Only The Dead Know Brooklyn

I got a last-minute tip-off that my friend B from Seattle was staying with friends in Brooklyn. So I jumped the LIRR to Flatbush Ave. and met up with him for some drinks and some poutine.

 
Brooklyn poutine, not that bad. Seriously.

 
Me and B, like old times.

The title of this post is a reference to a great short story of the same name by Thomas Wolfe and published in The New Yorker, June 1935. The (fabulous) first line is:

Dere's no guy livin' dat knows Brooklyn t'roo an' t'roo, because it'd take a guy a lifetime just to find his way aroun' duh f_____ town.

It tells the story of a guy trying to find his way to the Redhook neighborhood with a map of Brooklyn, and getting bum steers from locals who don't know Brooklyn t'roo and t'roo. After leaving Flatbush Ave. in search of B and his friends, I could definitely relate. Duh place is a f_____ maze. Fortunately I didn't have to go all the way to Redhook, but B did; that's where his friends live.

Red Hook! Jesus!
-- Thomas Wolfe

People, Not Places

Here I am, almost six months into my nomadic life, and I've spent only one month out of the country! That's a little embarrassing considering all my big talk back in March. It's funny how expectations rarely line up with reality.

Six months ago, I was excited thinking about all the places I wanted to visit. But freedom to travel also means freedom to see more of the people I care about -- to visit old friends and family and to be there for the people who need me. Rather than picking destinations based on how exotic or beautiful they are, I've been drawn to the ones called home by the people who energize and excite me.

Blah, blah, blah! Here are some pictures from the Feast of San Gennaro in Little Italy, NYC, which I used as an excuse to catch up with my friend M from Seattle and Y from San Francisco (both New Yorkers, now):

 
A heavy smoke hangs over the crowded street. The street vendors were doing a brisk business in grilled beasts of all sorts.

 
Throw another squid on the barbie! Ick.

 
Washington Square Park, where I was nearly hustled in a game of chess.

Not long from now, I'll board a plane for North Carolina -- another destination not originally on my travel itinerary -- to visit an old buddy who, for his own reasons, has recently come to more fully appreciate the people in his life. I'm really looking forward to it.

Fire Island, by Me

It's been a week since I got back from Fire Island, and I've been remiss about uploading my photos. Chalk up my lack of motivation to the fact that Gail's photographs are better than mine. Next time, I'll show my pictures first.

 
Oooh, pretty clouds.

 
A walkway through the Sunken Forest.

 
A view from the top of the Fire Island Lighthouse.

 
Sunset over Fire Island.

You can find the rest of my Fire Island photos here:
[thumbnails] [slideshow]

Fire Island, by Gail At Large

My friend Gail vacationed with me and my family on Fire Island for a few days. As in Toronto, her photos are so much better than mine that I'll just show hers. Be sure to check back, as I'm sure Gail will be adding more photos to this set.

[thumbnails] [slideshow]

Running Around Town, Part 4

I step onto the beach and turn right to run into the wind. On my left, the surf. Ahead is an unoccupied stretch of sand and, in the far distance, the lighthouse.

My first few strides are short and tentative as I get a feel for the loose sand under my bare feet. First aide tape is wrapped around my big toes for protection. Soon my legs and lungs are pumping. Waves pounds the sand. My feet pound it, too; four steps for each wave. Now five. Six. Watch out for broken shells. Jellyfish. Breathing heavy now, in and out like waves, misty salt air in my nose, a salty residue on my sunglasses blurring my vision. My salty sweat coming down on my glasses, too. In the sky ahead, a big hazy ring around the sun.

I turn and put the sun and the wind at my back, waves crashing on my right now. Spy the water tower, my landmark. Pick up the pace. The surf and my breath are the only sounds. Faster. And now just my breath. The words drain from my mind and there's an emptiness, expanding, carrying me with it. Carrying me.

Greetings From Arthur Ashe Stadium

My father scored tickets to the US Open, so yesterday we funneled into Arthur Ashe Stadium along with about 30,000 other tennis fanatics from around the world.

Not everyone loves tennis so I won't bore, but we really did see some great matches in Center Court: Roger Federer vs. Leyton Hewitt, Melanie Oudin vs. Maria Sharapova, and Andy Roddick vs. John Isner. The Oudin/Sharapova match alone was worth the price of admission. Watching the 17 year old American beat back from a 1 set deficit to win was just too much!

 
I seem to recall Arthur Ashe wearing more than this.

 
We were in the nose bleed section. Getting even this mediocre shot of Maria Sharapova's serve was a challenge.

 
The late afternoon sun does a peek-a-boo act with the Goodyear blimp.

 
My father and I are happy and tired from a hard day of spectating.

Running Around Town, Part 3

This is the little corner of the world I grew up in. Armed with a camera and a pair of running shoes, I set out to see it through fresh eyes. And what do you know? Long Island is more beautiful than I remember.

This is part of Tappen Beach. If I could post smells to the blog, I'd post a smell of a salty bay at low tide, with some stale seaweed and the distinctive odor of mussels baking in the late afternoon sun. It smells like my childhood.
 

Kayak rentals at Tappen Beach.
 

The waterfront along Hempstead Harbor. Not that bad.
 

This guy looked like I felt at this point in my run.
 

Best of Toronto, '09

I left Toronto yesterday morning on an early train. In looking over my photos from my month there, I can only say this: Gail is a better photographer than I. Regardless, here are the less horrible ones:



(If you can't see the slideshow, try viewing this post on my blog.)

Now I'm sitting in my parents' backyard, enjoying some watermelon and the view of my mother's beautiful garden.