Palm Beach Dramaworks Finds the Man Behind the Martyr in ‘The Mountaintop’

 

Katori Hall’s ‘The Mountaintop’ begins not with history’s public moment but with its imagined private foremath—Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. alone in Room 306 at the Lorraine Motel on the night before his assassination. Earlier that evening, he had delivered the now-prophetic “Mountaintop” speech at Mason Temple, speaking of a promised land he might never reach.

 

Hall has said the play was inspired by a story from her mother, Carrie Mae, who as a teenager longed to hear King that night but, at her own mother’s urging, stayed home “It would be the greatest regret of my mother’s life,” Hall recalled, adding that the fear and foreboding surrounding King’s final days became part of her “bloody heritage.”

 

From that personal history came a work that mingles the spiritual and the intimate. In Hall’s imagining, King’s solitude is interrupted by a motel maid named Camae—named for her mother—who compels him to confront his life and legacy, “warts and all.” He is no longer just an icon, but a man of humor, fear, and doubt, a human being vulnerable like the rest of us.

 

Hall infuses the play with passion and magical realism. Director Belinda (Be) Boyd makes the magical element feel organic, suspending disbelief as Camae’s true identity—as an angel guiding King toward another promised land—slowly emerges. When rose petals fall from heaven confirming her purpose, the effect is otherworldly yet utterly convincing in the hands of Boyd and her gifted creative team.

 

Palm Beach Dramaworks’ production stars Christopher Marquis Lindsay (in his PBD debut) as Martin Luther King Jr. and Rita Cole as Camae. Their chemistry commands the stage; both give performances that are inspired and deeply moving.

 

Lindsay’s portrayal captures a man on edge—pacing, restless, as much fixated on his missing Pall Mall cigarettes as he is tormented by the refrain, “America’s going to hell.” From the opening muttered parody of “My Country, ’Tis of Thee' (“My country who doles out constant misery”) to his vision of a multicultural America “banding together to shame this country,” Lindsay channels King’s anguish over what is—and his faith in what could be. His performance moves through the stages of grief until, bargaining exhausted, he accepts his fate with grace. The actor disappears into the man.

 

Cole nearly steals the show as Camae, the “new maid” who seems to know far too much. She listens lovingly as King speaks to his family on the phone, her eyes betraying both empathy and knowledge. Her line, “Nonsense comin’ out of a pretty woman’s mouth ain’t nonsense at all—it’s poetry,” feels like a credo for her performance.

 

She’s electrifying as she playfully dons King’s jacket, climbs on the bed, and delivers the militant speech she imagines he might give, King acknowledging “Maybe the voice of violence is the only voice white folks will listen to.… They hate so easily and we love too much.” What begins as a humorous oratory reveals a painful truth.

 

As Camae transforms from maid to angel, Cole’s intensity deepens. When King asks whether the future is “as beautiful as you,” her rueful and ironic “It’s as ugly as me” feels prophetic. He replies, “I wanna see it.” She warns, “It might break your heart.” That exchange leads to a stirring montage of images—courtesy of projection designer Adam J. Thompson—tracing the march of history since King’s death, much of it steeped in violence but culminating in images of our first black President.

 

Boyd directs with loving precision, orchestrating moments of laughter and tenderness amid tragedy. A pillow fight, a tickle fight—each moment of levity heightens the pathos that follows. The one-act, intermissionless play moves briskly, yet allows room for emotion and reflection. Lindsay and Cole, both consummate professionals, own the stage.

 

Nikolas Serrano’s scenic design captures the Lorraine Motel in painstaking realism—the neon sign glowing ominously through rain that turns to snow. Genny Wynn’s lighting and Roger Arnold’s sound accent the drama with lightning, thunder, and shifting tones. Brian O’Keefe’s costumes root us in 1968, right down to the holes in King’s socks.

 

If you are of a certain age, the assassinations of the 1960s remain seared in memory: John F. Kennedy in 1963, Malcolm X in 1965, Martin Luther King Jr. in 1968, and two months later, Robert F. Kennedy. Those events are etched in our hearts as much as our history.

 

The hopeful ending of The Mountaintop feels hard-won—and, given today’s climate of anger and division, perhaps fragile. The violence and intolerance King sought to overcome still haunt our politics and our streets. The baton he passes in the play seems to fall from our grasp again and again. Yet as this production reminds us, we must keep reaching for it, believing—as King did—that the arc of history can still bend toward justice.

 

Palm Beach Dramaworks’ ‘The Mountaintop’ captures that fragile faith with beauty and power. Lindsay’s demeanor and voice become King’s at that final moment, transcendent and sonorous, feeling like he is reaching out through the fourth wall, urging us to continue the work he could not finish. It is another Palm Beach Dramaworks ‘must see’ production, a stunning beginning to the 2025/26 season.

 

All Photographs of Christopher Lindsay and Rita Cole by Curtis Brown Photography

 

 

The Emperor Remodels

 As usual, if you want the truth in one picture, turn to our political cartoonists. I’ve sandwiched this entry between cartoons by John Darkow and Mike Luckovich. Both depict the wanton violation of “The People’s House”—tearing down the East Wing to install a grand faux-gold ballroom to satisfy the faux golden boy president. I hear Nero fiddling away. Everything is now in flaming chaos.

 

One wonders when the people who voted for him will finally feel repulsed and deceived. Perhaps all they care about is his entertainment value. If Trump says his playthings are funded by donors, they take it at face value (ignoring the obvious “pay to play”) and cheer on his AI video showing him dumping excrement on the people they hate. His true followers are his enablers—the politicians, the judges, the cronies—all of whom have an open invitation to “The Rose Garden Club” (yes, that’s really its name), which now looks like the patio of Moolah Lago, complete with the new golden ballroom.

 

When SCOTUS declared him immune to just about anything, we all knew what was coming. His pardon of the J6 “tourists” was merely the tip of the iceberg. The ICE website—now under the direction of supreme sycophant Kristi Noem—is advertising a $50,000 sign-on bonus for uber-masculine men who can now legitimately roam our cities masked, seeking out the so-called "invaders" many of them despise. How many of these new ICE recruits are former J6 participants or Proud Boys?

 

And who is going to stop him? All the so-called “laws” that have reigned for decades are really built on good faith. So what if a court rules that he cannot tear down part of the White House without congressional approval—or that he cannot withhold congressionally authorized funds? There is no “police force” to enforce the courts’ decisions. Any other administration would back down once the court had spoken.

 

With all the ICE provocation taking place in American cities, it may be only a matter of time before the Insurrection Act is invoked. Will the military follow orders if asked to fire on protesters? Meanwhile, back in Washington, the demolition goes on and the plutocrats party.

 

More than a Drive to Asheville

  

It was a trip we’d long planned but, in retrospect, poorly thought out. That is the problem of being an octogenarian while your mind insists you’re half that age. I used to love jumping in the car and taking a road trip. This one was a week-long visit to our beloved Asheville, to see how it had fared after the destruction of Helene a year ago, and to visit our dear friend, Joyce. Unlike our dozen or so other stays—usually extended periods in a condo or rental home—this one was only four days, staying at a “hip” downtown hotel.

 

First, though, we stopped in Savannah for the night. Even though we could have driven straight to Asheville in one long day, a midway stop is always a welcome break. Unfortunately, a monster accident on I-95 shut down the highway for 12 hours, forcing us onto the Turnpike and adding another 100 miles and an hour and a half to our first leg. Still, at the unassuming Hampton Inn by the Savannah airport we were rewarded with a spectacular sunrise, which I hoped was a good omen for the rest of the trip.

 

We thought staying downtown Asheville would allow us to ditch the car and walk everywhere—forgetting that its topography is, well, mountainous. Not like our recent trip to NYC or, of course, where we live in “the Free State of Florida,” flatter than a pancake. Walking those hills and dragging our luggage through three destinations took its toll. I did all 1,500 miles of driving (Ann offered, but I foolishly declined) and most of the heavy lifting. Add in the strange hotel beds and my usual back problems, and soon I had what I thought was sciatica.

 

By the time we finished the last leg—twelve straight hours in inexplicably dense Sunday traffic and two major accidents—I arrived home nearly a cripple, the pain in my right leg and hip extreme. My primary care physician ordered X-rays, which only revealed my usual back issues. My spine compression issue apparently reached its tipping point.  I’ve been on medications and rest, unable to do my daily walk or play tennis. Depressing, but I’ll soon start physical therapy to try to break the cycle and get back on track.

 

Still, Asheville worked its magic. We love its laid-back ambiance and mountain beauty. It’s a little oasis in a sea of Christian fundamentalism—as the local TV stations and billboards in Georgia and the Western Carolinas make clear, reflecting deep conservatism and vehement pro-T***p sentiments. But Asheville is different. If you don’t have a tattoo, you’re obviously a visitor. I’ve said this before: it reminds me of my brief stay in NYC’s East Village in the 1960s, or often resembles parts of the once-bohemian, now-gentrified Upper West Side where we lived for years.

 

That first night we ate at the hotel’s rooftop restaurant, which had panoramic views of the town, with the Grove Park Inn in the distance, where we had stayed several times before.

 

One of Ann’s dearest friends, Joyce, now lives in Asheville. Though approaching 100, she just had a successful hip replacement and acts and looks thirty years younger. After our first full day, we had dinner with Joyce and her daughter Pattie at The Chestnut—one of Asheville’s many great restaurants.

 

As for the city itself, it has received only a fraction of the funds promised by FEMA after Helene’s devastation. Perhaps the administration sees it as punishment for the city’s politics. Revenge seems high on their list. Still, downtown was mostly spared, though there seemed to be fewer tourists.

 

Oddly enough, two of our main destinations were bookstores. At Malaprop’s, Asheville’s great independent shop, I found a special annotated edition of Ann Patchett’s Bel Canto, complete with her handwritten notes about the characters and themes—a treasure. 

 

Then a visit to the Asheville Public Library’s used bookstore, where we found a few gems for $1 each finally stowing them in the trunk of our car after that first day’s walk.

 

No trip to Asheville feels complete without lunch at the Pisgah Inn, some 5,000 feet above sea level at Milepost 408.6 on the Blue Ridge Parkway. Although parts of the Parkway had been washed out by the storm, it has mostly reopened. After lunch, we drove in the other direction to the Folk Art Center, where we bought gifts for our hosts, Joe and Kyle, in Big Canoe, Georgia, where we would spend the last two days of our trip.

 

The following day we stayed downtown, particularly Pack Square with its quirky sculptures.

 

And, then, the Asheville Museum of Art which now occupies a relatively new building, and the first thing you see when entering is Wesley Clark’s My Big Black America (2015), an ingenious sculpture of salvaged wood stained and spray painted. I would like to still believe “E pluribus unum.”

 

The museum also gave us a hilarious moment. Just look at this photo:

 

It shows three sculptures—except one wasn’t. When Ann quietly went to sit on what she thought was an empty bench, she startled a young woman already sitting there (very still, looking like an artwork). Both jumped at the sudden appearance of the other!

 

After four wonderful days in Asheville, we drove 200 miles to Joe and Kyle’s vacation home in Big Canoe, about ninety minutes north of Atlanta. The community is filled with gorgeous mountain-style homes perched at different elevations around a large lake, with the requisite golf course, tennis courts, clubhouse, and marina. The weather was perfect, though by now walking was difficult for me. Still, we were treated to a relaxing pontoon boat ride around the lake, its quiet electric engine gliding us along.

 

But soon it was time to pack up and head home—a drive I dreaded, since we were determined not to stop for a hotel. Thankfully, Joe loaded the luggage (I couldn’t manage it) and even guided us out of the community’s winding roads. The last time I relied on GPS it led us to a false exit at the top of a mountain; it took 40 minutes to escape.

 

The drive home was simply awful. I made it in 10 hours last time, but this trip stretched to 12 thanks to traffic, frequent stops to stretch, and two Turnpike accidents. When that road narrows to two lanes, it becomes impassable. Welcome to Florida!

 

It was my intention to write about the unreal news events that unfolded during our trip, but there are so many that including them here would only complicate this entry. Better to save that for a follow-up – perhaps!

Reflecting on Familiar Places: A Connecticut–NYC Journey

 

Lately I’ve opened some of my blog entries with a cartoon. Usually these introduce political pieces, the cartoon serving as a sharp commentary on our increasingly dysfunctional government and the strange worlds of social media. This entry isn’t political, but I’m beginning with a cartoon anyway. It feels less like satire and more like poetry: it captures the sweep of our lives, stirring both humor and emotion. These days, we really do turn to Alexa and the gadgets that only recently slipped into the vocabulary of daily life.

 

The cartoon also connects to our recent travels—back to the places where we can’t really go home again, but still visit: Connecticut and New York City, the two landscapes that shaped my life the most. Wallace Stegner once said that if we live too narrowly in too many places, we lose touch. At least I can still hold on to these places of my youth and early adulthood.

 

My wife Ann wrote an email to friends about halfway through our trip. I’ve freely borrowed parts of it—not quoting her exact words, but weaving them into this posting, modifying and adding where needed. It made no sense to recreate what she had already written, so I’ve conflated some of our views here.

 

So, on Thursday, August 14th, our alarm went off at 3:50 a.m. to make a 6:00 a.m. flight to Westchester. Why so early? Unless you own your own private jet (increasingly the ultimate status symbol, along with a Rolex Daytona), any seasoned traveler out of Florida knows that the early morning flights are about the only ones you can truly depend on.

 

Landing in Westchester, I made a beeline for my Avis rental car, hoping for something familiar—I had booked a Toyota Avalon or equivalent. Instead, I was handed a Dodge Hornet hybrid: take it or leave it. Decent enough as a small SUV, but prone to malfunctioning at critical moments. The worst came when I returned it in NYC. I had to block traffic on West 54th to unload luggage, when suddenly the car refused to recognize the FOB and shut down. Couldn’t start it. Couldn’t get the luggage out. Behind me: a symphony of blaring horns. Finally, by locking and unlocking it, the car recognized the FOB again. Crazy. Frustrating. 

 

Back to Connecticut. Although we spent only three days in Norwalk, they were eventful. Our older son, Chris, and his fiancée, Megan, drove down from Massachusetts to meet us. The next day, our daughter-in-law Tracie drove up from New York with her parents, Pat and Alan Wong, who had just arrived from Hong Kong.  We all met our younger son, Jonathan, on the same boat Ann and I lived on during summers before Covid shut everything down. Jonathan has since taken over the boat, and now our boating lives exist only in memory—though refreshed by seeing the ‘Swept Away’ once again. The high point was then taking her out under the command of Capt’n Jonathan on one of those splendid, sun-filled Connecticut days.

 

The eight of us celebrated engagements, birthdays, and anniversaries. It is rare that our small family can all be together. Aside from the boat, we had a celebratory dinner at Rive Bistro on the Saugatuck River—another place filled with memories for me. It was my “go-to” restaurant for meeting with authors and vendors when I worked in Westport for decades before I retired. It was then called The Mooring Restaurant. Ironically, Chris worked there in high school, washing dishes once he got his driver’s license. I inexplicably remember those kinds of details. Today, the restaurant is French, with excellent food—particularly their mussels.

 

Sunday morning, after brunch at Jacob’s Pickles in Norwalk (we’ve also been to their Upper West Side location), we said our goodbyes to Chris and Megan and then we drove into the city, taking the same route I took when I commuted to Westport from NYC and back for the first year I worked there in 1970.  Amazingly, the roads don’t look much different. 

 

After the fiasco of unpacking luggage and returning the car, we checked into an upper midtown hotel. Our corner room on the 47th floor had floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides, offering spectacular views of the Hudson River, Central Park, and the nearby skyscrapers—including the Central Park Tower, the world’s tallest residential skyscraper at 1,550 feet. Even halfway up, we had to strain our necks to see the top.

 

Since we were spending almost two weeks in NYC, pacing ourselves felt important. Even in our room we felt part of the city, by day and by night. With a small kitchenette, it even felt a little like home. When not out, we had the Little League World Series and the U.S. Open Tennis on TV—our two favorite sports. 

 

That first night, we had dinner at Birdland, sitting right in front of jazz pianist Ben Paterson and his trio as they celebrated Oscar Peterson’s centennial. The selections echoed Oscar’s music—perfect for unwinding after the day.

 

The next night we met up with Pat and Alan, Tracie’s parents, and Jon and Tracie for a spectacular dinner at Salumeria Rosi, coincidentally near both of our old Upper West Side apartments. Ann was transported in her imagination to Maria’s kitchen—her best friend in Milan—enjoying Pasta con Vongole. Both Maria’s and the restaurant’s version of linguine with baby clams were nearly identical, Ann’s favorite dish.

 

Since Tracie was celebrating her 50th birthday the next night, Jonathan chose a very special Japanese restaurant, The Gallery by Odo. We six were the only party in the Tasting Room, with the chef preparing all the dishes in front of us. The following day, Alan and Pat flew home—and we recuperated!

 

Most of our New York visits in recent years have been crammed with theater. Summer is not the best time for shows, though, and after reviewing our options (and ticket prices), we decided to mostly forego Broadway this time and focus on museums and jazz clubs.

 

Our first museum stop was the newly remodeled Frick Collection, with a total of five Vermeers, two on loan. 

 

“The unprecedented installation of paintings united in the exhibition ‘Vermeer’s Love Letters’ pairs the Frick’s 'Mistress and Maid' with loans of the Rijksmuseum’s 'Love Letter' and the National Gallery of Ireland’s 'Woman Writing a Letter with Her Maid'.” We spent a long time closely inspecting their details, particularly the relationships between servants and employers. We were lucky to see this, as the exhibit closed soon after our visit.  After some other exhibits at the museum, and admiring the architecture, we enjoyed our lunch at the Westmoreland Café.

 

The next evening, thanks to our friend Judith’s suggestion, we had dinner at Acadia, a Mediterranean-inspired restaurant with table-served hummus and a hot loaf of herbed pita bread. Honestly, give me bread like that and some olive oil, and that’s a meal. The hummus was creamy, perfectly seasoned, with added chickpeas, tahini, lemon juice, garlic, and olive oil. Ambrosial!

 

After dinner, we headed to New York City Center to see the one show we booked, “Ava: Secret Conversations,” written by and starring Elizabeth McGovern. By chance, on the way we ran into our Floridian neighbors, Marty and Susan, who also had tickets that very same night. McGovern, playing an ill and older Ava Gardner, strutted and swore with the best of them: a very entertaining and thought-provoking play.

 

The Museum of Modern Art was within walking distance of our hotel, so the next day we met Jonathan and Tracie there. I was particularly interested in the special exhibits, especially the ‘Celebrity Photo Exhibit’ and ‘Machine Art’ (The highlight for me from the latter was a propeller made by Sullivan Shipyard in 1925.  A thing of beauty!)  

 

But the infamous “museum stroll” soon took its toll, and we were relieved Jonathan had booked lunch at The Modern, at an outdoor table overlooking the sculpture garden.

 

I hope this picture of us at MOMA shows that in spite of the demands of the trip, we were enjoying ourselves—and maybe communicates what we heard repeatedly: people were surprised to learn we are in our eighties, especially Ann, who was sometimes stopped on the street or in elevators by strangers wanting to tell her how stunning she looked. I agree. Her ponytail seals the case!

 

It was an extraordinary lunch, though extraordinary in price too, even with the Restaurant Week menu. The weather was perfect, and afterward we strolled through more galleries and the sculpture garden with throngs of visitors from around the world: a classic New York Sunday.

 

That night we cabbed to the West Village (our subway days are over—taxis were convenient and even cheaper than Uber) to see Samara Joy at Mezzrow, a small, claustrophobic jazz club on West 10th Street. We’d seen Samara when she was just starting out during Covid at “Emmet’s Place,” and later on a jazz cruise.

 

She’s the real deal, destined to be compared with Ella Fitzgerald or Sarah Vaughan. We were surprised to catch her in such an intimate club, but that’s part of the jazz experience. Her voice has range and power, though her set leaned more contemporary than the classic jazz we prefer. Still, with her trio—including drummer Evan Sherman, whom we also first saw at Emmet’s—her performance was memorable.

 

While in the Village, do what the villagers do: after the show we went to Boucherie on lower 7^th Avenue, a French restaurant, perfect for people-watching from a table open to the street as well as the picturesque bar. Overwhelming to see today’s youth scene, knowing we were once part of that world but now visitors from another galaxy.

 

Somewhere in this hectic schedule I fit in breakfast at my favorite Greek diner, Cosmic, on 8th Avenue and 52nd Street. There I met Jim Cummins, someone I hadn’t seen in about 65 years. In 1959, when I worked summers in my father’s photography studio at 100 Fifth Avenue, Jim’s father was the utility meter reader there. He mentioned his son wanted to learn photography, and my father said sure. Our paths briefly crossed then. I left photography as a career, but Jim embraced it: over 1,000 music album covers, plus work for Newsday, The New York Times, and Newsweek. His true love is photographing New York City, and his “Hidden NewYork: The Art of the City” was just published.

 

He found me through my blog, and though we’d corresponded, this was our first time sitting down together. He inscribed his book to me: “To Bob, 65 years of friendship and here’s to Hagelstein Bros. Be Well, Jim.” Stunning photos throughout. He liked to climb the towers of bridges, like the Verrazano, to photograph events such as the start of the New York Marathon. “Peaceful up there,” he said, while I replied “I’d fear being blown away!”

 

Talk about branding—JP Morgan leads the pack, especially in NYC. You can hardly look anywhere without seeing its name. Its new headquarters at 270 Park Avenue, occupying a full block, rises nearly as tall as the Empire State Building. Watching the U.S. Open, there’s its logo again. I tried to take photos of the building across the street in front of 277 Park Avenue.  I had an epiphany. In 1967, I attended a publishing party in that very building celebrating the facsimile edition of“The Iconography of Manhattan Island.” Back then, 50-story 277 Park, newly built, was hailed as the skyscraper of the future. Now it is dwarfed by JP Morgan’s tower.

 

The etiology of all this is the man himself, J. P. Morgan, the Gilded Age financier. His legacy also includes one of New York’s most interesting museums, the JP Morgan Library. They had a special Jane Austen exhibit, where we spent most of our time.

 

 “Iconic artifacts from Jane Austen’s House in Chawton, England join manuscripts, books, and artworks from the Morgan and a dozen collections, offering new perspectives on Austen’s literary achievement, personal style, and global legacy.”

 

First editions…

 

The music she played…

 

“This lovely, unostentatious gold and turquoise ring was made between 1760 and 1780. By tradition, turquoise is the December birthstone, Jane Austen’s month, but whether she bought the ring or received it as a gift is not known. In 1820 Cassandra gave it to Henry’s second wife, Eleanor, as an engagement present. A fundraising campaign enabled Jane Austen’s House to secure the ring.”

 

Perhaps my favorite photo of the entire trip came here. The exhibit included Amy Sherald’s oil painting, ‘A Single Man in Possession of a Good Fortune, 2019’. The title, of course, is from Pride and Prejudice. Sherald composes “striking, dignified portraits of people of color.” I should call my photo “Reflecting upon a reflection.”

 

Another stunning exhibit was ‘Arresting Beauty,’covering the photography of Julia Margaret Cameron, a pioneer of art photography in the mid-19th century. I was embarrassed never to have heard of her. Her ‘The Mountain Nymph Sweet Liberty’ (1866) particularly spoke to me—it was taken the year my great-grandfather started our family photography business. The more I looked, the more I felt the subject was looking back at me, across 150 years.

 

That night we went with Jonathan and Tracie to Dizzy’s to hear up-and-coming jazz vocalist Katie Kortum. She reminded us of Jane Monheit when we first heard her at the Maltz Theatre and then Palm Beach’s Royal Room years ago. Katie has a similar range and sensibility, with a particular love of Stephen Sondheim’s work. The setting—overlooking Columbus Circle and Central Park — is spectacular.

 

As if we hadn’t celebrated enough, we took Tracie and Jonathan out the next night for his 49th birthday at Four Twenty Five, a Jean-Georges Michelin-rated restaurant. The food, the service, the view of the kitchen—all exceptional (so was the price!).

 

The next day we visited one of our must-see stops, the New York Historical Society. I especially wanted to see their exhibit ‘Blacklisted: An American Story,’ exploring the intersection of politics, art, and culture during Hollywood’s Red Scare. While looking at letters from Frank Sinatra, John Garfield, and material from the film “Pride of the Marines,” I couldn’t help thinking about our own, more fearsome scare today, orchestrated by a president who never should have been in that office. Enough said about that here.

 

Another lighter exhibit, ‘Dining in Transit,’ displayed vintage menus from trains, planes, and ships. My favorite was a 1955 list of “qualifications” required to become a TWA air hostess. Indeed, a lucky girl!  Different times. Even passengers had unspoken dress codes: suits and ties for men, dresses for women. Military dress, acceptable. No tattoos, flip-flops or tight shorts!    

 

We lunched at the Historical Society’s new American restaurant, Clara, where the air conditioning was set to meat-locker strength. No wonder our favorite dish was piping-hot potato soup!

 

Their museum shop is irresistible, especially a chance to buy their “Declaration of Independence” baseball.  Is the metaphor still as American as apple pie? Nonetheless, I’ve added it to my baseball collection.

 

While family, jazz, museums, and restaurants were our primary activities, most mornings after breakfast I took my real digital camera and wandered for up to two hours in all directions, through Central Park, down Fifth and Park Avenues, across 57th Street, and inevitably into Times Square, trying to capture interesting shots of NYC scenes and architecture.  This present blog entry, including other photographs, is unwieldy as it is, so check out this link to my prior entry where I posted some of those walkabout shots but with little commentary, Streetscapes and Skylines