It’s rainy and gray and cool when it should be warm. Cheery doors in bright colors–they always make me pause–is one antidote. When I’m a homeowner, I vow to paint my front door some ridiculous shade. Pumpkin or cerulean. Shiny cherry-red or matte mustard. Celadon–accented with some modern door numbers. I can’t wait. For now, I just photograph them, cliche as it may be. The first is around the corner, on Ravenswood, and the second is far, far away–in a small village on Crete, Greece. Both make me smile on a day like today.

One year ago this week, I ate fresh, salty feta and briney shrimp washed down with a shot of local Raki for good measure. I walked under canopies of bright pink bougainvillea and over pebbly sand scorched by the sun.

I even traipsed Europe’s longest gorge—Samaria—past mysterious rock formations and Cypress trees of Biblical proportions amid some of the most spectacular views I’ve ever seen. Coming to the end of the gorge, and the four-hour hike, an intimate village and its flower-covered tavernas emerged.

There I gulped a tall, sweet frappe before wandering to a tiny beach on Crete’s Southern shore. Pat plunged into the water; I stayed on dried land, squinting in vain to glimpse Africa in the distance. Afterward, Pat retired with his book, and I spied with my compact mirror, deliriously tired and content and filled up on sweet coffee and sunshine.