A leafer reveals her true colors

I've noticed that my husband, Todd and I have been escaping Southwest Florida every October/November-ish now for several years in a row like clockwork. It turns out that when Florida folks head north in autumn, the northerners call us "leafers." And I admit it – I'm a proud leafer.

At the end of October, we were in smalltown Ohio (Tipp City, if you've ever heard of it) for my son's wedding.

Fall in Ohio is the perfect backdrop for a small wedding with family and friends. The autumn foliage meant that the decorations were built right in. The leaves still on the trees were vibrant with blazing oranges, cranberry reds and bright yellows. The fallen leaves on the ground crunched satisfyingly under my feet. It was nearly Halloween, a time when small town dwellers go all out when it comes to decorating the outsides of their houses with gravestones, skeletons and Jack-O-Lanterns. At night, the wind blows the gauze ghosts in the trees and the aroma of fresh woodsmoke wafts out of the chimneys. Autumn is magical in the Midwest.

Apparently, our souls craved more leaves because, after all, leafers are going to leaf.

So, when Todd had an opportunity to attend a conference in Boston last week, we decided to repack our sweaters and socks and fly back to autumn. Neither of us had ever been to Boston before. What an adventure it was.

Alas, there wasn't much fall foliage still on the trees way up in those parts where it's inching very close to wintertime, but there were bunches of crunchy leaves on the ground, plenty of fall décor, festive gourds everywhere and lots of stylish Bostonians wearing autumn fashions. For Todd's conference, they put us up in the Back Bay neighborhood of the city, where you get to stroll around and see all sorts of beautiful old architecture, museums, art galleries, expensive restaurants and things you can't afford. So, the folks in that area have a monied look about them – not fancy, mind you – just... monied. I saw a woman in her 70s walking her Cavelier King Charles Spaniel down Newbury Street. She had long silver hair, a Chanel jacket thrown over a plain white T, a pair of vintage looking corduroy bell-bottoms and platform Uggs. I truly want to be her when I grow up. The younger set (and there were plenty, as we were surrounded by colleges and universities) have embraced 1994 grunge as much as I did (back in 1994) and it makes me wish I had held on to all of my ridiculously lacy babydoll dresses, Doc Martens and ripped fishnet stockings so that I could pass such valuable artifacts onto all the collectors I spotted.

One thing I learned during our autumn getaways is that I don't want to be cold. Ohio was pretty mild and in the 60s, but Boston was nippy and in the 30s. On the other hand, I don't want to be hot. Between my powerful menopause and my weak Florida blood, my perfect temperature is 55 degrees, which happens to be the ideal temperature for cheese – and since I love cheese, it would be heaven – as long as there are lots and lots of leaves, of course. ¦

Stephanie Davis is a recovering girl-about-town formerly known as the Downtown Diva. A nearly native Southwest Floridian, when she's not photographing events for Florida Weekly she's perfectly content to stay at home binging Netflix with her husband and two cats, Tennessee and Lilibet.