Neither a Rhode, nor an Island.

I never really liked Rhode Island. In my mind, it was kinda like the red-headed stepchild of New England. But after spending two days in Little Compton, I’m convinced that it’s just New England’s strange cousin that occasionally surprises us with a moment of normalcy.What changed my mind?

I spent my weekend drinking Gritty’s Halloween Ale* around a massive birthday bonfire, watching grown men (I use the term loosely) dare each other to jump over the fire and drive a rusty jeep through corn fields. (In Rhode Island. Seriously.)

We  pub crawled through Newport and Bristol, balancing the classy bars with the dives and sufficiently mocking every single person who think that leggings, a t-shirt, and Uggs are an outfit. (A surprising number of RI ladies think that’s a stellar fashion choice. Not that I’m judging.)

And lest I forget, I spent most of the weekend lounging with some adorable(ly huge) dogs. Stranded Dog caught a great shot of the lounging in action. I’m convinced that there’s nothing like a weekend that begins and ends with dogs.

No matter where you are.

*In case you haven’t had a Gritty’s Halloween Ale, please go buy one. Or six.


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