Blogpost 17. Winding down.

Suddenly, this week, the reality of next week came clanging in like a fire truck. I’m going to be at home, wondering about mowing the grass, seeing neighbours, friends, family, thinking shopping lists, making soup and flapjacks, writing promo for both Poetry by the Barrow, (booked May 26th for under the marquee by the river) and an Open Mic I’m hosting on Wed May 8th in Walters pub, Dunlaoghaire – if any of you are interested in either Walters or coming down for a soujourn in Graiguenamanagh. I’m getting excited at the prospect of waking up in my own bed, of seeing everyone, of doing the gardening! Of getting dug into everything, of being able to use just one phone again, of tech getting easier. 

My second week in Toronto seemed to whizz right past. On the Tuesday, I walked down to Giuseppe’s daycare with Clover, and watched him organise his indoor shoes, hang up his coat, check out his friends and wave us goodbye. It was a small enough gathering, and the people working there seemed lovely. I was introduced as the aunty that might be picking him up later (which indeed I did).  I’ve been looking at the map of Toronto, wondering about where to go to look at Lake Ontario. Clover pointed out that it was just down the road from the daycare, and there was a beach. She went off to work, and I went to the beach. It’s such a huge lake that the other side isn’t visible, so it feels just like the ocean, with waves lapping to shore, though without the seaweed or the smell of the briney. A nice wooden boardwalk framed the curved beach, with not many trees for shade in summer. No sign of any icecream shops, but I guess they only open when the summer is fully in the door – it isn’t yet.  In the late afternoon, I took the huge jogging buggy that they have and went to the daycare to pick up Giuseppe, who gave me a heroes welcome and jumped in, ready to go home, then provided a running commentary on everything we were seeing. His vocabulary is remarkable for his age, all delivered with great wit and running jokes.

On Wednesday, Clover drove myself and Giuseppe to the McMichael Museum, which is entirely devoted to art by Canadian modern artists. I know nothing of Canadian art, but the Group of Seven feature prominently, along with much art by Inuit or First Nations artists. It’s set in 100 acres of forested land on the Humber river, and the buildings themselves are designed to give a great feel of nature within them. We began by following Giuseppe along a path by a small tributary of the Humber. There were sticks to be found and thrown, a half-finished beaver dam to check out, paths to choose. We eventually found our way back to the Museum and walked though the art exhibits, all placed in such a way as to not wear you out. Clover mentioned that indigenous artists have come to prominence much more so recently – even since she arrived here, they have become the focal point, rather than something secondary. We spent time outside on the bronze wolves, perfect for a little lad to climb. We had begun the day in cold weather, so sat in the car to have our picnic, then conditions improved when the sun came out properly and by the end of the day it was summer. Wonderfully mixed weather all week long.

On Thursday, I decided to head for the Four Seasons Centre for the Performing Arts at lunchtime – Clover had told me that there were free lunchtime opera performances. It took a bit of negotiation – two streetcars and a bus – to get there, as the city is trying to construct a new subway line and it’s causing chaos to public transport. However, I got there just on time. I had hoped to see Donizetti’s Don Pasquale, but it turned out that it was a piano performance that day, by a local pianist, of the works of an English composer, one Samuel Coleridge Taylor, who was born to an English mother and father from Sierra Leone in the late 19th century. Taylor was given his father’s name, and also that of the well-known poet. He was exceptionally talented, and became very well-known, especially in the United States, where slavery had been abolished. However, despite having major success, and being one of the only black composers/musicians to tour, he made very little money and died young. This was a historic performance of his works by a black pianist, a sort of political gesture. Fascinating. The building itself is stunning – three glass walls beside a gallery of seating allowed the audience to gaze out over the city streets, while listening to the tremendous music.

On Friday, Clover, Guiseppe and myself headed off early to get to Toronto Island. It’s just offshore from Toronto, the ferry ride only takes a matter of minutes, but it’s another world. The island is big – it’s actually 15 small islands, 820 acres with a population of 700. There’s a school and kindergarten on the island, which also caters for the people who live facing the island on the mainland – they travel to school by ferry. We chose from one of three ferry destinations, to go to Ward’s Island (and walk to Algonquin Island, connected by bridge). We arrived and walked on the boardwalk, with lovely views of the city, til we came to a playground and took a break. Then onwards towards an interesting cafe called the Riviera, where we ordered lunch in a packed dining room. After this, we crossed the bridge to Algonquin Island, where a series of jetties down to the river beckoned, some with boats tied up, some not. All along the side were really interesting houses with cottage gardens, some of them with advertising outside for Art for Sale/Exhibitions, surrounded by trees for shade. We walked all around the island and it’s lovely houses. Originally, it was slated to be big golf course, but instead of that, housing was allowed. You can only get a 100 year lease on the house – after that, it goes to the next person on some municipal list. Then we went back to Ward Island, and walked around their housing area, quirky, different, often quite rundown, on tiny back roads, just wonderful hideaways. We agreed that it must be quite a lonesome place in the winter, when the water between the city and the island freezes over (they keep a channel open for the ferry), but a magical place otherwise.

On Friday evening, we packed up the car and Fabio drove us all up north to Tiny, in the Georgian Bay area, to a stunning cabin in the woods, owned by friends Conor and Vanessa, who were already there with their three lovely boys. Once the car was unpacked, and all the children were asleep, we all had drinks and great fun was had by all. I slept in a sort of annex, and in the morning, I woke at 7 and headed in to the kitchen, to find four little boys all drawing and colouring, talking in whispers lest they wake the parents. They were the most entertaining company for the weekend, curious, fun, full of mischief and wonder, energetic, hilarous, loving and yet negotiating endlessly. As soon as we’d had some breakfast, we all headed out the door for a great walk down to the beach, a gorgeous secluded spot, for some puddle-jumping, stick-collecting, wading in the waves. As soon as we were a way down the beach, heavy rain fell, and we almost abandoned ship altogether (some of us anyhow), but soon enough it eased off and we trailed back to the house for a most welcome bowl of soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. Then out came the Duplo, the small cars, the paper and pencils, and rounds of tea. At one stage, I looked at my watch, and thought it said 5 o’clock, but it was 1.25 – our day had begun so early that any sense of time had flown out the window. Then the weather really dried up properly and we went out for a second walk. There’s almost no traffic in this place, though you do have to be careful of the odd car with kids, but mostly the houses are holiday homes. Back then to play on the ingenious set-up they have – industrial ratchet straps tied between two trees, the bottom one to stand on, the top one with a selection of rings and trapeze swings, so you can do monkey bars, but have your feet on a bouncing strap below. Endless hours of family entertainment. Dinner was a great feast of tacos with DIY fillings, then Conor lit the firepit outside and toasted marshmallows turned into “Smores” – a sandwich made of graham crackers, a piece of chocolate and a toasted marshmallow – appararently a Canadian Scout specialty. A bit too sweet for my liking…..

I woke up late on the Sunday – 9am! And had missed a couple of hours of fun already. The kids were all out on the ratchet straps already, bouncing away, thinking up new ways to twist, turn, hurl themselves off it. Once I’d had breakfast, myself and Clover headed to the beach with the four boys for a walk, while most of the car-packing was done. The last time they were on this beach, it was earlier in the year, and there was snow right down to the water. Clover recalled how they were all walking along the beach in thick snow, when Fabio’s foot went through to the water, and they realised they were walking on the lake, with dodgy ice! The guys began by digging a hole with Clover, until water was visible. Then, build another hole and make a tunnel between the two. All this amid tons of advice from every side, questions, answers, conjectures. Then dig a big channel to the edge of the lake, and spend hours making the water in the original hole travel down the channel to the lake. This is old territory for me – I must have spent untold hours in Sandycove doing the same thing, at the same age. This was one of my favourite moments of this weekend, watching four kids, 9, 7, 4 and nearly-4, negotiate and work together, advise each other, chuck in ideas, dig really hard and then achieve what they set out to do.  Then back for a well-deserved bowl of pasta, a clean-up and all the hugs and kisses of goodbyes. We had had a pretty good run of weather, all in all, but on the way home, the heavens opened and Fabio had to drive in tough conditions. Before it began, I got a glimpse of the spread of farmland that produces much of Toronto’s vegetable supply on drained marshland. All in all, a perfect weekend.

Monday was the last day of just enjoying the city without caring about flying, so Clover suggested going to the ravine. The city is full of ravines, deep cuts with creeks that carry tributaries to the bigger rivers, over or under ground. 17% of the city’s land area are these natural preserves, 11,000 hectares of green space all over the city, beautifully wild and tastefully converted for access. We travelled to their favourite ravine, where a long flight of wooden steps takes you down to the stream at the bottom, where Giuseppe walked across the water on large designated stepping stones, while beside us, school groups came to check out the signs of wildlife, mess around in the water, hear about what animals live there. We were just about to head for something to eat when a crew of guys who work for the city came along in hi-viz jackets to replace a fence post. Four of them – Giuseppe was entranced by these grown men in construction outfits, each carrying a separate drill or hammer. They were very obliging and showed him all the tools, how the drill works, where to hit the staple into the wood etc. Meanwhile, Clover had dashed off to buy lunch – Poutine, a Quebec speciality, which is french fries, covered in cheese curds and gravy. It’s appeal is as mysterious as the Currywurst so popular in Berlin, but you must try it. It’s oddly reminiscent of Sunday Lunch, and I wolfed it down and could barely move for the rest of the day. Mind you, we detoured on the way home to the Chocolate Factory to have a cuppa and a shared slice of Rhubarb Streusal, and watch the assembly line make chocolate chips that dropped off into a big container at the end. The best bit is to see the confidence of Giuseppe, addressing the man working there, after seeing him adjust the chocolate stream and move the box of chocolate chips “that was a really cool thing you just did!”.

Tomorrow is my last day here in Toronto. I’m hoping to get to see the Art Gallery of Ontario, which has been closed by striking workers since I arrived, and is finally open. But I’m not really relaxed or enthusiastic about it – my mind is already turning for home, and I want to have as much time with Clover as possible (she’s working from noon tomorrow). This trip finishes not with a bang, nor with a whimper, but with a big smile. One more post follows after this, to thank all the people who read and commented, and all the people I met along the way.

Discussing the beaver dam, McMichael Museum, Clover and Giuseppe

On the bronze wolves, McMichael Museum.

Four Seasons Centre for Performing Arts, Toronto.

Four Seasons Centre for Performing Arts, Toronto.

The city from the ferryboat.

Jetties to investigate, Algonquin Island.

Homemade gym in the woods (from ratchet straps).

This is what responsible weekend parenting looks like!

Working together to make lakes and channels in the sand.

Giuseppe on the steps down to one of Toronto’s ravines.

Stepping stones.

Exploring the ravine.

Poutine – I think best eaten at three o’clock in the morning, after a night out.

Poutinerie near the University.

Blogpost 16: Cross the Northern border.

After arriving in NYC from New London, I took the subway to meet Luke at Chelsea Market and from there, we picked up coffees and went to walk the High Line. The thing about travelling light at this time of the year is that you have to wear all your winter clothes for travelling from places to place. Up to this, it hasn’t been a problem – the move from California to NYC via Chicago was highlighted by snow everywhere and low temperatures. Going north to Maine, there was an unexpected dump of thick snow just beforehand, and travelling south from Portland to New London/Mystic, the weather was chilly but improving. My train journey south from New London to NYC took place on one of the hottest days I’ve experienced in this trip (25°+). Luke and myself found a great spot on the High Line, half-shade, half-sun, with stepped wooden seating facing huge plate-glass panels overlooking 10th Avenue, topped with dancing fish. Here we sorted out the problems of the world then strolled on down to the end of the High Line, to a fantastical building amid many fantastical buildings – this one, called Vessel, shaped like an upside-down Walnut Whip, has been shut down recently as there were a number of people who threw themselves off the top of it. 

Everyone was submitting their tax return that day, and Luke had to head off to a local post office to send his. I headed up to the library and worked away for an hour on my blog before meeting Kimmy and taking a bus up to stay overnight. Great to see Kimmy & David again, though I was fairly wiped by being in winter clothes in such heat, carrying all my belongings. Great to have a lovely dinner together and get a last chat with Kimmy, and fall into bed. I was up again at 5am to have a bowl of porridge, take the subway and get through Penn Station well in time for the train to Toronto. 

I knew I had a long journey (12 hours) ahead, but the train wasn’t busy. A group of older women were heading up to see Niagara Falls, and were full of chat. I had noted, in my cross-country train, that the first half of my journey, from San Francisco to Chicago, was spectacular scenery, catering for tourists, whereas the second half (Chicago to NYC) was less impressive, until we got to upstate New York. The trains reflected this too, the less touristy route, from Chicago to New York, was full of blue collar workers, and the seats were less spacious, less comfortable, not so clean. This rail line is not very popular either, as flying would always be a cheaper option. Of course, the time of the year has an impact, and I had seen the Sierras and Rockies in glorious snowscape. But as we travelled through upstate New York, the scenery became less awe-inspiring. It could be that the train journey simply didn’t pass through the most spectacular features of the area – after all, we passed very close to Lake Ontario, as big as an ocean, but never seemed to catch a glimpse of it. However, I had a great picnic and writing to do, so I settled down to get stuff done. There were some stops along the way, at Albany, Syracuse, Buffalo, so I managed each time to jump out and pace up and down the platform, trying to get a little exercise. 

Approaching Niagara Falls train station on the US side, the train was half an hour early, so we had to wait in the closed station, where the conductor said to me “you really like them steps”. You could just see a tiny glimpse of the mighty falls, but we got a better view when the train finally trundled over to the Canadian side. We waited, then were given orders to get off the train with all our baggage, and queue for Canadian customs. The customs officers were just as dead serious as the ones I met on my way over to California. But who’d be trying to bunk in to Canada from the US? Anyhow, more queueing, then we were directed into more comfortable (and clean) Canadian carriages. All this took more than an hour, and we were pleased to get back on to ride the last couple of hours to Toronto. Coming in to Toronto, the train takes you through the downtown area, which has a remarkable amount of high-rise apartment blocks, some of whom will be up to 40 storeys high. According to stats, about one third of Toronto residents live in apartments over 5 storeys high, but altogether, almost half the population live in apartments. At the turn of the 21st century, Toronto instigated a green belt around the city to prevent urban sprawl, and concentrated on building upwards. So many of the buildings looked like transparent fridge drawers on the outside, and I did wonder how people live at such a height, how it actually feels – do you ever worry about dropping something off the balcony? I suppose you have splendid views of Lake Ontario, which gives the impression of ocean, even though entirely inland.

My niece Clover was working when I arrived, and it was the exact time when her husband Fabio was putting little Giuseppe (grandnephew) into bed. So I followed strict instructions on using subway and streetcar, and found Greenwood Avenue. Clover was home by that time, and came to meet me coming down the street. I was well able for bed after a cup of tea and a good chat. In the morning, I heard the unmistakable voice of Giuseppe, who was up early to greet the day, and me. Clover was off that day, and had booked tickets for the ROM – Royal Ontario Museum. We headed straight for dinosaurs, First Nations culture, then into the Bat caves – reconstructed, with fascinating details about habits and habitats. This was Giuseppe’s favourite area, and he absorbed the bat knowledge with gusto. Time for a coffee and sambo, then we headed up to the kids area, tremendous play area, where kids and parents could take a break, construct a foam dinosaur, use construction toys, draw & paint. We finished up at a curved screen where models of extinct underwater dinosaur-type creatures and fish swooped past and demonstrated how they survived or did not. Tremendous day at the museum, then home to more chat & fun.

Up to this point, I’ve been visiting old friends, who I knew 30 years ago, and sometimes, their grown-up children.  Only one of them had grandchildren, though dog ownership is ubiquitous, with many dogs developing really winsome personalities, so they’re a good substitute for small children, though, as I do point out, you can’t lock kids in the back garden for unsociable behaviour, but then the dog will never grow up to make you a nice cup of tea. I’ve been really surprised at how much I bonded with the dogs I met, who were clever enough to find out what would most appeal to me. But being immersed in actual family life, with an energetic and talkative three-and-a-half-year-old, is pure magic. Giuseppe is full of curiosity, opinions, whole chunks of knowledge he absorbs like a sponge. They’re scientists at this stage, weighing up Truth and Consequences, using adults reactions as their stats for whether to repeat or reject the idea. They are so driven in their experimentation, it’s hard to believe they’re only three, when a meltdown eventually happens. It’s so heartening to see how parenting has become so full of genuine fair play and understanding – so much so that the children learn all the best habits of empathy and equality just by osmosis, even though it’s a very long-term investment. 

All this sitting-on-the-floor playing train tracks or sticklebricks is a great contrast to my travels up to this, and has me thinking about home. The whole business of what we create as home, the return to the perch, the tug of home after the excitement of great travel.  But meanwhile, I had a city to explore. Toronto was the name that the indigenous Huron peoples called the town, meaning “meeting place”. British settlers tried to name it York, but in 19th century, it reverted to the name Toronto, and grew in population. Since the 1950’s, Canadian immigration policy has welcomed those seeking to move to Canada. Fodor’s guide says of Toronto “unlike the American ‘melting pot’,  Toronto is more of a ‘tossed salad’ of diverse ethnic groups”. This is visible everywhere, with many people being third and fourth generation. The current spike in immigration worldwide has affected Canada too, with a lack of proper housing being the main problem. There are dodgy neighbourhoods and gang activity, but it’s overall a very safe city.

On Thursday, Fabio and Giuseppe headed to Fabio’s family in Guelph, to stay over, as Fabio had a meeting at the office (based near there). I took Clovers advice and walked from their house in Leslieville down to Queen Street, a long street that stretches from the east to the west side of the city. I walked all the way in to the downtown area. The road is flanked by small restaurants, cafes, ethnic shops, vape shops, doggy grooming and daycare, bakeries, a small local theatre showing “Who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf?”, second-hand shops, pawnbrokers, multi-culti takeaways, rundown butchers shops, premises boarded up, churches, discount “variety” stores with broken/taped windows, liquor stores, Cannabis outlets – legally sold in both Canada and the USA. There was one Drug Mart, which does sell the basics, but no supermarket.  On the bridge crossing the Don river, the ornate top of the bridge reads: “This river I step in is not the river I stand in”, a quote from Heraclitus on the relentless nature of change. 

Streetcar tracks follow me all the way in to the downtown area, with brightly coloured red & white streetcars, echoing the Canadian flag, passing by regularly. Apparently, there were far more streetcar lines in the city fifty years ago, but some bright spark closed them down to modernise the city (just like Dublin losing transport links with the advance of the car). As we get to the downtown high-rise area, I turn up Spadina Avenue. This turns out to be a sort of Chinatown, with small restaurants, huckster stores, noodle shops, turning into tourist shops with I Toronto badges. Further up, I turn in to the Kensington Market, which is actually a warren of shops selling all manner of treasures and tat, interesting cafes and ethnic restaurants, a group of older Jamaicans hanging out on the street corner, drinking and smoking with an odd mixture of hangers-on. A police car passes and they all wave and greet them, or jeer them. So reminiscent of London in the seventies, the kind of place that doesn’t exist elsewhere now. I had originally planned to go and explore the university, in search of any Open Mic’s to read a bit of poetry, but by the time I got to Spadina Crescent, the entrance to the Uni, I’d had enough walking, so took the streetcar back to Greenwood. 

On Friday, who should be in town but another niece, Edwina, over for a wedding. So, as soon as Giuseppe came back, Clover and myself took him down on the streetcar to a nice cafe, near where Edwina was staying. There, we had brunch and endless chat, catching up on family news, and enjoying Giuseppe’s antics. Then, straight to the park for hours of fun on climbing frames, slides, pretend houses. 

Saturdays, Clover works til lunchtime, so Fabio and Giuseppe and myself headed for an old brickworks, which has been repurposed, with a very fine Farmers Market, huge charity clothes swap and interesting children’s play area. The old passageways between the brick ovens has been upgraded to take tables & chairs, for an interesting eating experience. Even though the clothes swap looked great, I’m just not in the market to carry anything at all home with me. The children’s play area was the biggest hit, with a huge sandpit filled with buckets and spades, a series of big pieces of wood and bits of Hessian for the kids to construct dens/forts/houses. Plus a quiet spot to read together, little workshops to plant seeds (for Earth Day) seating areas, and the variety of having either icy snow/hailstones or boiling sunshine. Apparently, Clover & Fabio have a great Farmers Market opposite them in Greenwood Park every week in the summer, with the same sort of features (summer just around the corner). After this, we climbed the hill behind the brick works, after which Giuseppe ran all the way down at top speed, and I marvelled at his energy. Nicely worn out, we headed for home, ate and got prepared for the evening. My first time babysitting dear Giuseppe. With strict instructions and directions from Giuseppe, I managed to tick all the boxes and he went to sleep. I myself planned an early night, as was heading for Montreal on the Sunday morning, but no amount of sheep-counting could induce me to drop off. I think perhaps I had mistakenly made a cup of REAL tea (as opposed to DECAF) sometime in the evening. Anyhow, eventually, I drifted off and woke early next morning to catch the train to Montreal.

So, before I got to Toronto, I sent the odd message to make sure that Clover, Fabio & Giuseppe weren’t going to be on hols when I got there, then went back to meeting heaps of old mates. This part of my sojourn is a real treat – an immersion in family life, my own family. Checking out the map, I realised that Montreal wasn’t too far away, and that my nephew Hugo, his wife Carolina and adorable grandniece Elia were there. I knew they worked full time, and Elia is in daycare, so it struck me that I could go up just for an overnight, on a Sunday, to see them, have fun, and get a flavour of Montreal. They were totally enthusiastic about such a daft idea, and so I took the train on Sunday morning at 8.30. This was Canadian Rail, bilingual, efficient, helpful, clean. At the beginning of each journey, a staff member picks a likely lad in each carriage and gives them a lecture to them on how to break a window in the event of an emergency and get everyone out, then leaves them with the responsibility. 

The scenery was a lot nicer, with views of Lake Ontario as we moved along the shoreline. No cafe on board, just a trolley serving coffee, but luckily I’d made a nice picnic. Lo and behold! I discovered the train had WiFi – this was a first! All the way across USA and up the east coast, there was no WiFi, but from the moment you stepped in the Canadian station until your destination, WiFi all the way. Then we met a freight train, and obviously, the same rules apply here too – freight trains get right of way in Canada too. This delayed the train by about 40 mins and there was a great deal of shrugging and hurried apologies, but we got there. 

Hugo met me at the station with Elia in a buggy. There was a nasty freezing wind blowing, so he bundled her up to encourage her to nap, and we walked to their house. They live in an area of the city with a nice “Noe Valley” feel to it – a quirky veg shop opposite them, interesting bars, cafes and shops nearby, and loads of public transport round the corner. Elia finished her nap and lost her initial shyness, and we played in her room and checked out the rest of the house. Both Elia and Giuseppe are three years old, four months between them, both full of curiosity, just discovering the power of refusal, and so much fun. I feel so privileged to spend time with both of them at this stage. 

We went out round the neighbourhood so that Elia could show me her place, what stones you could find, the ice-cream shop (not open until summer), how to cross the road, the bookshop where we browsed a bit. Then, the pizza place – a bit more formal than I’d expected, but Elia took it in her stride and sat up on her booster seat, in her princess dress, deciding most definitely what she would eat or not eat. I didn’t think I was that hungry until the pizza arrived, then I demolished it – delicious. Elia worked away on her pasta and, for a three-year old out at night, behaved marvellously. Home then for the bedtime rituals, and after bath time Hugo suggested us two would go for a pint. There was a nice place around the corner with craft beer, non-alcoholic too, so we whiled away and hour or so chatting there. 

In the morning, Hugo and Elia had to head off to the office and childcare, respectively, though their starting time is a movable feast. I was astounded to hear that their daycare costs them about $10 a day, all government-sponsored, I suppose a bit like France. When I asked Fabio how much they pay here in Toronto, he said it’s about $20 -$40 per day, but they’re working towards the Montreal model. What a huge difference it must make to working parents.  I packed up my stuff and Carolina walked me to the subway. I had instructions from Hugo about how to check out Vieux Montreal, so we had a big hug and I was off on my adventure.

I took the subway to Place d’Armes and people-watched all the way. The annoying thing about mobile phone use today is that it reduces overheard conversations, for an eavesdropper like me. Even if I could have listened in, I might have had huge difficulty with understanding complicated French vocabulary and pronunciation. It’s a bit like listening to French in the South of France, an acquired taste. I walked up the hill to Notre Dame Basilica (Montreal local Celine Dion got married here), where school groups stood around listening to teachers, or tourists followed their guides. Down the Rue Saint Sulpice, where noisy roadworks and fire brigades drove me down to Place Royale, and onto the Promenade de Vieux Port, to walk along looking at the piers built out into the St. Lawrence River, over to the spit of Parc de Dieppe and St. Helen’s Island. I got as far as the old Port Building, then strolled up to Jardin Nelson, which is beside a statue of Horatio Nelson, our old (blown-up in 1966) pal from O’Connell Street, Dublin. It was erected here to rub the French’s noses in the fact that he beat them (losing his own life) in the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805. From here I walked along Rue St Paul, which seemed a little touristy, but was reminiscent of the quiet backstreets of Paris, where I used to wander home after working in La Ferme Irlandaise, back in the winter of 1982/83. The streets opened out on to MacGill Street, called after the Scottish industrialist who founded the university at the end of the eighteenth century, and then higher buildings were visible, eventually high-rise buildings and skyscrapers indicating downtown. The Vieux Montreal has a nice European flavour to it, quiet streets, almost no traffic, comfortable hotels and cafes, the water just nearby. Both Montreal and Toronto, from what I’ve seen of them, are very civilised places, safe to walk around, nicely multicultural, with astonishingly polite, often very friendly, homeless people. Some people may miss the edge of San Francisco or New York City, but they’re great places for raising a family.

From here I walked up to the train station, and took my place in line for the train. The train was busier this direction – perhaps after the weekend – and I was glad to have assigned seating. About halfway to Toronto, we had a long delay – “engine trouble” – so this guaranteed that we’d be late into town. A couple more delays and they announced that the train would be about an hour late. As it turned out, we arrived in earlier than we expected, though not on time, and we had to all trundle off the train and walk a mile or so up to the central part of the station. Fabio very kindly offered to pick me up and drive me home, so I was delighted when they said that they had tickets for a gig and were going to go out and leave me babysitting! They had managed to get Giuseppe happily sleeping and left me to my own devices. An early night beckoned to me and I happily fell into bed.

Luke on the High Line over 9th Avenue – note the dancing fish.

Luke in front of the Walnut Whip building, end of the High Line.

Niagara Falls in the distance, behind the bridge.

Giuseppe, Clover and me, Toronto.

Spectacular building of Royal Ontario Museum

Clover and Giuseppe build a foam dinosaur in ROM kids play area.

Red-and-white Streetcars, in Canadian colours.

“This river I step in is not the river I stand in”.

Cranes downtown – lots of new construction for the new subway line.

downtown “Ye’d have a quare old job getting carpet for them curved buildings”.

Edwina with Giuseppe, Clover & Lulu in the background.

Craft-beer pints in the Brewery, Clover & Lulu

Fabio & Giuseppe at the old Brick Factory Farmers Market

A living sculpture map of the rivers and ravines in Toronto, with all tributaries.

Carolina, Elia, Hugo in Montreal

Pizza with Elia, Hugo, Lulu, Carolina, in their local area, Montreal.

Elia organises an imaginary Ice-Cream shop for us all to order our favourites.

Carolina outside the house in sunny weather.

Quiet scene, Rue Saint Paul, Montreal

MacGill, where Vieux meets Downtown, Montreal.

Blogpost 15. North to Maine.

North to Maine.

Just before I left New York, there was a day of heavy rain and high winds, lasting through til midnight, so strong that I was unable to sleep. At midnight, it all went quiet, and it was over. Further north, this materialised as heavy snow, and there was some question of whether I’d even be able to travel. However, Ye Gods smiled kindly on me, and I was, indeed, able to catch my train north to Portland Maine, or whether Mary and George could come and pick me up . I packed the previous day, organised my picnic and was up at 5 to have my Daddy-Bear-size bowl of porridge and get moving. Steve walked me to the subway – which runs 24 hours – and I took it to 134th St, Penn Station, where I arrived on time, well on time, for my 7.10 train to Portland. It was comfortable and not full, so plenty of space to lounge around. Every train journey I take, I imagine I’ll be one of those people (I was surrounded by them) industriously tapping away on their laptop, but staring out the window is also part of my remit, eavesdropping on conversations too, looking at how people present and act and dress. So, all blogs are written at least a week later.

We travelled up through upstate New York, which is pretty houses set in farmland and forest with glimpses of Long Island Sound. As we got into Connecticut, there was water everywhere, islands and peninsulas, fields of boggy grasslands, as we hugged the coast and continued along Long Island Sound – that’s one huge island, 120 miles long. We stopped at New London, where I am yet to visit, a very beautiful town, full of traditional houses and buildings, and motored on to the next (tiny) state, stopping briefly in Providence, Rhode Island. The state measures 48 miles north to south, and 37 miles east to west – blink and you miss it. From here, we turned inland and headed for Boston, where I was being bumped onto a bus. I had thought I’d booked a train straight through, but it turns out, you have to change at Boston – they don’t seem to have a direct trainline going through. When I walked through to the bus station, there was chaos, as the previous bus was 45 minutes late already.

It took a bit of time, but eventually we were all dispatched on two buses to travel onwards to Portland. We pulled in to Portland nearing dusk, and I took a cab to Betty-Ann’s house in Cape Elizabeth, where I was staying overnight. There was still snow under foot, but no snow had actually fallen that day, so the chances of an improvement in the weather were good. Betty-Ann is my (third) cousin Julie’s (first) cousin. We originally met in Ireland, in 2008, when Caroline & Barney brought Julie and Betty-Ann down to visit us in Ballyknock for a lovely day, which culminated in a dramatic moment, when a telegraph pole fell on Barney’s car, resulting in no injury but much laughter and re-telling. Betty-Ann looked exactly the same – when we met her in Ireland, some of the family thought she looked the image of our mother Eileen, even though they were no relation whatever. Even now, there were glimpses of our darling mother in the way Betty-Ann put her head on one side or laughted heartily.  I got a heroes welcome, and Betty-Ann whisked me out, before it got dark, to see Fort Williams Park and Lighthouse, stretch our legs and get a breath of air, before we returned to eat and talk. 

Betty-Ann is a champion knitter and teaches middle-schoolers how to do complicated stitches to make scarves and hats. She kept me entertained telling me about her charges while we drove down next morning to Becky’s for breakfast. We were lucky to get a table in a nice clattery atmosphere. Betty-Ann ordered her favourite stack of pancakes, I got the fried eggs, over easy and hash browns. I had forgotten about free refills – a given in American diners. We strolled up Commercial Street – marinas, lobster trawlers and marine businesses on the sea side, shops and offices on the street side, looking out for Feeney’s pub, called that after John Ford, a local of sorts here – from Port Elizabeth (Betty-Ann’s neighbourhood), film director John Ford, who was born John Martin Feeney (1894 –1973) – apparently used to drink his pint at this pub. We saw a monument to him on Pleasant Street, a bronze statue, on a high directors chair, complete with pipe and hat. We dropped in to the library on our way back home, so that Betty-Ann could have a look at her grandnephew online, live, playing lacrosse for a local team. Just as we settled down, pals Mary and George rang to say that they were at the house, so we dashed back, I bade a hasty goodbye to Betty-Ann, who had to get back to the game, and drove north.

Back when Clare was just a tiny baby, Barry met George on 18th Street. Both of them were parking pickup trucks after work, when they spotted that they both had taping and jointing tools, so were both in the same line of business. They chatted on and it transpired that Mary and George also had a tiny baby, Scout and a four-year old, George Harry, so Mary and myself were introduced as neighbours and Mamas in common, and became great friends and playground mates. When we met back then, they were talking about Maine and thinking they might make the move there. They bought the house and spent many summers coming and going from it, but have only recently made the move there for good. We began our journey with a trip to Trader Jo’s, a shop that we always associated with marvellous exotic items like blue corn tortilla chips, craft beers (before they were common), delicious and unusual cakes and biscuits. Traders Jo’s has been expanded to make it a full supermarket of quality goods and has recently been taken over by ALDI, our own stockist of quality goods. From here we travelled north through a snowy landscape, past towns with names like Bristol, Bath, Brunswick, Camden, Waterville and Belfast. There was forest on both sides for miles, the trees bare at this time of the year. Whereas in Ireland, waste land will grow brambles or nettles, here the trees just continued to self-seed. I don’t think I’d seen this much forest since I spent time in the Black Forest or the Romanian Carpathians. I had thought their home in Blue Hill wasn’t that far, but it took well over three hours to get there. I had also imagined a small shack, but a great house greeted us – a warren of interesting-shaped rooms, a screened south-facing front porch, all the original bathroom fittings, a huge central stove. Beside the house was a gigantic Dutch hipped red barn with white trim – you could fit six tractors in there and still have room for a woodpile.  There’s an upstairs the same area, and a smaller barn, also with upstairs.  There are myriad leaks in the roof, which have rotted areas of the wood floor, so there’s much work to be tackled before the dream of a studio each can be fulfilled – their plans for the next part of the Third Age.

On Sunday, we woke to dry weather, still with snow underfoot. After breakfast and a long morning’s chat, Mary and myself headed into the woods for a walk, down a long long set of wooden steps and paths, built by a heritage trust. Much of Blue Hill is protected by heritage organisations, much of Maine actually. There are trees everywhere, and though they do farm, I don’t think I saw any cattle or sheep in my stay, any only an occasional stretch of tillage. Maine is very white – 92.6%, not including Hispanic/Latino, according to the US Census – and ageing. Around a quarter of the state is over 65. Apart from Portland, it’s mostly small-town life, rural, safe, friendly – people greet each other on the street, everyone knows the librarians, the people on the checkout of the shops, the best coffee shop or swimming spot. We walked down to the town and visited the library, a tremendous asset, a beautiful building, decorated with pieces of art by well-known local artists. Any library I’ve been in here has been such a centre for community events, just as Irish ones have become.

Back home, we cozied round the fire and drank tea and talked about what we’ve been up to for the last thirty years, piecing together where we overlapped, reminiscing about San Francisco in the old days, laughing over personal yarns, odd characters, favourite shops or landmarks. We woke to bright sunshine next day, with snow underfoot. I had picked up a couple of pairs of Eclipse-viewing sunglasses at local libraries in New York and Portland, so they arranged for us to drive down to George’s brother Jim, who lives near Belfast, as he had the ideal open space to view the eclipse. We arrived well in time for viewing to a house that was hugely appealing. One large living space, with a mezzanine above for bedroom; two walls made of glass, covered in stained glass panels; pieces of art everywhere; a counter covered in pieces of wood, on the way to becoming fantastic inlaid boxes. We walked out to the pond behind the house, where they can swim in summer, to view the sun, sharing the glasses. The sun was actually hot, the snow beginning to thaw, and astonishingly, a stray mosquito appeared! The eclipse itself wasn’t total – you’d have to have gone further north and west for that, but it was still impressive, especially when the light darkened slightly, giving a spooky air to everything.

Tuesday was a beautiful sunny day, we watched the return of a flock of American robins (larger than ours, with an orange breast) greedily digging up worms from the now-visible lawn in front of the house. Mary and myself met up with her friend Rose, who moved to Maine as part of the back-to-the-earth movement long ago. Originally from England, we chatted all morning as we walked through the woods, over to the swimming spot – no winter swimmers visible, though I felt the tug of temptation myself. Back then to the impressive library for a browse and a poke around at all the corners and rooms. And on to the thrift shop – good value, good clothes, but I’m not in the market for anything, as I’m travelling as light as possible. The next day began well enough, but clouded over as we took a nice long walk, then headed up to visit another friend of Mary’s. Karen has been living in Maine 50 years, and has an interesting house with what used to be called P.G.’s – paying guests – which makes for a friendly mix. Much tea and cheese and crackers and grapes were eaten as we talked away the afternoon by the stove and the rain settled in earnest. Back to the roaring stove at their home, we snuggled by the stove for a couple of nights of poetry reading, storytelling, good fun. Mary had very kindly searched for any Open Mic’s in the area, but couldn’t find any. But the fireside sessions were just as enjoyable as any Open Mic, with such an enthusiastic audience. Their house is still a work-in-progress, with all their Stuff and Belongings still in boxes as they finish parts of the house, beautiful pieces of art everywhere, bookcases overflowing, but it has tremendous cozy corners, interesting nooks, all it’s potential on show.  On the last day, we drove over to Penobscot, where they have a second house, which hasn’t been renovated at all, but their plans are well in place for future work. I admire their energy and courage in facing it, perhaps it’s a better place to build, as compared to Ballyknock!

On Thursday, we took the long drive down to Portland. On the way, there are many boatyards and marinas, and I was fascinated by the many boats shrink-wrapped in plastic, which protects it for the winter, and means you don’t have to paint it every year or two. Though there are trawlers visible in the towns by the coast, the vast majority are pleasure craft, and I guess this is the playground of New Yorkers, especially further down in Connecticut and Rhode Island. Mary & George had hoped to call in to a large Antique market on the way, but it wasn’t open, so we arrived early in Portland and had Mexican lunch in a cool cafe (“Quiero Cafe”) and they dropped me over to Cape Elizabeth to Betty-Ann’s for the night. On the way down, George played me the CD of his music – he’d given me a copy – so delighted to get this, a tremendous listen.

Betty-Ann was knitting as I arrived, and we sat and had tea and chatted, and eventually had dinner, as she told me about the theatre production we were going to see that evening. Her friend Cindy very kindly picked us up, and we went to Mad Horse Theatre company’s show “Chumachu”, a sort of kooky, quirky, Western, full of hilarious moments, much shouting, mistaken identity, enormous glove puppets, actors playing more than one role, singing, dancing, the whole kitchen sink. Most enjoyable, even if you couldn’t quite follow the myriad actions throughout. The morning dawned wet and drizzly, but got heavier and heavier as Betty-Ann drove us to the Q Street Diner for breakfast – another great American institution, the Diner, where I had the Mexican breakfast option, and Betty-Ann had her favourite stack of pancakes. She took me to Bug Light Park and Lighthouse after that, to a rather soggy grass patch, which used to be the Shipbuilding Plant long ago. At this stage, only the American Navy have their boats made in the USA, almost all shipbuilding takes place in China. We then drove over to the Maine Historical Society, where they had a special exhibition focussing on Music in Maine, from ancient Melodeon and early Piano to Opera in the 19th century and Don McLean more recently. From here, Betty-Ann dropped me at the Railway Station and we bade goodbye, and I bade goodbye to beautiful Maine (albeit in pouring rain).

I had an hour or two at the station, so wrote my blog and people-watched until the New York train pulled in. I was bound for New London, south of Boston, where I had to change trains, well actually, change stations. I had thought I’d be able to walk from one to the other, but it turned out to be too far. So, I got help to figure out the Boston Subway system, and headed off on the Orange line towards Green Hills, to get to Back Bay Station. Even within the station, they don’t make it easy to actually locate the train platform, but I settled in to the waiting area and continued blogging until the southbound train came. (I was delighted to finish writing the blog, and saved it in drafts on my phone. Except I must have made a mistake – when I went to retrieve it,  it had disappeared. Hence, I’m writing this again!). 

I arrived at New London station after 8, to be met by Brian, who drove me back to the lovely house he shares with Eva. She’s a very talented and original artist, he runs his own business and has also been DJing for 30 years. Their house is full of interesting paintings, curios and collectibles, a couple of different music systems, comfortable corners, a spectacular studio/sunroom, a ping-pong-pad (converted garage for hanging out dancing and playing ping-pong). When we arrived as wide-eyed new immigrants to California, we stayed with our dear pal Denise, who shared a house with Brian and Mahomed. Their generosity to us was astonishing – we stayed for the first three months, until we were employed and able to afford to move out. The house was a tremendous party house, we were all young and fit, it was a great time to be there together. Most especially because the ample house, 100 years old, up 125 steps on a sloping garden, subsequently burned down and was replaced by a block of condominiums, so that it only remains (chrystal-clear) in our heads. This was the first time I’d seen Brian in more than 30 years. Barry had died in the intervening years but we slotted back into the easy friendship, telling yarns, laughing at life, filling in the gaps. Eva, a dynamic personality and wonderful cook, kept us fed and entertained. 

We woke to fine weather, squirrels running up and down the garden walls, magnolia in bloom, birdsong outside the window – American Robin (orange-breasted as opposed to redbreast) a startling-red Cardinal, crows, bluebirds, sparrows, all competing to be heard. Eva was teaching that day, so Brian and myself went walking in to Mystic, a very pretty town, rather tourist-orientated, though quiet this early in the season. The river runs through town, dominated by a bascule bridge. Most people call it a drawbridge, but in fact, only one section of it lifts to let river traffic through. At the top of the town is Mystic Pizza. Although a successful pizza place, most of the action of the movie of the same name was shot elsewhere, though there are customers posing for selfies outside with the name included.  We completed our walk back to the house and took off for Stonington. Another beautifully-proportioned town, full of the interesting New-England-style houses so beloved of this chunk of the USA. We headed for Indulge, a sandwich lunch Cafe, overlooking the town green between High St and Main St. Home then to put our feet up by the stove (rain threatening). After Eva came home, we ate, then watched a true-life movie (“The Lion”) that had us all on the edge of our seats. 

Sunday morning, Brian and myself drove to Harkness, a large estate park, where there had originally been two Stately Homes, which burned down (‘that’s what you get from building in wood in 19th century” said Brian) when an oil lamp tipped over. One had been rebuilt, a fine house, in stone. What’s remarkable here is that Stately Homes have almost always been owned by big industrialists rather than (our Irish experience) by Anglo-Irish gentry – though, come to think of it, they may have been “in industry” too, not merely landed gentry. We were in the vicinity of Waterford Maine, so swung by to see Eugene O’Neills award-winning Centre for Theatre, where not only is great theatre produced, but workshops and conferences also take place. A neat row of houses had been sponsored by wealthy Theatre people, the only one of which I recognized was Micheal Douglas. I guess this is where the actors and directors live while in production.  The weather Gods smiled on us, and we managed to get home before rain took over for the late afternoon. 

I had originally planned to come up for one of Brian’s DJing gigs, but it got postponed, so they very kindly organized a gathering of friends in their gorgeous converted garage (called the Ping-Pong Pad) so that I could hear some good beats and dance to them. Another DJ arrived and they produced great sounds together, and I finally got to dance – the first time in the whole of this trip! Great gathering of friends, some of whom played ping-pong on the big table, while the rest of us chatted and danced. In the evening, we retired in for dinner, which Eva had prepared – delicious salmon – and ended up round the stove in the sitting room, talking, laughing, not wanting to let go of the day. 

I had packed up Sunday evening, so Monday morning, it was just a matter of stripping the bed, closing the bags, checking it twice. I took out Barry’s ashes, and all three of us went into their lovely back garden and scattered some of his ashes under the peach tree, with all good wishes. I scattered a pinch under the apple tree for good measure, since that would be the most familiar one to him. After this, I bid a heartfelt thank you and goodbye to Eva, for all her hospitality, great food and care. Brian brought me to New London, and left me at the station to catch the New York Downeaster train. I was kicking myself because I could have taken a ferry boat from New London to Long Island, and taken the train over to the city to meet Kimmy – much more enjoyable, much cheaper. I’ll have to keep that information behind my ear til next time.

Train ride from New York City to Portland – lots of water, coast, island, towns.

Betty-Ann and Lulu in Cape Elizabeth, a suburb of Portland.

Fort Williams Park and Lighthouse, Cape Elizabeth.

Beckys, fishermans haunt for breakfast, Portland.

Rose, Lulu & Mary at the swimming spot in Blue Hill, Maine.

Mary & George’s house in summer (less green in winter!).

Snow and warm sunshine for the eclipse.

Picture of the incomplete eclipse, taken by neighbour – you needed to be in Montreal to see full eclipse.

George and Lulu enjoying the stove on a cold day. Books behind awaiting shelving…

Blue Hill Graveyard, dating back a couple of hundred years or so – Mary in orange in the distance.

Typical housing on our way south to Portland in the rain

Boats shrink-wrapped in plastic for the winter.

George, Mary & Lulu in cool Mexican cafe “Quiero Cafe” Portland.

Brian & Lulu, old friends meet again after 30+ years.

Spring arriving in Mystic (Magnolia tree blooming). Brian opening his front door.

Brian at Harkness Memorial State Park, where the Harkness family had their summer estate house, Eolia.

Bascule Bridge in Mystic town, with hydraulics visible.

Brian, Eva and Lulu.

The Ping-Pong Pad and back garden at Brian & Eva’s.

Sunday afternoon music DJ party in the Ping-Pong Pad.

Eva making delicious Chinese dumplings.

Cindy and Betty-Ann, off to the Mad Horse Theatre production, “Chumanchu”.

Blogpost 14. The end of Easter

When Luke and myself were out on the bus, exploring different areas, on Good Friday, we spotted a fully cast Passion Play on the street, complete with Jesus carrying an enormous cross, various holy people in costumes and Roman soldiers with scourges. The crowds surrounding this were whipped up, calling support or shaming the soldiers. This was, of course, the Latino community of New York, typically Puerto Rican or Dominican, who like their religious feast to be dramatic. We saw the same playing out on the rooftop over the Plaza in Valladolid, Mexico in 2002, though there, Jesus was inclined to get distracted by people he knew in the crowd below. And actually, all the dramatic rituals have been shelved by the Irish church, as far as I know. When I was 10, big enough to go to midnight mass, the church went into complete darkness/silence in the middle of mass, then we all lit our candles and renounced the devil, renewing our faith for another year. I guess it still happens, but without the risk of fire/insurance claim/panic attacks. We must have been fairly robust little people to be facing down Loreto Abbey Dalkey’s version of Satan with a candle and a promise, but I guess very different times.  

Easter Monday isn’t a work holiday here, but since Steve is a teacher, he had the day off. We had talked about taking a long walk, and he suggested walking from the top of Manhattan to the bottom. Everyone either of us mentioned it to was enthusiastic, saying they’d always thought they’d love to do it (a bit like the reaction to taking the Amtrak train cross-country – most people looked wistfully back to a time when they had the time and the cojones and the constitution to attempt it). 

We left the house about 9.30, and took the subway to the last stop north. This is Inwood, where Kimmy brought me to view the Shorrakopoch memorial stone to commemorate the Smart Alec that bought Manhattan from the Native American group here, for a tiny amount of money and trinkets (see Blogpost 13, all pics, for detail).

Steve and myself got into our stride and headed down Broadway, past Fort Tryon Park, through Washington Heights, following either Broadway or Riverside Drive until we got to homely surroundings of Columbia University, and popped in at Steve’s place for a pee and drink stop. Onwards and downwards we set. Steve walks quite fast, and I’m no slouch myself at fast walking, but I’m not used to such fast pounding on concrete paths. I was seeking out any bits of grass or earth to walk on, just for the sake of my knees. Walking along the side of Central Park, deep in conversation, I didn’t notice the tree roots causing a major obstruction on the path, and fell flat on my face. Initially, I was terrified I’d hit my teeth, but, looking closer, there was no damage at all, except a graze to the chin – my Hollywood career ruined! 

We had talked about making a lunchtime pilgrimage to the Hard Rock Cafe, where we both worked for a number of years (in San Francisco). We agreed that it had to be fairly fast, as we still had walking to do. So, when we reached Times Square, a dazzling array of neon kitsch and milling crowds, it was hard to spot the Hard Rock Cafe among the flashing signs. We joked about looking for a staff discount, but what we were actually looking for was to experience something of what our own customers did back in the ’80’s & ’90’s. We came in from daylight and discovered that no table was available, but we could sit at the bar (there’s no diner counter). A nice guy gave us menus and asked if we’d like drinks, in almost unintelligible English. We stuck w water. Another unintelligible guy came and took our order, without writing anything down: one fake-meat burger, one chicken Caesar salad, one onion rings. Shortly afterwards, he arrived with a pint of beer for Steve, which was sent back, and our order clarified. We got our lunch, and ate it, because we were hungry. I asked for mayonnaise and got it, but it was swiftly taken away. There was none of the welcome or conversation that had been fully expected of us when we waited tables. The food was okay, but certainly didn’t merit the $70 it cost (incl. tip). We had a look around before leaving, and fully appreciated our own old Hard Rock Cafe on Van Ness, all natural daylight and a more-than-double-height ceiling. Those were the days, my friend. 

We walked on through Greenwich Village and Tribeca, til we reached the welcome sight of Battery Park, 15.2 miles later, according to Steve’s counter. We took the Subway all the way back to Columbia at 116th St. and we’re home before 5pm. I’d expected to be banjaxed, but no – that didn’t kick in til next day! 

So I took the subway again, all the way over to Luke in Brooklyn for a bite to eat and a look at his apartment. His place is just a perfect one-bedroom – what they call a walk-up (no lift). On the second floor, his bijou balcony (only big enough for one) overlooks trees in a backyard. The kitchen has a big old-fashioned stove, storage shelves, a chef’s prep island (why am I not surprised?) and a cafe table with blue-and-white gingham-style oilcloth. There’s art on the walls, everywhere, and enough space to dance around the kitchen. The bathroom is off the kitchen, with one of those dinky dwarf-size bathtubs, which he’s researching for renovation. Leading from the kitchen, and open space takes you to what the Berliners call a “Berlin room” – a room you have to pass through to get from kitchen to bedroom. The thing about the decor here is that the artwork is maximalist – everywhere – but the furniture is minimalist – wonderful! – just a long couch and a screen in this room. The bedroom was nice and ample. I’d say if it were Irish navvies, they’d easily fit in four sets of bunk beds and still have room to dance the odd reel. Luke The Chef made me a sort of square pizza, beetroot & celeriac dauphinoise and a cuppa tea. Much more chat ensued, but I was the sensible girl and took the L train shortly after 9, to get home for a good sleep after my long days walking into night.

Well, I guess they figure that most people are tucked up in bed at 9.30pm on the Monday after a holiday weekend, so that’s when the subway decides to do any roadworks, repairs, ongoing work. The L train had three long delays of about 15 mins each, and, a couple of stops before the final destination, threw us off the train to get a bus, with no directions. I managed to find a cross-train that got me to 42nd St, which is like the Third Circle of Hell, takes about half an hour to just get from one line to another. I finally got on the A train, but didn’t realise that they were all express that night, so didn’t stop at many stations – hence, dropped me at 125th St instead of 116th St. Never mind! I thought, I’ll just walk back the nine blocks! However, I hadn’t reckoned on landing in Central Harlem, which isn’t dangerous per se, but definitely risky, especially as I didn’t know which direction to go. Back down to the subway, I took a train going the wrong direction and had to catch one back to 125th St. From there, I took another express train down to 59th Street (the spaghetti junction of subway lines), in order to catch a return train to 116th St. Luckily, there was a lovely black woman, a nurse just off-duty, who also wanted to go to 116th St. A regular non-express local subway A-train pulled up, and we got on, relieved to finally be going home. We chatted and got out together, but what I didn’t realise was that there are several 116th St stations, and this one was back in Harlem, on the east side of Morningside Park (whereas I was staying on the West side). I was warned by more than one person not to walk through the park, and anyhow wild horses wouldn’t have persuaded me to do so. So my lovely nurse friend told me to wait on the opposite side from her and the no 7 or 116 would get me to the other side of the park. Got on the 116, then realised he wasn’t going the way I had thought he said. So he dropped me a couple of blocks from Broadway (my safe place that I know), and I walked the ten blocks home. Up til about three-quarters way through this adventure, I was smiling at how silly I’d been, then I was getting tired, and just loved the bed when I got home to Steve’s. I learned so much about the subway, especially the subway at night. But all through the adventure, I met truly lovely people, who went out of their way to help me, just proving to me that the world is full of good people.

On Tuesday, I woke a bit creaky, but had a most wonderful meeting with Jasper/Zorah, a gorgeous young woman who I babysat in Berlin, along with her brother Alexander, when they were little ones of 10 & 7 (now 20 & 17). We spent such a tremendous morning talking about her studies, ambitions, hopes, about politics, college life, New York life, family. I walked with her as she went to collect her bag for the first lecture, and was about to go when she said her girlfriend was just finishing class, so we all met up for a chat and a selfie opportunity! What a meeting – I felt proud to say I was part of her family once upon a time, in loco parentis.

In the afternoon, I made a little supper, as I wanted to join Steve at a drop-in singing class in Columbia, and since it was his first day back and the class began at 6, it was good to have omelette and salad ready to go. It had begun to rain, so we took our umbrellas and dashed over to a gorgeous library, worthy of Harry Potter, where a selection of people waited on the teacher. I would say the teacher probably had ADD, and, with the best will in the world, thought that people could follow his changing thought-pattern easily. Even though it didn’t matter that we couldn’t read music, our warm-up was three pages of Gregorian chant in Latin, which you guessed from the direction of the notes.  Next up was an obscure opera of repeating notes, once again guessing the tune from the direction (up or down)of the notes. Finishing with a song by Leonard Cohen, adapted by Philip Glass, in which our teacher had made all the references to males (my son/father etc) into neutral nouns for political correctness. Very admirable, but since the song was about the relationship between fathers and sons, just a bit daft. Reminded me of when I went to see the opera Figaro in Budapest, and realised halfway through that some bright Nationalistic director has translated Puccini’s beautiful Italian into Hungarian. However, despite a most surprising programme, it was really enjoyable, and our speedy teacher handed out iced carrot cake muffins at the end, and congratulated me on coming from Ireland. A feelgood moment.

Wednesday morning, I began to feel the full effects of Monday’s walk, but got myself ready and headed to the MET for a look around. It’s one of the largest art museums in the world, housing 1.5 million pieces of art spanning 5,000 years of world culture. I’d already decided that I’d only be able to see a portion of it. When I got there, there were many others there too, all whingeing and whining because it’s closed on Wednesday. It was raining, and I didn’t want any other museum, so went to 110th St to do some shopping, have a nice cheap Mexican lunch and head for home in the rain. I decided to do all the prep, pack my bag, make my picnic, send messages/emails, while the rain fell relentlessly and the gale-force wind really got going. I did the sensible thing and had an early night, but the wind was so noisy I couldn’t sleep til well after midnight. 

Woke to better weather, so got up early and headed to the MET. Even though at the top of the queue, there were thousands flowing in. It’s a huge premises, so, if you know what you want, you can often go directly there before it gets crowded. I only had an hour, so headed straight for the Impressionists. Monet, Pissarro, Early Picasso, Toulouse-Lautrec, Van Gogh, a great selection, but they seemed to be organised in their bequest collection, so a mixed way of viewing, nonetheless a tremendous cache of late 19th-century impressionist paintings. The building itself is stunning, with light-filled arches or atrium over staircases or halls. 

I headed from the MET downtown to meet Kimmy at the Rubin museum for a meditation/chanting session, run by the Tibetan Buddhists, with a visiting French teacher, all robes and smiles and Namaste. He worked with prisoners in Los Angeles, reducing recidivism by startling numbers. He gave a little talk, short and to the point, about adversity, then chanted a refrain that we could all join, which was followed by Q&A. When we finished, we got the opportunity to chat to him, then headed off for lunch in a cafe recommended by Kimmy. After this, we returned to the Rubin for some peace and quiet to work away on projects. 

We then walked down to the Hudson Park Library on Leroy St, in Greenwich Village, where Poetry Night at the Library was taking place. I had searched for Poetry Open Mic’s in New York, but it seemed that many of them had folded up in the recent past. Both Kimmy and myself expected the library to be a small gathering of quiet older people sharing poetry, but were surprised to see that the three featured poets were young college kids, who brought a huge crowd of supporters to cheer everyone on. They mixed up the featured poets with the Open Mic, so, after the host did a spoken word piece, I was up first – never a very comfortable place to be, but I got a great welcome and cheering-on and applause, so well worth the trip there. Then both featured poets and Open-Mic’ers read and were tremendous – so a great night all round. I couldn’t afford to stay out for a drink with Kimmy, as was up at the crack of dawn next morning, to get to Penn Station on time for the North East Train to Portland, Maine. Goodbye to New York, the city that never sleeps (though I slept really well there, in a city that certainly felt silent for most of the night), one of the most stimulating places in the world, where just sitting and looking is one of the best pastimes.

Steve & Lulu in front of the Freedom Tower at the site of the Twin Towers memorial waterfall pools, which have a surrounding parapet showing the names of all who died. The One World Trade Centre, as it is now called, is the tallest building in the USA (outdoing the Empire State Building), and the seventh-tallest in the world.

The long walk from top to tail of Manhattan, Steve and Lulu in raingear during a downpour in Central Park.

Barely-visible Hard Rock Cafe sign, centre right of photo, amid crowds at Times Square.

Steve & Lulu – no table available – having lunch at the bar, Hard Rock Cafe, Times Square (“Hurricane” glass visible behind us).

Kim outside the Chelsea Hotel, home to such luminaries as Bob Dylan, Patti Smyth and Robert Mapplethorpe, Arthur Millar, and reportedly, Leonard Cohen, Janis Joplin and Madonna.

Dinner with Luke at his lovely Brooklyn home, before my Subway adventures.

Entrance Metropolitan Museum of Art.

MET grand staircase.

MET: Monet

MET: Van Gogh self-portrait

MET: Gaugin

MET: Van Gogh Shoes

Lulu before her adventures on the subway, ready to meet lovely people.

MET: Van Gogh, Sky

Blogpost 13 – storytelling pictures

There is so much to tell in New York, but so much to live and enjoy too! posting pics that will tell stories on my behalf I hope.

Lulu & Kimmy getting on the Staten Island Ferry

Kimmy & Lulu on deck, Staten Island Ferry, with Statue of Liberty in background.

Staten Island Ferry, huge and now free for all, called the Dorothy Day (November 8, 1897 – November 29, 1980) who was an anarchist, social activist and journalist, who became a Catholic, and was the best-known political radical among American Catholics.

Inside the Whitney Museum, which holds the Whitney Biennial every two years – this year’s theme: “Even better than the real thing”. The building itself is interesting, with floor-to-ceiling windows over Pier 54 and across the water to New Jersey. This used to be the Meatpacking District of New York, but became obsolete in the 1970’s-1990’s as supermarkers took over from traditional butchers.

Whitney Museum, view over the water with Pier 54. The current exhibition is reflected in the window glass.

Whitney Museum, Sculpture on the roof, with people conveniently giving a bit of scale to it.

The urban beach, entirely manufactured, for the city crowd on a hot summers day, or a sunny winters day, on Pier 54.

Subway tunnel near 189th Street. Although there has been an effort at urban regeneration by voluntary groups, neither the City nor the Subway will admit ownership of the tunnel, so neither of them will clean it. Local neighbours do try to leave out a bag for rubbish collection, but it remains dirty, leaking, unloved.

Full moon over New York, can you imagine anything more romantic? This was taken downtown, but all it meant was that there were flooding warnings – because of a Spring Tide.

A picture of Mother Cabrini outside a convent near Fort Tryon Park. Apparently, she’s tipped to be the first American saint, having been sent as a missionary in the middle of the 19th century, when Italians were flocking to America. She provided schools, orphanages, and eventually hospitals, and is colloquially called “patron saint of immigrants”

On-street video display of Inventions made by women, including coffee filters, chocolate chip ice-cream, pedal-bins and the above, alphabet blocks.

Somebody wanting to send a message to the world via their on-street windscreen “REPENT”.

This plaque mounted on a rock in Inwood Hill Park, where the top of Manhattan Island meets the Harlem River and the expanse of the Hudson River, commemorating the shameful purchase of Manhattan from the Reckgawawanc Indians in 1626 for a pittance.

Lulu with Jasper & Finn. I babysat Jasper as a quirky, questioning little girl in Berlin, with her little brother Alexander (not in the photo). They were 10 and 7 then, now 20 and 17. We met for coffee at the Hungarian Pastry Shop, packed with people having breakfast, and had the most wonderful catch-up.

Blogpost 12: The Big Apple, part 1

All the way down to New York, we were accompanied by the Hudson river, looking a bit brown for the winter. People do swim in it in summer, but there are designated spots, and, like at home, you’d probably avoid it after heavy rainfall. At it’s widest point it’s three miles, hence all the bridges over it in and around the city.  Arriving in Penn Station, not a scrap of snow to be seen (Hurray!), I headed to Moynihan Train Hall – called after Sen. Daniel Patrick Moynihan, who apparently championed the building of it. It’s a huge station, and just finding the Hall was a challenge. As soon as I found Kimmy, we started talking about everything under the sun. We took the Subway, which comes with a bad reputation, but since 4.6 million New Yorkers (and tourists) take both Subway and buses every day, statistically, its a very safe place. It takes a bit of getting used to, and I’m still not okay to get lost alone on it at night-time (daytime is fine), but if I had the time, I could be completely au-fait with it. We walked back to her lovely apartment block, built 1929, with all original fittings – a feature of here it seems.  New York at the turn of the century must have been a hive of activity, building everywhere, so many people streaming in. David made a great dinner for us all, and her couch looked so lovely, after several nights on the train, I fell in and slept like a baby.

Next day, we went straight into New York viewing, taking first the Subway – more people-watching for me and learning how the street-grid and stations worked. Then on to the Staten Island ferry, packed, with glorious views of Ellis Island and The Statue of Liberty.

The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

Emma Lazarus
November 2, 1883

The Staten Island Ferry runs between Manhatten and Staten Island, carrying about 70,000 people a day, and the city no longer charges for it. It’s about a 5-mile stretch, taking less than half an hour, but it has tremendous views of the city and Brooklyn, and both Ellis and Lady Liberty – who I was surprised to see wasn’t as big as I expected – but maybe I was just very far away, and she’d be enormous close up. Hope to get a bit closer at some stage soon.

We had come to see a Tom-Stoppard adapted version of Chekhov’s “The Cherry Orchard”, by a low-budget theatre troupe, who operate out of a theatre in a less popular shopping mall just near the ferry. Kimmy is involved in providing them with a grant to help keep them going, so we were welcomed there as friends. As it began, both of us realised that neither of us had seen the full production – only clips from it.  The production was great, and the theme running through it – of the collapsing old order, in the form of the fading/broke aristocracy, being bought out by the serf-turned-carpetbagger/nouveau riche, had a very current flavour. The weather was perfect – winter sun with a little breeze, so the decks weren’t over-packed. After this, we met up with Kimmy’s husband David for a slice of pizza – enough for a family to consume – and then went on to a music event at “The Scratcher”, an Irish pub. This proved to be tremendous – two performers, first, instrumental bluegrass/slide guitar, just super. Followed by a great singer/songwriter, totally captivating woman. Home then on the ever- fascinating subway, with a full moon in New York (threatening a Spring Tide/flooding next day).

The following morning, Kimmy wasn’t working, so we went to look at a super exhibition of modern art at the Whitney Biennial.  This exhibition, running since 1937, is mounted once every two years, and had an interesting mix of painting, sculpture and video submissions. The location and structure of the museum is stunning too, with floor go ceiling windows looking out on the Gansevoort peninsula and pier 54, which has a series of gardens at different heights, which gives it a funny, wild look. Everywhere I go, on foot or by public transport, I’m staring at my surroundings. Many New Yorkers don’t drive, as the traffic is so bad, and public transport is so good. When they do drive, they drive the same enormous cars as San Franciscans, very fast and very close together. I swore I wouldn’t jaywalk, but some areas are incredibly quiet, with traffic moving slowly. I had resigned myself to having interrupted sleep from street noise, but if I wake in the middle of the night, there isn’t even a lonely chihuahua barking.

After the Whitney, we went to inspect Manhatten’s first manufactured beach (https://www.architecturaldigest.com/story/manhattans-first-public-beach-is-coming), on the Gansevoort Peninsula, and continued walking from that to the High Line, a re-designed old raised railway line (for freight), now a marvellous walkway planted up with wild-ish looking gardens. Kimmy walked me to Artichoke Pizza, with instructions on how to get back, and we witnessed a series of huge and very loud cars racing up 10th avenue – they modify the exhaust pipes to ramp up the sound, and add very loud music and lights, then chase each other. It reminded me of a very ramped-up version of the Low Riders so beloved of Mission Street.  I waited on nephew Luke to arrive in from the airport (visiting sister Clover in Toronto, where I will be in a couple of weeks). Such hilarity ensued – I so rarely get any time with Luke in Ireland, as he’s usually committed to heaps of family and friends. A marvellous slice of time with a wonderful New Yorker, and Artichoke pizza as a brand-new concept. I managed the subway on my own, which I felt was pretty darned fantastic for someone in New York 48 hours! Kimmy was working Tuesday around lunchtime, so we took a walk through her neighbourhood, hilly, leafy parks, interesting shops. Her area (189th Street at Broadway) is considered suburbia, but it has a nice relaxed urban feel and although the apartment blocks are quite tall, there’s a spacious feeling about the roads and wide sidewalks, you don’t feel dwarfed the way you do in downtown. Then we took the subway down to Steve’s area, where she works, and where I was moving. Steve and myself (and Kimmy) worked together at the Hard Rock Cafe in San Francisco, so have lots of stories in common.  We had lunch together and I got to meet his husband Frank, and really enjoy spending time with them both. Their apartment is a Columbia staff rental – Frank has been associated with Columbia for most of his working life – and is splendiferous – large, spacious, with original fittings. Steve has done a most amazing job painting the place in dramatic colours and designs (the living room ceiling is painted in two shades of gold, with Japanese characters taken from a Klee painting), refurbishing the furniture, making their home spectacularly comfortable. Even though we had a funny moment on arrival, when Steve thought I had changed my mind and wasn’t staying, we laughed at our misunderstanding, and I got a hero’s welcome, dinner together and a great sleep.

Next day after breakfast, Frank very graciously took me on a tour of Columbia, a very beautiful campus, established 1754 as King’s College. The main buildings themselves are neo-classical, and it was built over many years, adding different styles and fashions, around a large quadrangle with lawns. He worked for many years at Columbia, firstly as Professor of Political Science, then as Dean of Continuing Education, so is familiar with every area in the university. It’s a compact campus, everything within easy walking distance, including most accomodation.  After a cup of tea at home, Steve and myself headed down to the Brooklyn Bridge, to walk the full span. This bridge was built between 1869 and 1883, and, when finished, was the tallest structure in North America. It’s a bit more than one mile long, and is one of the most recognisable landmarks in New York,usually swarmed with tourists, taking selfies. The Mammy in me had huge difficulty watching young girls climbing up the stanchions, to stand on top of a pillar and take selfies, no barriers, a twenty-foot drop below. However, even with tourists, it was spectacular, I loved all the views of the city, being over the water, getting to Brooklyn.

Steve may have been off for the Easter break, but, like all schoolteachers, had work to do, essays to correct. The next morning, I set off to walk through Central Park and visit the Met. It was overcast, with rain threatening, and I was, once again, thankful for my huge puffy coat, with paint stains on the back (from carelessness), which made me fit right in with the crazies – of which there are many in NYC. The walk took me through Morningside Park and on to Central Park, which is enormous and diverse and full of trees – all bare at the moment. When I was in the middle of the quietest place, three young boys (couldn’t have been more than thirteen) crowded me and asked did I have any money. I threw off my hood, so that they could see me, and laughed that No, of course I didn’t have any money, and kept walking (so they could see my ratty old coat). I’d swear they almost apologized, mumbling something. They reminded me of the middle school kids we’d seen a couple of days previously, in a schoolyard that was elevated over where we were walking. A couple of the girls (12/13) waved and shouted down greetings, just for the fun of it. Maybe they were shouting obscenities, it certainly didn’t matter to me, and I almost expected them to spit down, just out of divilment. Kids of this age are trying out all kinds of risks and personae. Here’s hoping our three lovely boys don’t actually turn to mugging, that they just learn the lesson instead.   As I reached Museum Mile, the rain – which had only drizzled up to that – started in earnest. At the Met, I joined the enormous queue – everyone and his mother must have had the same idea as me on a rainy New York day. I waited a long ten minutes and the line didn’t shift an inch, so I shelved the MET idea til another day and took the bus home.  That evening, we were going to Jalopy Theatre for a performance of various music students from the Jalopy School of Music, in Brooklyn (https://www.google.com/search?client=firefox-b-d&q=jalopy+theatre+company+nyc). I travelled with Kimmy, as it’s complicated, and takes a while to get to Brooklyn, but once there, we got a look at Brooklyn, lots of brownstones, and much quieter than the city, it seems. It was Holy Thursday, so lots of older Catholics were hurrying into the church for services (later, I heard one neighbour out sweeping the stoop, shout across to another “I knew it was you in the church when I smelled the cigar smoke!”. We got the Jalopy Theatre, a cozy space packed to the gills with audience. We managed to get two seats, and Kimmy’s husband David was first up, on guitar, with a great song of his own called “I think you’re gonna like it”, an ironic take on our modern digital world. The whole evening began with a sing-song, great fun, followed by different levels of choir, banjo class, ukelele class, etc. We couldn’t stay til the end, but had a tremendous time there, and walked through the quiet streets of Carroll Gardens til we found a little cafe serving great late-night food.

Next day, I had reserved time to spend with Luke, as he had a day off. Everything got a bit delayed, and we eventually met to spend time at the Cloisters, the remnants of a French monastery reconstructed in the early 20th century with the help of John D. Rockefeller, who donated the 66 acre site, as well as additional lands on the opposite bank, in New Jersey, ensuring that the view would not be compromised by future building. It’s part of the MET, and houses European mediaeval art and architecture, especially Romanesque and Gothic. I loved the actual cloisters area, the gardens planted up, the location of the place in Fort Tryon Park.  From here, we took the bus and subway, planning on perhaps getting to either Ellis Island or Rooseveldt Island. But everything was running late, so first we had to go to Chinatown to eat. Luke had a special recommendation for a place to eat Hot Pot – delicious sort of fondue idea. There’s a hole in the middle of the table where a large deep dish sits, filled with broth. Luke had ordered a selection of vegetables, along with huge skewered shrimp, that you threw into the broth and cooked, with dipping sauces. Tremendous fun, but time-consuming, we spent hours having lunch. When we finished, it was way too late to head to any island, so we wandered through SoHo, East Village, Union Square, ending up in The Scratcher, Irish pub, for a pint before hopping on the subway in separate directions.

I took the subway up to a friend of Kimmy’s, who was throwing a little party for Kimmy’s birthday, a wonderful gathering of friends, where we found out we had other friends in common, lots of chat to share, cake to sing over and eat, great fun. The wind suddenly whipped up that night – I had been praising the fact that New York didn’t have much wind when along came storm force! I headed back early, and came across a young Latino, trying to cross the road, with a fierce cross-wind coming from the Hudson, carrying a canvas, about 8 foot by 4 foot, with great difficulty. Did my good deed for the day, and gave him a hand.

I was staying over in Kimmy & David’s on Saturday, as Steve & Frank’s nephew was coming to stay overnight. Kimmy invited me to come to a family Easter meal on Easter Sunday, so I jumped at the opportunity to spend time with a big Italian/Irish/American NewYork family. I went over Saturday to help with any preparation, but we went to the Farmers Market, walked to the tip of Manhattan, had brunch out, then had coffee out, and arrived home for 6 o’clock. Whereupon, David made the tastiest Reuben Sandwiches for us all, but veggie, with brocolli instead of corned beef!  We did more prep in the morning, packed it all up and headed for the train. I had never been to Long Island before, and thought it was probably a bit bigger than the Isle of Man. I had no idea how populated it was, how industrial, how different. There are two New York boroughs (Brooklyn and Queens) on the physical mass of Long Island, but they don’t acknowledge it (they’re “in New York” as opposed to being on Long Island). It’s about 100 mile long, 23 miles wide, and the two counties that make up official Long Island (Nassau and Suffolk) have a bit less than 3 million people, while the other two boroughs, Queens and Brooklyn, have a little over 4 and a half million.  I was stunned by the numbers, but of course, its pure suburbia, covered in housing, and a handy commute to the city. The train takes over an hour to get to our destination, Babylon. legend has it that Nathanial Conklin’s mother, complaining about the goings-ons in her son’s tavern compared it to the ancient town of Babylon – this was back in the early nineteenth century.

Kimmy’s niece picked us up from the station, and we pulled up at a neat house in a garden, where the Easter lunch party would happen. The last touches were put, much discussion about whether the lamb was done perfectly, lots of family banter. They had gone to huge lengths to accomodate a vegetarian, so there was a great selection of sides and veggies. Everybody totally relaxed, the whole meal got legs of its own and we had an absolute feast of food and great chat. Then the big clean-up, the sorting of who owns which plate, the sit-down for the desserts and a cup of tea.  And it was time to catch the train again. Lots of goodbyes and genuine gratitude to be included in such a lovely family get-together.

This was my first week in New York.  I am almost overcome by the amount of stimulation the city provides – the fantastic views, the talkative people, the sights to see. But best of all, best of all, has been reconnecting with old friends. Better than I even imagined Part 2 will follow in a few days.

Kimmy at the Chelsea Hotel

Steve on Brooklyn Bridge

Luke in Chinatown.

A pint in The Scratcher with Luke

Kimmy at the Cloisters

Awards Hall, Columbia University

Lulu & Luke at The Cloisters

Kimmy’s birthday

View from Brooklyn Bridge

Fantastic Street sculpture

Lulu eating in Chinatown

Steve and Lulu outside Oculus Mall

Blogpost 11. A change of scenery

When I originally checked the path of the California Zephyr Amtrak train, it just gave the larger stops, so I had looked forward to stopping at Denver for half an hour. I wanted to have the luxury of peeing on a non-moving surface, have a look at the surrounding area and buy toothpaste. The first two items were easy enough, the purchase of toothpaste proved to be impossible. I associate train stations in Europe with run-down areas, cheap shops, seedy hotels, but not Denver (nor indeed, later, Chicago). The surrounding area had very upmarket shops. I had expected the station itself to have one of those shops that sells sweets, newspapers, crisps and travel essentials like toothpaste. But there were simply two comfortable upmarket restaurants and a couple of stores selling childrens toys and clothes, neither of which had prices visible. I wouldn’t have had time to have a high-end eating experience anyhow, but it makes me wonder about who they are catering for. The people who are in first-class, with sleepers, were paying a great deal more than me, so maybe they are popping in for a better meal than the train supplies, while on a break from travelling. Or maybe railway stations have become destinations for the non-travelling public. Not something I can imagine in Ireland – but you never know whats coming – anyone for a Heuston Station gourmet experience?

A really fast train leaving Denver, more than an hour late, hopping off the (uneven) tracks, so bumpy that it woke even a stalward sleeper like myself, more than once. They had said that they’d make up the time, and they sure tried. We covered almost the whole of Nebraska during the night, and woke as the train filled up at Lincoln. A mixed bunch of Nebraskans, including a group of Amish (I think), the women all wearing long outfits and bonnets or scarves, older women in black, the younger ones in pale blue or white scarves, and I even saw a babe-in-arms wearing a little black bonnet with veil. The men all have huge beards and pudding bowl haircuts, the underage boys are clean-shaven but have the same Jack of Clubs look. They wear shirts and waistcoats (vests) and wool trousers, and are serious, no frivolity thanks. One just passed by, bald on top, with a pudding bowl haircuts of what’s left. I guess it looks grand once you have the large-framed black hat so beloved of them.

The weather was dull and overcast, the scenery endless farmland, brown as far as the eye can see, with tinges of green coming through. I can’t really vouch for Nebraska, but for the bit I saw, it was very similar to Iowa. Flat brown farmland, an occasional house to be seen, but not an animal nor human several hours. The prairie/fields would be 20, maybe 50 acres each, either ploughed or with the remnants of last year’s cornstalks. Coming in to Osceola, there were several farm machinery outlets, and Casey’s gas station, O’Reilly Auto Parts. The Irish got here too.  Lots of low-rise housing with heaps of rusting vehicles or rubbish around the back of the house. Nobody has anything resembling a garden, just brown patches of grass in the yard.  Iowa was the first state that had obvious solar farming. I did wonder about that while travelling up through California, but reading further, I guess they do the sensible thing and put the solar farms in the desert in Southern California, where there’s sun year round. “And now, swampland on the edge of town turns into forest, huge bare oak, Christmas trees, the ghost of a creek. Finally, birds – a flock settles on a huge grain silo. Just had a nap and woke to more brown fields. I wonder are the cattle indoors because of weather. Back in Nevada and Utah, we saw cattle grazing scutch and scrub in the desert, wild deer, wild turkey. Here, not an animal to be seen in the last four hours (since daybreak). Still, lots of bare trees and shrubs, must be lovely in summer.

And eventually, industrial production – a huge factory pumping out toxic fumes, a big scrapyard with ancient cars lined up for spare parts. I’m taking a trip to the Observation Deck, where I realised the Amish are speaking a funny mixed dialect of German, and Swiss German”.  Stopping at Ottumwa, trailer park, farm machinery outlets, low-rise buildings, Ministry Center. An opportunity to get outside for 5 mins. I had made friends with the smokers at this stage, and we cracked jokes with the Amish men, who stepped out en masse to smoke. All of them missing teeth – I wondered if they were allowed modern dental care. Looking it up, I found out that the cost of insurance usually stops them from going to the dentist, and many of them actually choose to have their teeth removed and wear dentures, in preference to having ongoing dental problems. A couple of the Amish women also came out to the platform, but neither spoke nor smoked, and indeed, weren’t interested in catching a few steps like myself.

The approach to Chicago was tremendously exciting for me. I was planning to check bags at the station, walk up to the Art Institute for a browse, then meet Claudia for the first time in 10 years. When I was on Erasmus in Berlin in 2013/14, I looked after her lovely children, Zora, 10, and Alexander 7, who are now 20 and 17 respectively. Stopping at Naperville station, not too far from Chicago, I realised that tiny snowflakes were falling. The train was late, of course, and it was nearer 4pm than the planned 2.45pm when we arrived and I got myself organised, walking past an impressive String Quartet playing in the Great Hall of the Chicago Union Station. I slid my way into the centre of Chicago through snow and sleet, a most impressive looking city, the first one in the USA, perhaps in the world, to build skyscrapers. It took me an age to actually find my bearings, but I did find the Art Institute, just closing, and eventually the fabulous Palmer House Hotel, an amazing structure built by Potter Palmer for his bride Bertha Honore Palmer at the end of the 19th century. Here I found my friend Claudia, and we took a chunk of time to talk, catch up, drink tea, enjoy our lovely surroundings. Though Claudia had to return to the conference, I found a corner and took a great break from train life.  Back down to the train for 9.30, the slush had melted. We waited in the Grand Hall to be called, and queued airport-style, till we were allowed onto the train in batches. Here we were assigned seats by a bossy woman. We were late, of course, again. We organised our little corners for sleep – me thanking my lucky stars that I still had nobody in the other seat, for the present. The train wasn’t half as spacious as the California Zephr, which made it less comfortable. The toilets weren’t as clean, there was no cafe til the morning. In fact, the passengers were mostly working men, maybe in construction, perhaps having a long commute to a job in New York, or Chicago. I slept okay while we passed through Ohio and Pennsylvania, waking to eat the last of my picnic for brekky and early lunch. When we moved into Upstate New York, the scenery and the houses got prettier, but the snow started to fall in earnest. There was a problem ahead so all those bound for Syracuse had to get off at Rochester and be bussed there, including all the Amish group, who’s eventual destination was somewhere in Oklahoma – though it seemed a roundabout way of getting there.

Coming into Albany, there was thick snow, and I dreaded that I’d have a difficult time getting around New York City, but as the train travelled down from the heights to the city, the snow disappeared, and after appropriately named Hudson town, that great river was beside us all the way into the city. We caught glimpses of the Empire State Building in the distance, and passed through Yonkers but mostly, we had a view of the other bank, which is New Jersey. We got in to Penn Station about 45 minutes late, and it took a further 20 minutes or so to locate Kimmy, but I had arrived! And New York City didn’t disappoint.

Dramatic Skies

Snow floes

Crossing the country

Grand Hall Chicago Station with String Quartet

Palmer House Hotel Chicago with ceiling detail

Snow falling from the roof on the corridor inside the train

Snow on the ground Upstate New York

Grasses growing in snowy ground, Upstate New York

BLOGPOST 10.5 STOP PRESS

Just to say that this is part 1 of a 2-part cross country journey – Part 2 goes from Denver to NYC via Chicago. Blogpost 11 coming later in the week !

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Blogpost 10. A Big Country. Part 1.

My cousin Maureen took me shopping and we made up a huge picnic for the train. She dropped me to the train station at Emeryville (surprisingly small). A young woman gave a military-style announcement and we all trooped out to the platform. Then a delay. I took the opportunity to do a couple of thousand steps, then we were herded into 1st class (those with sleepers) and The Rest. More delay. I got chatting with two ancient sisters who were going to Reno, one of them had a daughter who was joining them at Sacramento (“hmm, I hope she makes the train” she said sceptically). They turned out to be from a family that were originally Irish, they loved going up to Reno, sunny and cold in the winter, sunny and hot in summer. When we were getting on the train, the conductor assigned us seats and luckily I got a window upstairs (yes! A double-decker train!) while my old Irish friends stayed downstairs. I met them when they were getting off at Reno. The older one said resignedly “yes, my daughter missed the train, she’ll drive up later”. 

The train had a good amount of people on it, and my seatmate was Cheryl, who lived in Reno and preferred not to drive now when going to see grandchildren in Oakland. This portion of the journey was popular and expensive – $100 – for a 6-hour train ride, whereas I’m going to New York for $240 (4 day train ride). I guess people going to Reno are in splurge mode. The train travels quite slowly, and there’s a fabulous Observation Deck, all big windows, where you can get a great view of the scenery and have a break from your seat (though that’s fab too). 

To begin with, there were massive fields of tillage, green, green, green, wild turkeys and buzzards.  Before we reached Colfax, we began climbing up into the Sierras, with magnificent views of them ahead – where we used to spend Thanksgiving (near Nevada City) with wonderful friends when Clare was tiny – I was so sorry I couldn’t make it up to see them again, but there will be other times. through the Donner Pass, thick forest (oaks, beech, redwood) in magnificent snow – I could feel my ears popping all the way up. This is where the ill-fated Donner-Reed pioneers got trapped in heavy snow in 1846-47, and resorted to cannibalism to survive. There was lots of snow for us too – a fortnight ago, 8 foot of snow was dumped overnight, and the highway closed for three days, leaving many people stranded. The snow was still sitting in drifts. The forest continued, walnut, linden, oak, sequoia/redwood, maple, tupelo, redbud, pine, with big patches of snow by the tracks. This scenery is so stunning that it’s difficult to take in – the conductors on the train (who changed every day), did a sort of commentary, telling us when lovely views were coming up, which side we should look out at, the history of the place. At the highest point, we were in snow-covered mountains, with a bird’s eye view of places no car could access.

up the Sierras

the postman delivers

on skis

we climb up

to the Sierras –

my ears pop

Then down from the heights to a frosty Nevada desert with beautiful mountain backdrops. I’d never seen a frosty desert before, fascinating, glinting, freezing but sunny – apparently, Nevada turned into a desert about 8,000 years ago, but it’s pure emptiness is it’s beauty. Although the train was busy, it emptied at Reno, and my sleeping space doubled.   I jumped out onto the platform at Winnebacca, Nevada for a breath of fresh air, and had a great exchange with several fellow travellers. I was usually the only person trying to get a bit of exercise – the rest were smokers, who I made pals with. One rather wobbly woman, who was having a little train romance with a nice guy, felt sorry for me and offered me some THC (medical marijuana). This, of all times, was an instance where you didn’t need to be high to appreciate the scenery. I spotted them later, in Iowa, where she was hugging him goodbye and heading back to some traumatic family stuff. This has turned out to be lovely so far, social, chatty, friendly conductors, a cafe below the Observation Deck, and the most stunning scenery imaginable, California into Nevada. It’s just not possible to convey the vastness of it all, huge stereotypical vistas of mountains, scrub, sandy desert, often not a sinner in sight.

in the blue sky

over icy desert scrub –

three-quarters worm moon

dusk in the desert

train whistle blows –

it’s warning

All the way up from California til the foothills of the Sierras, homeless people were in pathetic encampments, surrounded by their own trash, all along the side of the railroad. This is reminiscent of 1930’s America, when poverty, climate change and government policy saw thousands lose everything, with many families living in encampments. When we came down from the heights of the Sierras, homeless people were there too, all along the railroad track, until we reached Utah. This has to be the result of government policy. People regularly say “they don’t want to live in houses” but didn’t we say the same about Irish Travellers? Peter McVerry has proved that Housing First, treatment second, works well (85% success rate).  Union Pacific owns and operates the freight trains, of which there are many, and also owns the tracks. The California Zephyr (San Francisco to Chicago) runs once daily in each direction. Union Pacific has right of way, so our train has to stop, for up to 15 minutes, for freight trains to pass. Hi-speed it ain’t, and it makes it all the more glorious because of it. 

I had two reclining seats and huge leg room, so settled to sleep early. I was like a cat or dog, twisting this way and that to get comfortable. Dozing until 11, on a pich-black night, I fell properly asleep, and woke at 3am just coming in to Salt Lake City, Utah.   I hadn’t reckoned on how much we’d miss by travelling through the night – Salt Lake City was just a collection of bright lights, so I rearranged myself, curling up, and slept on.

I woke up at 6am, though because we were in Mountain Time Zone, it was 7am. We were in Helper, Utah, with boxy buildings like the Wild West, a wide main street, a sign on a building: Beg, Borrow and Steele Art Co. This is called Helper because this is where the “Helper” Locomotives waited to give the train a push up Soldier Summit. One of the older ladies I was talking to before departure from Emeryville was waxing lyrical about going through the snowy Sierras, then Nevada. “After that, it gets flat, boring, it’s Utah”. I was thinking of Jim Reeves singing “The red hills of Utah are ca-alling me”, and I’m on Jim’s side. Utah was full of monolithic flat-topped skirt-shaped mountains, in different shades of red/brown/orange, the prehistoric landscape empty of man or animal. In both Nevada and Utah, there were small towns/settlements by the railroad tracks. The pattern was first a trailer park (often with a huge Stars & Stripes) then a scattering of trailers held together with whatever was available, then tiny shacks. All of these are surrounded by wrecks of cars, which I felt represented some sort of dream of the future, when the car will be resurrected and drive again – or maybe just for spare parts. There was a small yard around the mobiles/houses/shacks, usually with no fence, no sign of a garden at all (but maybe it’s better in summer), filled with rubbish, rusting machinery, things that might come in handy. What would you think about the upcoming election if you lived in these little gatherings in the middle of nowhere? Well, you might fall for the man who promises to bring back respect to USA, open the coalmines, make America Great Again, give you pride of place, sell you the Emperors Worn Clothes. At another tiny town, a sign says “You are here. Green River, Utah”, as if you needed reminders. Just once or twice, we spotted cattle grazing on grey-brown scrub, and wondered how they survived. Beside them, a small herd of deer and some wild turkey, all scavenging off the scrub.

As we travelled down through Colorado, there were more reddish majestic mountains, pure Cowboy country, but the valley scrub was more green and grassy, with glimpses of red earth. At every turn, the views were simply stunning, pine-covered hills, ice patches right down to the riverbank, sheer red/brown rock down to the river, telegraph wires stretching from summit to summit (how the hell do they fix them after storms?)The train drops down 4,000 feet, and goes through huge mountain passes, 27 tunnels in 30 minutes, right through the mountains, including one (the Moffat Tunnel) that crosses the Continental Divide. David Moffat, a local businessman, planned and executed the tunnel, and the railroad, in the late 19th century, along with a huge water supply tunnel. We pass Gore Canyon, with hot springs (not to self for future reference).  In the snow, there are animal footprints by frozen lakes, then horses and long-horned cattle at the edge of melting snow, shifting the snow to find grass. For this, you’d have to go up to the observation deck, which has huge windows, including in the ceiling, comfy seating and airconditioning. Whatever about California, Nevada and Utah, Colorado just takes the biscuit for sheer spendour. You just get to the point where you’re so wowed by pushing through the Rockies in a transparent tube, there are no adjectives left to describe it. Then down to the spread-out flatness of Denver.

California going north.

California going north

California going north

California going north

Sheriff called in to take someone off the train with no ticket.

Donner Lake

Donner Lake

Nevada/Utah

Nevada/Utah

Nevada/Utah

Nevada/Utah

Nevada/Utah

Blogpost 9: I hear that train a-comin’, it’s rolling ’round the bend (Folsom Prison Blues, Johnny Cash).

All my focus is on Wednesday, when I take the train from Emeryville, Oakland, direct to New York City. However, unlike Johnny Cash, I haven’t been locked up in Folsom Prison, now discreetly called CSP-SAC (California State Prison Sacramento). I’ve had total immersion in California, mostly in the Bay Area.  You forget that it’s a kind of paradise, with access to the wilds, redwood trees, ocean, hills, elegant  city buildings and low-rise buildings absolutely everywhere, except downtown, which is a kind of quirky anomaly – a lump of Manhattenisation on the edge of San Francisco, giving it a recognisable skyline from a distance.

One of the downfalls of having such a wonderfully packed schedule catching up with friends and family is that you have to keep note of where you were or you’ll forget what you did the day before yesterday! I’ve had such a tremendous extended goodbye to California, staying with old friends for a second or third time, walking, eating, laughing, appreciating this overflowing encounter-trip.

Cathy and Hank arranged a dinner for me to meet old friends – tremendous fun evening with delicious food, and much reminiscing about the old days. Barry and myself shared a huge and welcoming house on Lincoln Avenue with Denise, Brian and Mohamad for the first three months of our time in San Francisco in the 1980’s. Meeting all these friends so many decades later, older and wiser, is such a treat. In the morning, I took the bus to San Rafael, and had an hour to spare before the train arrived, so took the opportunity to walk up Lincoln Avenue to view the site of the house – long gone and now a huge block of apartments. What surprised me was that nothing, nothing at all, was familiar, up this long road to the place where the house used to be, except for the completely unchanged liquor store, directly opposite the house, where we used to dash across late at night when we ran out of cheap pink champagne.  Back down to the centre, I caught the train up country to Petaluma, passing through beautiful countryside. This is a relatively new commuter train connecting Larkspur, where one of the San Francisco ferries docks on the Marin side, with Sonoma, with plenty of stops along the way. Back to Petaluma to see Denise, I joined in her circle of friends who have a spiritual practice/support group that sees them camp in solo tents in the desert in September for a couple of nights, just for the opportunity to commune alone with nature, encounter self, do a vision quest. A wonderful group of people, with fascinating personal contributions to their circle with drums.

The next morning, I called over to Sarah, ostensibly to pick up laundry  left behind, but actually, to have some more time with her. More great chat and tea. When the time came to get the bus, Sarah very kindly offered to drive me, and we extended the chat all the way. This was the beginning of my last week of time here, wonderful but bittersweet – I’m not sure when I’ll get this opportunity again – but here’s hoping I get lots of return visits to Ireland! I headed to a homeschooling park meetup in Noe Valley, once again having great exchanges with Nena and Craig, this time in bright sunlight! Then over to Bea and Gerry for all the fun of watching the Oscars and seeing Cillian Murphy do Ireland proud. The following day, I was invited to an Unschooling gathering in a place called Mothers’ Meadows in Golden Gate Park. My lovely new friend Heather welcomed me to a small gathering of kids and parents. The playground itself was really great, surrounded by a stand of huge trees (eucalyptus I think). Throughout the next couple of hours, plenty more people arrived and I had a great day talking to lots of unschooling families. This felt like home. I’m hoping to find other homeschooling groups on the east coast too, so that I get a bigger picture. The biggest groups here seem to be conservative, following curriculum and exam-driven, as opposed to the more relaxed Irish scenario.

When I got back to Mill Valley to dear friends Cathy & Hank, we took a handful of Barry’s ashes (12 March is his anniversary) and they buried them under the Camellia Tree, to the sound of Hank’s Buddha singing bowl, at the end of a perfect day, the light just fading.

The rest of this week was a series of goodbyes. I had looked at the map with European eyes back in Ireland, and had figured I could just pop up to Portland, Oregon on the bus, to see pal Helen.  Checking it out, it was an eye-watering 24 hours on the bus. So, my pal Helen (ex-Hard Rock Cafe) decided to travel down and give me a days talking. We went to Sam’s Anchor Cafe in beautiful Tiburon (Robin Williams – who was from there, quipped “Tiburon, from the Latin, meaning “Expensive for no particular reason”). We actually ordered food, but ate almost nothing, so busy talking. When the sun got too HOT (worried about sunburn!), we went walking around the surrounding area, still deep in conversation. She’s also had an incredibly dynamic life, running her own busy stables, using a sort of horse-whispering/child psychology to deal with difficult horses. She has been running a very successful diner for more than 20 years, was, in her own inimitable way, a political activist, reared two amazing women and is still happily married to Mark! We swore to meet again, and once again, I thought perhaps I should have taken longer on the West coast. But Hey! I haven’t even got to the east coast – I’ll have to experience it before judgement!

Next day, I went walking with Cathy and Denise in Blackies’s Pasture with the two more active dogs,  Noddy and Ollie. Denise and myself went on for lunch/brunch at the Lighthouse Diner in Sausalito. I had a dish I have been craving since arrival Huevos Rancheros, big hearty, delicious, great fun, good value. A gorgeous walk, a great goodbye to Denise and the doggies. She dropped me to the city, where I had tea and homemade bikkies with Ballymaloe pal Hester and husband Pastór, in the amazing hotel they run – a fabulous throwback to grander times. The last day in Marin, Cathy & Hank took me up to Pacheco Pond in Novato, walking around wetlands to get to further wetlands converted from the runways that used to be Hamilton Air Force Field. An amazing piece of wildness now, with the remnants of munitions  bunkers left over from the Second World War, now sealed up and covered in graffiti. After this, over to Toast for another round of Huevos Rancheros. I noticed in the last while that in restaurants, both staff and management are all Latino – before they were busboys. A new and welcome change. 

For my last few days in California, I went to my cousin Maureen and husband Larry in Oakland. Cousin Julie drove up to have dinner with us on Saturday and give a hug goodbye. Then we headed over to Point Reyes for a splendiferous walk out through the redwoods towards the ocean. Maureen had put together a great picnic and we sat in the shade of the trees and enjoyed the astonishing place, and hours and hours of chat. Our plans changed next day, so I met up with Elio, also ex-Hard Rock Cafe, for coffee on College Avenue and a good chinwag. Then I took the BART over to the Mission and headed up to Bea & Gerry’s. This was my swansong in The City, a last poetry reading to open up Monday night at the Marsh Theatre Storytelling. Tremendous audience, great performances, super Q&A, then on with a crowd of friends to an Indian restaurant, finally home to fall into bed. I hugged Bea & Gerry and the lovely Talya goodbye, took the BART back to Oakland and spent the afternoon talking to Maureen. After a lovely dinner, we shopped and put together a big picnic for the train. Which is, amazingly, tomorrow! Goodbye California, hello train tracks. 

At Blackies Pasture with Cathy & Denise.

Pacheco Pond and further on, Hamilton Field, now converted into a wetlands.

Ex-Hard Rock Cafe co-workers Helen and Lulu, at Sam’s Anchor Cafe in Tiburon

Ex-Ballymaloe/La Ferme Irlandaise friend Hester with husband Pastor at the Mayflower Hotel

3rd cousins Maureen, Lulu & Julie, in Oakland for dinner

Maureen and Lulu at home in Oakland

Lulu at the Marsh Theatre before reading poetry

Maureen, Larry and Lulu selfie before dinner

Talya and George before the Monday night at the Marsh Theatre

Mexican bakery at 24th Street in the Mission, celebrating St Patricks Day

View from my favourite cafe in the Mission, La Boheme, on 24th Street – so sunny I had to worry about sunburn….