So much better. Clear of head, buoyed of spirit, reading the New York Times the old-fashioned way, with newsprint smudging my hands. I file this post under places, but it’s really no place, neither here nor there. In transit, which is where I spend a lot of time. Here’s an attempt to capture the best piece of it, a harbor in Greenwich, as I rattle by.
Looking for hope and good will on this dreary January evening. Not to be found among the unfurled umbrellas blossoming without heed to others’ heads and hats and eyes. Nor along the train tunnels, smelling of damp and scorched fuel. The sky-blue Tiffany billboards, posted before the holidays, look shopworn. The first car I try smells, unforgivably, of the bathroom. The next is a bar car, decorated with faux-bois wallpaper, which will have “no scheduled service this evening,” the conductor announces. Are we to hold out hope for impromptu, spontaneous drink pouring? I wedge onto the vinyl-upholstered bench with two others, one with a sinus issues of the nasal sort. January, either you must leave or I will. We cannot coexist.