Back in August, our friend Justin texted Matty in need of musical entertainment for the bar he is tending these days.

Justin's my buddy from college--and has always been a bit of rambling man, if you will. In the winters, he spends every day doing what he loves--skiing, and teaching others to ski, on Loon Mountain. However, when the season ended and he remained in the state of New Hampshire, he knew he had to find something to do for the warmer months.

So, for whatever reason-- I'm a Massachusetts snob, who knows-- when I heard "bar in New Hampshire" I pictured spending my Saturday pounding Coors Light in a dimly lit dive while Matt played guitar. And that didn't sound horrible, of course. But it didn't sound great, either. Couple that with the absolutely staggering hangover I awoke with Saturday morning after a Red Sox game on an empty stomach the night before-- and I wasn't exactly raring to go to this gig.

So, I know we're going about two hours away, but I don't know it's Laconia when we are getting ready-- so I throw a toothbrush and some other shit in a bag, try not to puke, and I get in the passenger side of my car, all but bawling with how I am feeling. Matt asks if I want to just stay home a few times, but I know I would be livid with myself if I did-- it's his first out-of-state gig and I haven't seen Justin in months. So I tough it out, slap an address in my GPS, put my feet on the dashboard and sip ginger ale the whole way up 93 North.

When we're about fifteen minutes out, my best bud Courtney texts me and mentions she is super jealous we are going to see "Justin and Corey!"
"Corey is here, too?" I reply, unaware that our other buddy from Boston has decided to flee north and bartend alongside Justin.
"Yep!" Courtney replies, and then, "hope you remembered sun screen."
At this point, I call her, because I have no idea what she means.
"Did you bring a bathing suit?" she asks immediately.
"What?" I reply. My fucking head hurts.
"Did Justin tell you anything about where you are going?" she asks.
"Clearly, no." I say, still trying not to puke.
"You're going to a fucking yacht club," she says, laughing. "So."
"Ohhhh," I reply. "Welp. Better shake off this hangover."
So we make it to our destination, Akwa, I see the absolutely beautiful Lake Winnipesaukee is right before us, and my jaw drops.
And then I puke next to my car.
But then it gets so much better.




Within minutes, I have a bloody mary and a huge water in my hands while Matty sets up. I begin to perk up, as I am so pleasantly surprised I am by my surroundings. Minutes later, Justin and I are with his friend Wendy, on a boat.



Matt plays a lovely long acoustic set by the pool all afternoon. It seemed as soon as we arrived we knew we weren't going anywhere after his gig. We get an impromptu bungalow down the street for the night, I buy a cheap bathing suit and dress for the next day (and bright blue sunglasses that read YOLO on the shades) at a shop on the boardwalk, and we spend the night with our friends, drinking beers and having a seriously picturesque Summer Saturday.




We wake up Sunday and visit our friends again for some food (including one of the best lobster rolls I've ever had-- and a burger with an actual bun for my gluten free buddy!) and a few quick rounds of bocce ball before hitting the road. We make a quick stop, lured in by the promise of pork and garlic, to Picnic Rock Farms, and grab (obviously) some pork and garlic and copious other veggies. Matt takes hold of my camera for the ride home and snaps over 900 photos (which I'll try to put to music one of these days).

The whole ride home was full of laughter and jokes and top-of-our-lungs singing. I'm smiling like an asshole just recalling the memory. This was one of the best weekends I'd had in a long, long time. Here's a few more to sum it up.