It’s Renaissance faire weekend, which squashes our usual fetch session at Sunset Park. We’re not sure our skittish chiweenie can handle crossing paths with a faun.

Fidgety, attention-starved Chiquita doesn’t feel like exploring the Valley for a new play spot, but she changes her tune once we hit the parking lot at Charlie Frias Park. She instinctively leads us to the enclosures for canine revelry, where we meet Jason, visiting from LA with his terrier mix Bruce. When my boyfriend laments this smaller, sparer pooch playground, Jason shrugs, countering that he loves the parks of Las Vegas. He normally has to drive to different area codes to visit dog parks he finds appealing, the closest one covered not with grass or dirt, but excrement-camouflaging bark. As he heaps praise on our prolific park system, I both recall the criticisms I’ve heard locals levy against it, and revel in hearing an out-of-towner share my own reverence for our neighborhood outdoor spaces.

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I’ve always been a big fan and patron of the Valley’s park system, comprising clusters run by Clark County and the cities of Las Vegas, North Las Vegas and Henderson (to say nothing of privately run but publicly accessible lawns and walkways in master-planned communities). As a taxpayer I help sustain them, and it’s quite the return on investment. Unlike the gym, which costs me $228 a year to ignore.

I’m usually at the park when I exercise—mostly walking, cranking my iPod while navigating the Huntridge Circle Park labyrinth, hiking behind Hidden Falls Park, lapping the smaller Bob Baskin Park after dark or circling Sunset Park’s bizarre lake. Speaking of the latter facility, that’s the last place I embarrassed myself trying to set and dig, during an LGBT Volleyball Social.

Work also drives me to parks. I never covered Extreme Thing back when it took over the expansive Desert Breeze Park, but I did spend an afternoon there during the Sin City Shootout sports festival, observing softball and kickball games. I reported on a Free Radio protest performance at a Sunset Park barbecue pit in 1999, the organizers broadcasting pirate radio-style. And I’ve caught Vegas musicians in concert at the Winchester Cultural Center Theater, which once played host to (of all things) a Charles Mingus tribute show, triumphantly led by locals Julian Tanaka and Mike Gonzales. The last time I had that much fun indoors at a local park, I was 9 and got to work the pottery wheel during ceramics class.

My boyfriend and I have spent more weekend time at public parks than anywhere else, with or without Chiquita. Speaking of volleyball: One of the first times I met his friends was at a late-night game at Gardens Park and Community Center in Summerlin. (I didn’t dare play this time.) We’ve enjoyed sub sandwiches at Pebble Park and bagel-and-coffee breakfasts at Charlie Kellogg and Joe Zaher Sports Complex—where, coincidentally, an epic trail walk resulted in us resolving to move in together.

Most people are nostalgic for the playgrounds of their youth, but I’m fortunate to have rich memories associated with the parks of my adulthood.

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If there’s one application of park time that’s become really resonant, it’s sanctuary—anything that enables me to reset the day, clear my head and find some modicum of focus. If possible, a spot opposite the kiddie area. A comfortable lawn, as lush and green as the watering schedule permits, though I’m not fussy. And robust trees for necessary shade, the whooshing wind against their leaves—and echoic sound of passing cars—providing just the right white noise for those music-less moments, however rarely I allow them.

My regular Zen hang is Paseo Verde Park, a safe harbor from the suburban bustle of Green Valley and, more importantly, the frenzy of my newsroom. Sometimes I bask in nature’s lunchroom. Other times, I pull out my computer and peck away, inspiration no longer impeded by cross-cubicle jabber. Or I power down and let the greenery and stillness grab hold.

Despite the appeal of those activities in that setting, I typically find myself sitting at my grass patch with my headphones on and my eyes shut. It doesn’t matter that I can’t see or hear the natural elements surrounding me—I can feel them. They enhance whatever destination-less escape I’ve pulled up on my phone, which lately has been instrumental ambient house act Tycho.

As much as this has become my renewal routine, I don’t limit the experience to Paseo Verde. After over-caffeinating at Grouchy John’s one beautiful Saturday, I drive across the street to Desert Bloom Park. With Tycho picked out before I even find my nirvana nook, I plop down far from the home-run zones of the busy baseball diamonds. Just before I close my eyes, I scope out my park neighbors: a birthday barbecue, mother and daughter on the jungle gym, napping woman. Fifteen glorious, floating minutes later, only the woman remains, now chatting away on her phone. And a couple has appeared, picnicking with their German Shepherd happily off his leash. I feel transported.

And then there’s the spontaneous discovery of a new park and—in the instance of a recent, sleepless weekend morning—a more mobile rumination. I arbitrarily choose a spot 20 minutes from home, Nevada Trails Park. Though Kamasi Washington’s “Isabelle” already has me in a trance, I exit my car, survey the scene and ponder how to best kick-start the day. Two teenagers who clearly stayed in last night disrupt the calm with a loud game of hoops, so I forego my usual post-dawn meditation for a reflective saunter on the trails for which the park is named. Coincidentally, the first song that blasts through my headphones is “A Walk,” which just sounds like a weekend morning.

In 20 minutes, I stride down a rock-lined path, stumble upon an unnamed mini-park, explore another trail and wind up on Robindale Road, where just across the street sits more greenery—another secret oasis tucked between housing developments. I pull out my phone and discover that the area, as indicative of local urban sprawl as any, is flecked with these little respites.

I am someone who not only lives in, but physically uses this city. And when I least expect it, there surfaces another opportunity for neighborhood escape. Another argument for a highly livable, surprisingly peaceful Las Vegas.