In Gmail – in G life – it is very easy to find the most recent substantive correspondence you’ve had with a friend who lives far away. And, I have discovered, this keeps me more honest than I would otherwise be. Really? I felt that way in October of 2006? That’s not the story I’ve been telling for the past two years.
Vicky and I did two four thousand footers this weekend, camping in Tuckerman Ravine and climbing the summits of Washington and Monroe, two of the excellent Southern Presidential Range, by day. Late Sunday night, I took the bus back to New York from Boston. I expected it to be miserable but instead I set my iPod to the H songs and took a great deal of pleasure at squinting at Motherless Brooklyn until we reached Manhattan. At that point, the bus surged into being as a marvelous creature before whom all advancing armies fall. All of 5th Avenue seemed to be on silent, frozen parade just for us; each light we approached would turn green, the bus would gather itself up and charge through the intersection and another tableau of fancy shop models, or quiet, hulking museum, or opulent apartment interior, would come into view. I couldn’t drink enough in; it was like I had never seen Manhattan before. The streets were almost entirely empty, but the buildings were aglow.
There is no Citgo station at the Citgo sign, in Boston. I hadn’t known that. Now my willingness to defend the sign diminishes somewhat.
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