Castello di Amore

Postcards from Dickinson

Postcards from Carlisle

This American life

In the past two weeks I have:

flown to Denver to attend a conference, go for a couple of runs, walk several times up and down the 16th Street Mall, eat some good food at the Squeaky Bean and Kitchen and Lucky Pie Pizza and drink some excellent beer,

flew to LA to interview some lateral partner candidates whom we will never hire, stay for a second time at the Hyatt Regency Century Plaza in Century City, eat moderately well but drink excellent beer at BJ's Brewhouse at the Westfield mall, and - most satisfying - photograph a paparazzo outside our restaurant in Beverly Hills,

flew home and drive directly the next morning to Vermont, to hike up the E trail to the summit at Killington, stay overnight at the not-so-grand but utterly pleasant grand hotel, wake early the next morning to fish on Woodward Reservoir with E - insisting that we fish the setback on the way back in, and catching the fish of the day,

discovered downtown Keene on the way home - after all these years, who knew?

drove Megan to Logan so that she can fly to Chicago to see her boyfriend

drove Rachel to Kennedy so that she can fly to Italy for three weeks

stayed over in Greenwich and then stopping over in Mystic on the way home

played softball on Sunday morning with the boys, rediscovering my stroke with two solid line drive singles, only to pull up with a lame hamstring.  

Ah, well.  

It only means that next weekend I'll be out in my kayak with a fly rod and a camera.  

Let's go.  Let's go.  

Things are looking down

With apologies, sort of, to Kings of Leon:

I've been roaming around,

I've been looking down,

at all I see.

Postcard from L.A. - No. 2

A homeless man lies in the middle of the street on Cesar Chavez Avenue in downtown LA.  A doorman from one of the apartment buildings kneels over him.  Two police cars arrive.  The officers position their cars to block some but not all of the traffic, then get out and stroll slowly over.  More slowly than you might think right, with a man down in the middle of the road.  Two fire trucks arrive, including an enormous ladder truck, for no apparent reason – an impressive display of both firepower and bureaucracy.  The firemen get out and walk around, waiting for the paramedics, who finally arrive and start doing things.  I see this unfold on my morning run, doing my slow three miles, jogging in place at the lights.  It seems the right thing to keep running, rather than stopping to stare.  The road rises and I plod up the long hill, nearly to the top, before turning around.  By the time I get back to where the man was, all that’s left is one police car.  It makes a u-turn in the street and drives off.  It’s seven in the morning in LA.  The traffic flows easily on Cesar Chavez Avenue, as if nothing had happened at all. 

Postcard from Savannah - No. 2 - Bonaventure Cemetery

After three days in Savannah, on our way to three more on Tybee Island, we make the obligatory stop at Bonaventure Cemetery.  At high noon on a sunny spring day, which we had, it made a good interesting walk, but it was not “achingly beautiful,” as the guidebook had said.   I bet it can be, though, early or late.  And especially with some fog. 

Postcard from Savannah - No. 1

People ask which you like best – Charleston or Savannah.   It’s like asking whether you prefer shrimp and grits to scored flounder.  The answer is what you’re in the mood for.

Having been to Savannah last week, and Charleston some years ago, it’s an unfair question right now.  I will say this:  There’s nothing quite like the historic district of Savannah.   The beautiful homes and churches, the fine squares – the best of which, with trees arching elegantly overhead, feel like small sunlit cathedrals – and especially the quiet, slow elegance of it all. 

The numerous squares deter most traffic completely and slow what little there is.  People stroll and bike.  In the rare line – for a popular breakfast spot – they wait patiently for their turn and happily follow the sensible rule that you don’t occupy a table until you have placed your order at the counter and got your drink.  

These are the things about Savannah that linger – the beauty but also the pace.

Call me Ishmael

   All of the restaurants in all of the seaside towns around Boston have entryways with racks of brochures that are full of pamphlets advertising sturdy little ships that go out from the nearby harbor toward some rolling ocean meadow where the captain knows the whales will be.  The pamphlets of course have great pictures of whales – the great heads of whales breaching, the great backs of whales rolling and diving, the great flukes of whales that somehow make better, more iconic pictures than their faces.    

   And then we finally go – driving into P-town from our rental in Truro, cruising out of the harbor, thinking we will be happy if we see a whale or two.  The captain and the naturalist assure us that we’re in for much better than that.  

   Indeed.  Minke whales at first, so close to shore.  Terrific whales, which roll around us but – as is their habit – neither breach nor show their tales. 

   And then, farther out, at the edge of Stellwagen Bank, we encounter the tremendous humpback whales – sometimes alone, sometimes in groups, rising, rolling, spewing, diving and finally, as we are about to head back, breaching again and again. 

   The naturalist admits that the experts have no idea why whales do this.  It seems not to be a mating ritual, or display of aggression, or anything else that correlates.  So maybe, I’m thinking, it’s just fun.