and in that moment, i swear we were infinite

They carried wine from Trader Joe’s, blankets, almonds and goldfish (the Pepperidge Farm kind), and they were headed to the Great Lawn in search of a patch of grass. It was 6:15 on Tuesday evening, a breezy, golden 77 degrees, and people were streaming into the park with plastic bags of picnic food, like pilgrims bearing offerings, for one of the city’s great summer rites: At 8 p.m., on the grassy oval ringed by oaks, skyscrapers and the almost-too-cute turrets of Belvedere Castle, the New York Philharmonic would start to play. Free.

- "In Central Park, Nearing Consensus on Perfection" (NYTimes)

Picnics in the park; dancing after dark -- this is what summer will always mean to me.