon and cheddar and chocolate croissants and hot chocolates. I suspect they’ll be hungry again within an hour. 

It’s already Sunday but it feels like the weekend has stretched for a week, in the nicest way. The first few truly sunny days of summer are such a novelty still—each one has a delicious newness to it, which gives time an elasticity such that a single weekend feels like a week-long vacation. All the things that become routine once summer really sets in are still fresh. I haven’t gone swimming every morning yet, or had dozens of cold brew iced coffees, or gotten multiple sunburns from too many hours at the beach.