On one of the last summer Sundays of the year, P & I finally took advantage of our own city. We packed up some farmers market melon, brie, fig jam, baguette, and a cleverly camoflauged bottle of rose and headed to the Esplanade for a picnic.
We hopped off the train after three stops and strolled along the park, out to the island and picked a shady spot under some willow trees overlooking the sailing teams slicing by, and novice boaters getting used to the water.
There were lots of puppies, bicycles, joggers, and lazy picnicers sprawled out under the trees, or soaking in the sun.
I consider any day not at work (vacation/personal/weekend) a wonderfully lucky day. I do not need to give it a special term.