March 7, 2010 — Last weekend, I received an email with the subject line “Holi Shit!” from my friend Ashwin. He was referring, of course, to Holi, the grand festival of colors that Hindus, Buddhists, Sikhs and others celebrate to welcome spring. The tradition involves throwing dye, baby powder, and colored water at each other to “chase away the winter grays.”

And what a springtime day it was. Sunny. Warm. Miraculous.

Soaking up the last bit of the East Coast sun, and in celebration of Andrew’s 26th birthday, a bunch of us took the Metro North train from Grand Central terminal to Hudson Valley, New York for the annual Oktoberfest celebrations. After a brisk walk through quiet country woods, we arrived at Bear Mountain State Park and saw grown men in bright lederhosens flapping arms to polka music. More importantly, steins bigger than our heads were frothing with German beer.

There was no place Andrew (or the rest of us) would rather be.

“Every last one of them voted for Obama. I just know it.” –Overheard at Cayuga Lake in Upstate, New York.

During our weekend of Swinefest extravaganza, we decided to spend Saturday night in Pine Plains, New York, rather than drive home at 4 in the morning having consumed large quantities of pork and beer. Luckily, the good folks at The Farm were thinking along the same lines, and offered us a spot on their giant green field.

So there were were, pitching a tent at the edge of a cornfield with the soft green mountains of the Catskills all around us. I loved this! (Sorry, I didn’t get enough of this sleeping-on-the-ground business having spent most of my life in Hollywood and Brooklyn).

Last weekend, I went to my first-ever pig roast, dubbed “Swinefest 2009″ in Pine Plains, New York. The affair included four roasted pigs, 40 kegs of beer, and fireworks so close I tasted ash on my beer. It was all miraculous!

Apparently, these huge gatherings centered around a barbecue and hillbilly music — we camped at the edge of a cornfield and woke up to the lyrics, “she was rocking the beer gut” blasting from a pickup truck — are fairly common in the Midwest, and Kelly had been to more than her share of them. Yet, as a newbie and a creature of city-life, I enjoyed it. I even took part in the dance party under a white tent filled with hay to the Jock Jam beats of Sublime and Blink 182.

Nothing says, “we’re no longer in New York City” than standing on top a picturesque hill overlooking the beautiful Catskill mountains and all of Hudson Valley in full greenery with the smell of burnt flesh in the air and a bottomless plastic cup in your hand.

Jake watching fireworks.