Whiskey on the rocks! Photographs from a rocky beach outside Seawall Campground at Acadia National Park.

I don’t like hot weather. I don’t like cold weather. I don’t care much for warm weather either. I like cool weather. And I especially love cool, foggy, Members Only jacket weather. When I lived in LA, I hardly ever went to the beach during normal beach hours. I went in the evenings or at night. I went for a drive. I went to the pier and wore sandals and a hoodie.

Take Flatbush Avenue to the end of Brooklyn. Watch passing signs for Avenues U and V. Kings Plaza Mall is as massive and 1970s as the Death Star. Some place called Nick’s Lobster House next to Gerritsen Creek. (Why would anyone want to eat lobsters near a creek?) A golf course. Cross Marine Parkway Bridge. Now you’re in Queens. See navy bases and army camps. A national reservation area with horse stables and abandoned buildings. A gated community called Breezy Point. The Atlantic Ocean.

All those tiny, tiny islands you only see when taking off from JFK.

These are some of the things we saw on our way to the taxman on Saturday. My borough, explored.

“I’m not afraid to walk hand in hand
I think we were made to lie in the sand
Decadently by the sea, under the sun”

-from “Lovers from the Moon” by Stephin Merrit.

I love car culture. After being without wheels for my first few years in New York City, I took matters into my own hands and bought a good friend’s used Volvo 850. It’s crappy enough that I can park it anywhere on the streets and not worry about it and at the same time as durable as any piece of machine I’ve ever owned. I love it more than any material thing I possess. (Well, except maybe for my Canon 5D).

Having a car in New York City allows me to bring back some of the most cherished elements of my Los Angeles childhood. Just the comfort of knowing there’s a beach 15 minutes away is a wonderful thing to wake up to every morning. And of course, the ability to jump behind the wheels (and in my mind’s eye, I never settle for anything less than jump) and get the fuck out of town at the whistle’s call.

The following are some photographs from last weekend’s escape to Cape Cod, Massachusetts — which, until then, was one of the few unexplored outings in my many New England jaunts.

• Next: Cape Crusades >>