As I write this, I am gliding majestically through frigid air currents towards the welcoming embrace of Detroit. Whatever elegant picture this conjures in your mind, savor it. For at the moment I am squarely flanked by two wailing German toddlers and cramped neatly behind a rather large body builder whose seat back reclines remarkably deep into my lap and subsequently askew tray table. Seeing as a 10,000 foot drop awaits my other side, ample space to type, wiggle, or dare I suggest, breathe, is distinctly lacking. Yet, I persevere, my laptop folded in on itself into a glowing piece of origami. (Apple, I patent the iGami here and now. Eat your heart out.)
Such is the love this grandchild has for her dear, persistent Grandfather. Let it be noted.
Back to November.
After our tree nursery run-in, Jaime and I continued our adventure at a leisurely pace, making our way up Sixth Avenue towards the heart of SOHO. (Note: This far down in Manhattan, ie, at some random point indiscernible to native Ohioans, Sixth Avenue is referred to only as “Avenue of the Americas”. However, the understandable confusion that arises in those of us whose hometown’s have street names that stay put like obedient Labradors should be suppressed at all costs, lest one earns the despised moniker of “tourist”.) We stopped in at various galleries, cultivating our stoic art-appreciator gazes. Some were more interesting than others. I particularly liked one little shop that displayed bicycles trussed up by different artists; one even incorporated a fully functional tequila shot bar (bucket of limes included) that the owner swore worked perfectly in transit. But before long, we gave in to our grumbling stomachs and popped into a posh little Italian Bistro. The pasta was delightful, but both Jaime and I were swooning too much over the amazing root beer to notice. Sated, we started to make our way down to Chambers Street.
At this point, it’s probably worth mentioning the ominous gray skies that had been hanging over us for a good part of the morning. Of course, it being November, gray was the weather’s typical color of choice, so I hadn’t been overly worried. At least at the start. But as we made our way towards lower Manhattan, it became clear that any worries I was harboring should hurry up and make way for absolute, soaking certainty. Not to be outdone by a little (read: a lot of) water, Jaime and I pressed on towards our destination: The Brooklyn Bridge. I had been in the city for almost three months, but had yet to lay eyes on the modern marvel. Today, we weren’t just going to have a look either. No, we were going to walk it. Truly the best way to experience the first steel cable suspension bridge, and certainly the only way to fully appreciate it. Plus, you get a great view of Manhattan.
And so we pressed on. Despite soaked sneakers, lashing rain, and an all-encompassing fog. As wet as I was, it was actually a stunningly beautiful walk. The architecture was so unique and held so much history, and the vistas from the middle of the river made even the stormy day lovely. The 1,595.5 feet went by quickly though, and we soon found ourselves in another world entirely: Brooklyn.
More to come!
