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.

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.