I did a little work in Manhattan this morning. Walker was along for the ride in the Bjorn and slept like a champ through almost the entire trip. (I woke him up for a snack about half-way through.)
I'm getting nostalgic for NY even though I haven't left yet. Normally, I don't think I would have gotten quite such a kick out of the conductor's announcement at the West 4th St station: "There's something obstructing a door in the front cars. Check ya bag, ya elbow, ya head." His accent was pure New Yawk, as was his bored, let's-get-this-show-on-the-road tone.
Then, after I was done with work, walking down 8th Avenue from 57th St to 34th St to run an errand, I didn't need caffeine to get my pace brisk. The City at morning rush hour is plenty adrenalized.
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I wrote the above yesterday, but didn't get a chance to finish thanks to a migraine. And, after my subway ride this morning, I'm less inclined towards fond observations of NYC life. Suffice to say a 40 minute commute (with good trains), took over an hour-and-a-half.
A family of four leaves Brooklyn's Park Slope, fails to homestead successfully in an off-the-grid log cabin in Maine, and downgrades to faux-homesteading in an on-the-grid farmhouse in Maine.
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