The Magic Gardens in Philadelphia is a museum and community arts space created by artist Isaiah Zagar. It was build over many years using recycled materials, found objects, and about a million different colors. Here are a few of them:
We're not really the type to see sunrises very often. Quite literally, our hometown has a neighborhood called the Sunset.*
*A big shout-out goes to Stonestown Galleria. We wouldn't be here without you. RIP Limited Too, Zutopia and the Croc's Kiosk.
That being said, we're so lucky Maggie's cousin Annie invited us for a sunrise walk on the beach in Rye, New Hampshire.
She promised us there'd be a moment when the sands would reflect the sky and the whole world would feel orange. As you can see from the pictures below, she delivered on her promise.
We promised her that, since it was 4:45am, we'd be cranky and wouldn't be able to form complete sentences. We, too, delivered on our promise.
...talk about great faces, great places. Touché, South Dakota.
We were in the most beautiful place in South Dakota: The Badlands National Park. It was stunning. Everything was cloaked in a soft yellow light. Deer were prancing around. Honest to God, it was a God-Damn Lana Del Rey music video. Honestly to Lana Del Rey, it was godly. It was hard to take our eyes off of it.
THANK GOD / LANA DEL REY CUZ WE SURE AS SHIT WEREN'T GONNA LOOK AT EACH OTHER.
...See, none of us remembers why now but we were all in a fight. Tess vs. Maggie, Maggie vs. Ceil, Ceil vs. Tess. It came to a fever pitch when we shared an appetizer trio at the local bar right outside the park.
We pretty much ate our microwaved appetizers in silence and, I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a T.G.I. Friday's commercial, but that is no fucking way to eat appetizers. Do you know how awful it is to bite into a mozzarella stick that still is frozen in the center and have to silently chew it because you’re friends are being equally as icy?! IT’S TORTURE!
We got back to the camp just in time for the most beautiful sunset we've ever seen.
Jesus! Pop a Midol, Mother Nature! I'm trying to be passive aggressive towards my friends which is really hard to do with such aggressive beauty in my face.
We ended up all separating. I won't say who did what exactly but one of us went for a hike, one of us ran off with some cute Israeli boys with man-buns to listen to music and drink whiskey and one of us wandered around looking for enough cell service to look up if there was an ACTUAL T.G.I Friday's around. (PS: if you're wandering around the Badlands and you see a mirage of a Friday's, is it technically called a CGI Friday's? Can someone get Michael Bay on this? He owes me one. He'll know what I'm talking about).
In all honesty, The Bad Blood National Park was so spectacular and vibrant, it's something everyone should see in their lifetime, no matter how stubborn and pig-headed their loved ones are.
In the end, we all made up and THIS IS NOT A STOCK IMAGE I SWEAR.
As we head north towards Wyoming, we are well aware that we'll be seeing less and less of the iron-rich reds and oranges that we've fallen in love with here in the Southwest and Colorado.
Today we visited Colorado Springs' Garden Of The Gods and got to enjoy these warm colors one last time.
Sure, north in Denver there's the concert venue Red Rocks, but, come on, guys — we're poor. The only concert we can afford is when an attention-starved barista at Starbucks hums along to the Nora Jones playing in the background. And even that's pushing it.
Why do they call it Garden of the Gods? One of the two guys who set up Colorado City suggested the park would be a "capital place for a beer garden." The other dude, likely someone who has to top what other people say all the time, said "Beer Garden?! Why it is a fit place for the gods to assemble. We shall call it the Garden Of The Gods."
... to which the first guy hopefully responded something along the lines of "okay, man, there are no wrong answers during brainstorming."
Well, goodbye for now, red rocks. We're northward to places like Boulder and Yellowstone where the stones will likely be... yellow? I don't know. How would we know? Because this is a color blog and we're knowledgable and we do our research? Red rocks, please. Get real.
Prayer To Saint Francis:
Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace
Where there are long roads, let us have gas
When we have gas, let there be probiotics
Where there are probiotics, let Ceil not talk too much about the innerworkings of the GI Tract
So we took Pug-A-Boo to the cutest dog park in Arizona. The locals call it the grand canyon (probably because it’s such a grand place to walk your balloon pug!).
It’s a weird feeling when you’re writing a blog but you still can hear no one laughing at your own jokes. Fine, douchebags, it’s the Grand Canyon and, while we’re on the subject, pets technically aren’t allowed. (But we brought Pug-A-Boo anyway).
This place is friction’ crazy. People should really talk about it.
Anyways, as you can imagine, the colors here are bonkers. Ceil would like to note that “they rock.” Get it, because of the rocks? Maggie would like to note that she’s going to effing kill herself. Get it, because of the rock joke Ceil made?
With so many different layers deep within the canyon, and so many different shadows depending on the time of day, there’s no real limit to the colors you’ll find here.
The most striking, and famous, is a level called the Redwall Limestone. It’s what gives the grand canyon its notorious orange-red color because of the iron-oxide in the sediment. Iron is behind a lot of things that are famous for being red.
We actually hiked pretty far down into the canyon. We wanted to see the color gradation for ourselves. We got pretty far and it was spectacular. BUT THEN an old, old man (think Jafar’s disguise in the beginning of Aladdin) who “volunteers” for the park told us we had “probably gone too far and it was too late in the day and we better turn around.” No joke, guys, it was like 2:30 in the afternoon. This guy was batshit. But he got into our heads and we turned around before we had planned to.
Later, when we returned to the top, we spoke to a ranger who told us there hadn’t been any volunteers in the canyon since 1948. My bones went as ice-cold as the Colorado River. Pretty eerie, right?!
Okay, another bad joke that no one’s laughing at. The volunteer did really exist. But, honestly, that’s how old he was.
Look at the other asshole we met on the trail:
And, for a bonus, here’s another pic of Pug-A-Boo.