Escaping the City: A Weekend in Upstate New York
Slowness, Snow, Serenity, and Simplicity
In the relentless pace of city life, where every moment seems accounted for — meetings, notifications, crowded commutes — it's easy to lose the sense of time stretching and settling. The constant noise and motion of urban living can leave you feeling untethered, like you're moving too fast to catch your breath.
A quiet transformation happens when you step into a slower rhythm. That's what made our weekend escape to a lake house in Putnam Valley so refreshing. It wasn't just a change of scenery but a deliberate pause. For a few days, the city's chaos gave way to stillness. Free from the hum of traffic or the glow of screens, we embraced slowness, letting ourselves exist entirely in the present.
The Need for an Escape: Life in Overdrive
As many know, life in the city often feels like a race against time. Between my partner, Kerem's, intense work schedule and our minds brimming with mundane tasks, heart-aching world agenda, and unfinished ideas— not to forget the anxiety that comes with them— it was easy to feel overwhelmed. "Time is money" is imprinted in our daily lives; in this commodified timeline, resting or not doing anything causes a feeling of guilt primarily because it doesn't generate output — that we are so used to.
This perception of time prioritizes economic value over personal fulfillment, creating an endless loop of busyness, deadlines, notifications, and many other distractions that disconnect us from ourselves and others.
Since 2024 is ending, with the accumulated fatigue of the whole year, we felt the urge to escape the city to the calm of upstate New York. We decided to use Kerem's 30th birthday to meet this need: We would both celebrate the birthday and relax for a few days away from distractions.
We started looking for a cabin with a good view of nature: trees, a lake, maybe a firepit. After a week-long search, we finally found it — it was a cozy lake house with a fenced yard and a lakefront that we could enjoy for 3 days. We immediately got in touch and set the dates with the host. Luckily, he was very dog-friendly, and the house did not have strict rules for our dog, Hunter.
While renting the car, we realized the weekend forecast called for rain, and there was a fire ban in New York. Kerem was visibly disappointed — we had been looking forward to sitting around the fire pit, even though the rain likely would have made it impossible anyway. Trying to lift his spirits, I reminded him of the house's large window, perfect for watching the rain while sipping coffee. It wasn't the same as a fire pit but offered its own cozy charm.
Honestly, he was right to be disappointed; this came from a sense of urgency imposed on us by fast-paced city life: we had only a weekend and felt we had to make the best of it.
When the departure day came, we packed up a few essentials, Hunter's toys, and a pile of unread books and hit the road. Traffic was heavy, and a massive cloud over the city obscured New York's skyline. It felt like the city itself was urging us to leave. We queued up our favorite playlist to make the time more enjoyable and turned the drive into an impromptu concert. Singing along to familiar tunes, we let the music distract us from the slow crawl of traffic, setting the tone for a weekend of letting go.
Our destination was a quiet lake house in Putnam Valley, where we hoped to step out of the rush and into a slower rhythm.
Arrival: The Quiet Transformation Begins
As we got further away from the city, the noises calmed down, and we slowly entered the soft embrace of nature, accompanied by slower-tuned music and beautiful trees turning from yellow to red.
The drive took about two hours, and when we arrived at the lake house, it started to get darker; we thought every minute of the traffic was worth it. The air felt fresher and lighter, and trees framed the space; it was peacefully quiet, as if we crossed an invisible boundary into a different world, yet we were still in NY.
It was time for the house tour. As soon as we stepped inside, we were greeted by the huge window we had been so excited to see — it framed a perfect view of the serene landscape outside. Right across from the window was an impressive vinyl collection, rich with classics and hidden gems. I couldn't resist quickly picking one, pressing play, and letting the warm crackle of the record accompany us on the rest of our exploration.
Next, we discovered an in-home movie theater-like room with a fantastic sound system that thrilled us both. The space felt like it was made for cozy evenings and cinematic escapes.
Once we settled in, it was Hunter's turn to explore. We unleashed him, and he immediately began racing around the garden, his excitement palpable. Watching him dart through the yard, it was clear even Hunter could sense this place's quiet, peaceful energy. It felt like we had all found a haven.
Embracing Slowness Indoors
The first night set the tone for our retreat; until the rain began to fall, we had a rush from city life habits; we started to try everything quickly. When the rain's soft and steady flow created a soothing backdrop for our evening, we calmed down and decided which vinyl we would listen to and which movie we would watch.
While listening to the gentle mix of vinyl crackles and raindrops, with books in hand, let the slower pace ground us and pull us into a sensory engagement.
We did not set a reading time or "anything time"; we read it until we thoroughly enjoyed it. It felt like a kind of resistance to the societal demand for constant productivity; slowness grants us the freedom to be — not just to do. That makes it a quiet moment, but it was a reorientation of how we inhabit time.
Later, we decided to watch a movie in the theater-like room. Whether from the day's drive or the embrace of the house's slower rhythm, we found ourselves drifting off to sleep halfway through the film. Surrendering to the stillness, we decided it was time for bed.
A Day in Slowness: Snow and Simple Joys
The morning greeted us with an unexpected blanket of snow, soft and glistening as if the world had been quietly transformed overnight. The landscape, once vibrant with the muted tones of autumn, was now draped in white. Snow softens the world, quieting even the slightest noises and creating a serenity.
Before throwing ourselves into the snow, I decided to make coffee for us to drink outside. Suddenly, I caught myself reaching for my phone. It was instinctual — a need to "use" the time waiting for the coffee to brew by scrolling through emails or planning the day. But something stopped me. I looked out the large window instead, watching the gently floating snowflakes. Those ten minutes felt expansive; it wasn't "productive" by any modern standard, but it was profoundly meaningful.
Filling the room with warmth and the rich aroma of fresh brew, Hunter couldn't contain his excitement to rerun the yard. As soon as his paws hit the snow, he ran across the yard, leaving tiny trails in the pristine whiteness. His bursts of energy were infectious, pulling us out of our cozy cocoon to join him in the cold.
We threw snowballs — not so much for him to catch but for him to chase — and laughed as he hopped through the drifts, his red fur stark against the snowy backdrop. In those moments of play, the snow wasn't just a weather event but a gift, reminding us of the simple joys in life. We weren't just observers but participants, fully present in its fleeting beauty.
I don't know how many hours or minutes we played outside, and it did not matter. We went in and out of the house a couple of times, getting warm while we listened to some music and with a quick bite to eat before we jumped back in the snowy backyard. This, in contrast to commodified time, was a lived time, fluid, relational, and experiential. It's the kind of time that allows us to embrace slowness and nurturing moments that are deeply human.
Returning to the City
After a cozy, snowy, and celebratory night, we woke up peacefully; however, it was time to return home. We all had a bitterness on our last morning at the lake house. As we packed up and hit the road again back to the city, I found myself more attuned to the rhythm of my own thoughts: It wasn't a grand getaway — no packed itinerary, no plans to check off — but that was the point. We were searching for stillness, a space where time could stretch and settle.
The small, mindful activities created an unexpectedly profound experience — such moments of slowness often reflect a kind of ritual — one that reconnects us to ourselves and the spaces we inhabit. Letting go of the need to fill every moment allowed us to reclaim the simple joys of being present.
As we approached the familiar skyline, the bustling streets, the endless notifications, the pressure to always be on — it all felt louder, more intrusive. But I was determined not to let that calm slip away completely.
This deliberate pause was more than relaxation; it was a rediscovery of time not as something to manage but as something to experience. We didn't just slow down; we learned to be.
The Power of Slowness
Maintaining slowness in a fast-paced world is undeniably challenging. The demands of daily life often force us into a state of constant motion, and the pull of productivity is hard to resist.
On the other hand, slowness doesn't require drastic changes. It can be found in the smallest moments: in the act of savoring a cup of coffee without rushing, in a short walk with Hunter before diving into emails, or in taking a few deep breaths before beginning a task.
Slowness isn't about escaping our routines but integrating them into them, creating space for mindfulness even on the busiest days. It reminds us that the moments we genuinely value are not the ones that fit neatly into a calendar or to-do list but the ones that stretch and linger, carving meaning into the fabric of our lives.
My takeaway: In a world that moves so fast, it's in slowness that we find ourselves. It's not about having more time but about making the time we have more meaningful.
