The summer I turned thirty, flamingos appeared everywhere. As pool floats in Lake Shasta. As floating drink holders in Joshua Tree. In leggy animal form in balmy Los Angeles.

They followed me across California, into shimmering pools and blue rivers and the cool cool ocean; they were inescapable.

And thus, Flamingo Summer was born.

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Flamingo Summer is the feeling of a surprise beach day in San Francisco. Of a fresh watermelon margarita on a warm night. Of running into friends on the street. Of a perfect Saturday spent doing crosswords in the park. Of floating perilously near the Golden Gate Bridge on a flamingo floaty. Of sunny possibility.