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. 

Say goodbye to Paradise (at least for lunch)

    Atlantis.  The destination resort on Paradise Island, connected by a pair of short, steep bridges to the small city of Nassau on the island of New Providence in the Bahamas. 

   It being a destination resort –- full of waterslides and aquariums and fancy shops and restaurants and game rooms and a casino and even an Indiana Jones-like “dig” of “the lost city of Atlantis” –- our group is content not to leave the destination.  Despite my occasional cajoling, no one wants to trek with me across the bridge to explore Nassau for a bit.  And so I go alone.

   I hoof over the bridge and onto the main drag that leads, in maybe a mile, to the center of Nassau.  It’s a strange walk, from the overgrown, rattle-trap, run-down outskirts of town past the occasional modern bank building and suddenly into a thriving, downtown scene of government buildings and luxury stores staffed with impeccably uniformed and coifed and utterly lovely Bahamian women.  I wonder what the little houses look like where they do their hair and makeup in the morning and where they go at the end of the day, after selling $5,000 watches to tourists from the cruise ships in the harbor. 

   Once I’ve seen the center of town, I wander up the hill and around a few streets behind it to see the big pink building at the top of the hill, which must be the governor’s residence, snapping pictures –- since lost –- of the big house and some other bits of Nassau that catch my fancy and my untrained eye.

   I’m not hungry, but the smells –- and my desire to live just a bit of the life of Bourdain -- draw me into a local café, where I have a fine cup of conch chowder, a half-dozen superb and piping hot conch fritters and a cold, delicious bottle of Kalik, the ubiquitous Bahamian beer.  I eat and drink and read the USA Today sports section that I had tossed into Rachel’s backpack along with my light fleece and camera and sunglasses and Blackberry, all of which makes me a bit less like my hero Bourdain and a bit more like the tourists around the corner shopping for jewelry and such.  

   Ah well.  Tony would have enjoyed the fritters, and the beer, and the local scenes on the walk between Nassau and Paradise.