I like to travel. Being with people is good. Being alone is good. A dreamer and explorer, I stand firm in my belief that if it’s worth dreaming about, it’s worth chasing. And when an idea takes hold in my mind, very little can extinguish the desire to make it happen.

For as long as I can remember, something about the East Coast has resonated in my soul. A connection I’ve felt without good reason. Even as a young woman, I remember declaring that someday I would live in Connecticut. Why Connecticut? I haven’t the slightest idea. I pretty much knew nothing about the place. Still don’t, really. A lifelong Michigander, I’ve lived among the beautiful display of four seasons and the glory of the Great Lakes, so it certainly isn’t beauty or bodies of water that I’m longing for.

About a year ago, I went with some friends to New York City. A quick weekend trip with a bunch of boxes to check off. We packed an incredible amount of sightseeing into seventy-two hours. I returned home realizing that I was aching to explore more than the usual tourist attractions. I wanted to wander aimlessly, keeping no agenda. I kind of wanted to feel like I was part of the city, not watching it pass by as I hurried through.

Having made that realization, I immediately booked a solo trip for October. I was unstoppable. Hours of research, along with a little help from ChatGpt, gave me the confidence to pull this off flawlessly.

Of course, people tried to discourage me, insisting I was nothing short of crazy for tackling subways, rental cars and airplanes on my own, not to mention venturing into Harlem and the Bronx. And then there was the highfalutin territory of the Hamptons!

The extrovert in me loves chatting with random people along the way. It’s a trait close friends and family have cautioned me about. When I boarded my flight to NYC, the woman seated next to me promptly introduced herself and announced she was heading to Brooklyn to see her grandkids. She lit up when I told her I was on a solo trip to the Hamptons and the city.

“Oh, before I had grandkids, I had a grand dog. A French bulldog. I would frequently go to dog-sit. I loved taking the dog on walks in Central Park. I got so much attention with that bulldog. I pretended I lived there. I loved it.”

Aha, this woman gets it.

As the plane descended into LaGuardia Airport, the endless blue sky stretched over miles of skyscrapers. My sense of calm and my smile spoke with no need for words.

The day had arrived and I was bound for East Hampton. I don’t financially belong there, but decades of watching Ina Garten on Barefoot Contessa have convinced me that the part of me that revels in style and good food absolutely belongs there. Ironically, I’d spent nearly a year planning my wardrobe for a three-day stay in a corner of Long Island synonymous with wealth and privilege.

I strategically arranged to pick up my rental car just outside Amityville. A white Mercedes-Benz, mind you. I knew cruising into the Hamptons in a Pontiac sedan wouldn’t feel right.

Now Amityville matters here because “The Amityville Horror” book and movie were all the rage when I was growing up in the seventies and eighties. No way was I going to be in the area without a drive-by of the notorious Dutch Colonial-style home. It was every bit as intriguing as I expected it to be. The current owners have it meticulously groomed, complete with a Halloween cemetery in the front yard. It was fitting, creepy and charming.

And while I’m filling you in on my passion for true crime, I will admit that I also navigated my way to Massapequa to drive past the infamous Joey Buttafuoco home. If you didn’t live under a rock in the nineties, you know what happened at that address on Adam Road. Tragically, the story involved the young woman dubbed the ‘Long Island Lolita,’ Amy Fisher.

The hour-and-a-half drive across Long Island was liberating. Abundant sunshine, warm temperatures and upbeat music accompanied me all the way to Sagaponack, where I arrived at dusk. My accomodations at the bed-and-breakfast had been upgraded, much to my delight, and I was thrilled to settle into my lovely, spacious room for the next few nights.

After a restful night’s sleep, I awoke to cloudy skies and drizzle. I reached for my navy trench and matching umbrella. I was in the Hamptons, after all. Interested in a breakfast suggestion, I consulted ChatGPT and decided on the Golden Pear in East Hampton.

I walked into that bakery-style cafe, unsure whether I wanted to stay. The place wasn’t exactly what I was envisioning. The “can I help you?” encouraged me to order something. I stepped back to wait for my food. A gentleman walked in and without hesitation approached the counter and ordered an iced coffee with the ease of a regular. In true people-watching fashion, I studied the man as his mannerisms reminded me of Ina Garten’s beloved Jeffrey. Wait!?

The moment the gentleman turned around, our eyes met. He probably felt the weight of my stare the whole time. He smiled at me and I inquired, “Jeffrey?” He replied, “Yes, yes, that’s me.” Like an old friend, I said, “Oh, I am Ina’s biggest fan?” He playfully replied, “Oh no, you’re her second!”

By this time, I couldn’t help but notice the “Barefoot Contessa” cap Jeffrey was wearing. The conversation easily progressed as I mentioned I was visiting from Michigan because of Ina’s influence. I’ve watched her shows, read her memoir, listened to her podcasts, and read her cookbooks cover-to-cover over the years, delighting in the stories she told and all the references to various places, people and businesses throughout the Hamptons. I told him I probably wouldn’t even know the Hamptons existed if not for Ina, and we both giggled.

As Jeffrey stirred sugar and cream into his coffee, I told him how my coworkers and I had been joking for weeks that perhaps I would run into Ina or Jeffrey. I refrained from mentioning that I had hoped to get invited over for lunch. I didn’t want the conversation to escalate from playful to awkward in a matter of seconds. “Would you let me take a selfie with you? I need proof of this.” “Yes, of course. Where should we stand?” I led us to the window for favorable lighting. I put my arm around him without hesitation and we smiled for the lens like there was nothing unusual about this encounter.

Maybe there wasn’t.

“You know Ina’s new cookbook comes out Tuesday!” “Yep!” “Have you read her memoir? “Of course.” “Listened to the podcasts?” “I love them.” “If you haven’t watched the new podcasts on youtube, you should. There’s really something special about watching them, it’s even better than just listening.” “I will check them out for sure.”

As Jeffrey headed toward the door, “Please tell Ina you met her biggest fan FROM MICHIGAN today!”

“Oh, yes, I will.”

I really hope that he did.

I opened my umbrella and strolled the streets of East Hampton like I belonged here. With my head held high, I window shopped and reflected on my recent interaction. I expected the rest of my trip would pale in comparison.

It didn’t.

Browsing through the bookstore, I noticed a display of Ina Garten cookbooks on the checkout counter. I struck up a brief conversation with the young lady at the computer. “I met Jeffrey today,” as I pointed to the books. She smiled, “Isn’t he the nicest?” “You know, he and Ina just live a couple blocks away.” I had already looked up the address but didn’t realize how close it was. Like two teenagers, we were pointing out the window and scheming for me to do a drive by.

Fast forward about fifteen minutes, and there I was, umbrella overhead, walking past the estate while trying my darndest to peek over the hedges that gracefully enclosed the property. All I could see was the top of the house, good enough for me. I kept thinking “Jeffrey is probably looking out the window, saying, “Ina, there she is! The woman from the cafe! She’s in the front yard.” Whether that transpired, thankfully, remains unknown to me.

Later that day, I enjoyed the live music of Jeff LeBlanc at the Wolffer Estate Vineyard. A high-top table, a small charcuterie board and a glass of dessert wine made for a fabulous, relaxing afternoon.

I closed out the memorable day with a walk along the enchanting Sagg Main Beach. The foggy, cool ocean air remains vivid in my memory.

Saturday was spent leisurely meandering through the quaint, elegant towns of Southampton and Sag Harbor. I returned for another serving of curry chicken in a popover bun from “Loaves and Fishes” specialty food store just because it was so delicious. I couldn’t imagine anything topping it. And if you know me, I couldn’t resist a cookie from Tate’s Cookie Shop. I finished the afternoon at Cooper’s Beach, where I collected a handful of rocks to take home to my rock collecting son.

Curled up in the comfy queen-size bed, I watched true crime documentaries and reflected on all the fun I’d had. I was looking forward to the next day’s adventures while not really wanting to let go of this short chapter.

Sunday morning was bittersweet as I zipped my suitcase and tucked it away in the Mercedes. I retraced some familiar scenic roads and discovered a few new ones. A golden croissant and fresh-squeezed orange juice at Carissa’s Bakery was a must that didn’t disappoint. My mouth waters thinking about it. Before venturing west, I continued along winding roads with exquisitely groomed lawns and trees that framed the curves with golden leaves.

I followed my heart to Westhampton to see the original location of the Barefoot Contessa gourmet food store, where Ina’s career in the food business began in 1978. This stop made my Hampton’s trip feel like it came full circle. I hopped on to I-495 and headed to Melville, sadly, having to return the white luxury car. I sang along with Norah Jones on the radio, feeling peaceful and enriched.

I’ll be back.

Next stop: Harlem.