Postcards from the Acela - No. 1

   If you have ridden the train between Boston and New York even once, you know to nab a seat on the East side of the train (that's the left side heading south, in case you are directionally impaired).  It is on this side, during the middle of the trip, as you roll along the Connecticut coast, that you get priceless views, of marshes and bays, little beaches and boats, tidal creeks and the Long Island Sound.  Some are long views, but some are just glimpses between the trees.  Mind the view, and not just your laptop computer.

  This last trip down, early on a Friday morning in June, was a revelation.  The train was nearly empty.  Instead of these furtive shots with my Blackberry, I could have brought a proper camera and fired away without embarrassment.  I actually had it in my bag the night before, but took it out.  Who takes real pictures on the train?  I do.  Next time.  

  

    

Hitchhike

   Thoughts ripped away unfinished in the draft of speeding trucks.  They mingle with the flying dust that settles in the corners of his eyes.  Makes him blink.  

   He stands on the shoulder of the road, shifting his feet in the coarse sand.  Waiting for a chance to sit down facing the other way, the way he wants to go.  

   He shifts his weight to the other foot, the other leg, the other side of his back.  

   A slow dance. 

Postcards from New Orleans

   Nawlins.  Nola.  The Big Easy.  We've been saying for a long time that we should go there, and we were right.  The French Quarter - aside from the ridiculous Bourbon Street - is fantastic.  The countless unspoiled old buildings with ironwork railings and brick and stucco facades and hidden courtyards, the shops and galleries along Royal Street, the Cigar Factory on Decatur, the old school jazz at Preservation Hall, the fried chicken and gumbo at Eat, the crazy old bar that is Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop, and the street musicians who put every other city's to shame.  The old green streetcars that rattle along St. Charles Street.  The outstanding fare at Herbsaint, especially the mussels with frites and a creamy sauce of sun-dried tomatoes and fresh thyme, while sipping a not-too-sweet Sazerac cocktail on the side, and then some terrific sauteed flounder with a glass of dry white burgundy.  The barbecued oysters and gumbo at Acme Oyster House, with a glass of the local Abita amber.  The stupendously huge raw oysters (but not so much else) at Redfish Grill.  The best fried catfish sandwich ever and old diner vibe at Camellia's on New Carrolton.  The beignets at Cafe Du Mond.  The quiet old neighborhood across the river in Algiers.  The refreshing breeze that always moves along the levee.  A great take for four days in April.

Angry birds

  It's April, so robins bounce around the back yard, doing what robins do.  Swoop, stand, jog for a bit, nab a small worm in the grass.  Repeat.

   But then, distracted from my work, I see one standing in the yard with what looks like a big clump of mud in its beak.  Odd.  

   And then he (it must be a he) flies straightaway into the kitchen window with a loud thunk.  He bounces off and goes right back to the spot in the yard where he was standing before, looking none the worse.  The clump of mud is stuck on the window.

   I don't often say this to robins, but what the fuck?  Is this about the cookies you can see on the counter, which you want left out for you?  You want the bird-feeder back, the one we had years ago?  If you want to talk, then let's talk.  But vandalism will get you nowhere.

This bud's for you.

Postcard from Central Park

   ... early on a Friday morning, without too many joggers and bikers about.  A cool morning, sun climbing, birds in song.  At the right spots on the rolling paths, where the birds are most active, it sounds like a true walk in the woods.  Refreshing, restorative.  But for the occasional odor of urine.

April Sunday

... which happens to be Easter.  Cool, overcast and breezy.  Forsythia, forever first, is everywhere, along with the other yellows - daffodils and dandelions.

   The Red Sox opened two days ago, which causes the baseballs and wiffleballs of inspired New England youth to bloom on spring lawns, too.  They've lost their first two games, and looked bad doing it.  But so what?  Eight weeks ago today I had a heart attack, and it's an awfully nice day - cloudy, cool and breezy thought it is - to go for a walk.