From the collection. Without permission of owner.
Flying Pigeon, Manhattan Style
Flying Pigeon, at the East 35th Street ferry pier in Manhattan. The bike’s got classic good looks, and the locking strategy–using the cable lock as the bike version of The Club, preventing the front wheel from turning–I haven’t seen before. We came back to this spot several hours later, but I didn’t notice whether this machine was still there or not.
Berkeley Owl Update: Infernal Twilight
We’re just in from the last dog-walk of the night. The typical August overcast is here, a low cloud cover that reflects the lights of the city and creates an un-dark condition, a kind of infernal twilight that persists from sundown to sunup. A very unromantic, blatting horn–maybe a train, maybe a very annoying truck–sounds in the night. Overall I find the scene less than enchanting. I probably need to get to bed.
The date palm a couple blocks away, the one where our neighborhood barn owls have been nesting, is quiet. The birds have moved out, almost. We got up early this morning to try to see the birds before full daylight. We have been hearing the birds in the area after dark, and we thought maybe we’d see them fly back to their nesting tree before the sun was up. In the non-rosy-fingered dawn–it was more like a wooly gray-blanket dawn–we heard what sounded like one bird in the palm. Then, at about 6 o’clock, two owls flew out of the tree and headed northwest, in the general direction of the bay. No other sound came from the tree, and there was no sign of the other three or four birds we figured were there as recently as a couple weeks ago.
We went back for this evening’s overcast sunset. Again, silence from the tree. But as it got dark, first one and then a second barn owl flew into the palm–from the northwest, the same direction we’d seen them go this morning. After a few minutes, one of the pair flew out into the dusk to hunt. We heard one or two other barn owls in the neighborhood, but didn’t make another sighting. We’ll look again tomorrow.
…. And Back Again
We’re back west. And to get here, we took a flight at 6:30 a.m. from Newark to San Francisco. That’s a shot out a starboard window, a couple minutes off the runway. It was a beautiful trip, even if most of the pictures did not turn out.
To get to the flight, we got up at 4 in the morning or so and were on our way from our friend Lisa’s house to the airport at 4:30. The weather on the other coast was summery but not appalling. Meaning humid and warm bordering on hot. I saw in the weather forecast last night that alerts for poor air quality had been issued for parts of the New York area, and a string of 90-degree days are coming up, too. Maybe we dodged some unpleasant, sticky, August weather. I don’t mind missing it. What I will always miss, what memory does not oversell, are the nights, so warm and lush they practically demand you come outside and sit or stroll.
Back by our bay, our summer is in full force, too. Sunny and highs in the 70s. After sunset, the temperature was a breezy 60. Our summers aren’t oversold either: they’re humane and let you go from Memorial Day to Labor Day without thinking about air conditioning. You just need to remember your sweater or flannel shirt for that after-dark walk, and your fine.
Friday Ferry
We took the boat from Highlands, New Jersey, to Manhattan (an East River dock at E. 35th Street). The trip is about an hour each way and costs $40 round trip (I gather most of the patrons are daily commuters who get a deal for buying a 40-ride ticket). We caught the 2:50 p.m. boat, which actually departed about half an hour late (no announcements were made to the two or three dozen people, mostly tourists like us, waiting to make the trip).
It was a beautiful, calm day on the water, but even so this trip is much more like being on the sea than the short trips across the Bay from San Francisco and Oakland. The boat rolled slowly on the swell and made it tough to walk straight across the deck. At the New York end we sailed east of Governor’s Island, under the Brooklyn, Manhattan and Williamsburg bridges, and got off the boat at the end of 35th Street. We walked to the New York Public Library, then doubled back to Grand Central Station and jumped on the No. 5 subway to downtown Brooklyn. We met our friends Jan and Chris there, then took a GPS-assisted drive to Fornino pizza on Bedford Avenue in Williamsburg. Two small-world experiences: first, my brother John lived in this now hipster-intensive neighborhood about 20 years ago, when it was a little less given over to sidewalk performers, book vendors, and nice restaurants, bars, and boutiques. Second, Fornino, where we ate, is run by a friend of his.
Dinner was great, then Chris and Jan drove us back to Manhattan for the ferry home. It was warm and clear all the way across. Fireworks over Coney Island. A couple of shooting stars fell as we crossed the bay back to New Jersey. Ashore, then back to Highland Park.
Half-Day Fluke
On the harbor at Atlantic Highlands, N.J. About 5:30 in the afternoon, this boat is preparing to go out for an evening sail. One of the signs on the dock says: “You are permitted 4 cans of beer per person. Absolutely no drinking prior to departure.” And fluke? They’re a kind of flounder found here in the summer.
Motel View
From the Hampton Inn in Hazleton, Pennsylvania, our shelted from last night’s storm. Not bad for a motel view.
Motel View
From the Hampton Inn in Hazleton, Pennsylvania, our shelted from last night’s storm. Not bad for a motel view.
‘Yes, This Is a Restaurant’
We drove from Geneva on the Lake, Ohio, to West Hazleton, Pennsylvania, today. Nearly 400 miles, and the first 300 on two-lane roads–state highways and U.S. routes out of Ashtabula County, the northeasternmost in Ohio, across northern Pennsylvania to Mansfield. Eastbound on U.S. 6, we hit U.S. 15 there and took it south to Interstate 180, which makes a semicircle to the east and south of Williamsport and leads you to I-80. From there we drove until very heavy rain hit, just after sunset. After about 10 miles during which a lot of traffic simply pulled over to the shoulder, we and some other kept going with our hazard flashers on until we got to the Pennsylvania 93 exit and drove south until we found a motel.
We got a late-ish start out of Geneva OLT, about 11:30, but I was inclined to stop when I saw stuff that interested me anyway. Well, most stuff. I did skip a picturesquely seedy old resort called "Ralph's" on the outskirts of town. But not too far down the road, I stopped at the little box of a public hall in Denmark Township. And just east of there was a little crossroads (Ohio 7 and 167) called Pierpont, near the Pennsylvania line in Ashtabula County. The place is as closed as it says it is. It looks like a mess, outside and in. But if one local's review is to be believed, it would be a pretty unusual dining experience. (The text of the sign in the window: "Temporarily Closed. If you live out of town, leave your phone number if you want me to call when I reopen. Thanks.")
Road to Vacationville
That’s a billboard at the western end of the Indiana Tollroad. In Gary, to be a little more precise. We saw it as we drove east from Chicago to Geneva on the Lake, Ohio. It’s a hard-looking little town east of Cleveland that bills itself as Ohio’s first Lake Erie resort. The shore is lined with summer cottages, old travel courts, and some newer, swankier buildings that look like they could be time-share condos. There’s a strip where bars, cheap eats, arcades, and souvenir shops dominate. So do bikers, on the weekends. The weekdays and nights are pretty quiet. Walking down the main street last night at 1a.m., there were a few drinkers traipsing from bar to bar looking for a last round. A woman called to us as we passed a winery, “Excuse me! Excuse me, sir! Is that winery open?” I heard the same woman call across the street to a couple of guys a few minutes, “Hey, I’ve got drinks over here!”). It’s friendly enough here, anyway. (Below: Eddie’s walk-up Dairy Queen and hamburger stand.)
