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

 

A Twenty Six day Trip with Four Legs

 

 

This lengthy entry necessarily starts with a picture of the boat we lived on each summer for nearly 20 years after I retired.  It is the thread that loops us through the eye of the needle of the past.

It used to be so much easier when we lived on it in Connecticut for the summer months: oaf up the car and off we went to our second “home.”  Driving up to CT each year was eagerly anticipated, and once unpacked and provisioned, voyaging on the Long Island Sound, to our mooring off the Norwalk Islands, and stays at Block Island, and day trips to NYC for theater on the New Haven Railroad, were planned, and seeing our family and friends.   Aging and then with Covid, we turned over the ‘Swept Away’ to someone more fit (and eager) to take on the responsibilities of upkeep and the joys of ownership:  our son, Jonathan.

Now that the boat is no longer ours and Covid seemingly, although not entirely, a nightmare of the past, last October we considered our options for this summer.  The same forces draw us back to the past. It might sound premature, but logistics dictate some sort of plan and commitment, even booking flights back then (no more driving up to NY or CT). 

Call me crazy.  But I came up with a Frankenstein trip, trying to combine four trips in one, for almost exactly a month squeezing into two medium size suitcases, even calculating our movements so we are at a public laundry about half way through. Thinking we still had limitless energy, plans were flying into White Plains, renting a car, and visiting our younger son and daughter in law at our former boat in CT for a few days, then off to a B&B in the Berkshires for a week of theatre, museums and local restaurants, then to Boston to spend time with our older son and significant other and then finally an eleven day cruise through the Canadian Maritime, the furthest point being Quebec for an overnight, returning to Boston for a flight home.  Whew. 

We were lucky to have caught some of the Democratic National Convention and the US Tennis Open while away.  Kamala gave us some hope, the DNC being alive with positive vibes, one that made us think, for those few days at least that we can erase the unmentionable one from our consciousness.  Otherwise, I’m moving to Halifax, the third time we’ve visited there with this trip.  I only need to grow younger like Benjamin Button to make that a reality (if the Canadians would have us). 

So as providence intervenes:  six days before taking our ambitious trip, I had a dental emergency. A permanent tooth had to be removed (a first for me other than wisdom teeth). Eventually, it will require a bone graft, post and crown.  Old age is not for sissies.

But what a way to start such a trip and I was on Amoxicillin for ten days.  Oh, swell, all the restaurants we were going to try and I just wanted a nice cold mug of Ensure as initially I couldn’t chew on my left side.  

We flew to White Plains (HPN) airport to pick up our car rental.  We had three wonderful days in Norwalk, going out on the boat with Jonathan and Tracie, and then Chris and Megan joining us for part of the weekend.  We got out to the Norwalk Islands where we’ve spent so much of our boating lives.  We change; it doesn’t.  There is something both reassuring and ominous about that.

Although not very descriptive, here we are approaching the islands we boated to for decades, Chimon on the left, Copps on the right and that little sand bar between, Crow.  But this is from the west side.  All those years we had a mooring on the east side, very protected from most winds, but, of course, the east.  Not wanting to be maudlin, but I expect my ashes to be deposited near Crow.

 

On the way out the harbor we visited our old, good friends, Ray and Sue, living on their boat only for the summers now since Ray has had health challenges.  But he hasn’t lost his sense of humor and they still act like the childhood sweethearts they were from grade school.  Ray was my boating mentor as described on the piece I wrote about our Block Island Days.

Except for the tooth extraction, the first leg was what we expected, and so nice to be with the family and friends we don’t get to see often enough. Our stay culminated with a festive dinner at The Cottage in Westport, the town where I had my publishing office for some thirty years.

 

 

Then we drove up to the Berkshires to stay at the Wainwright Inn Bed and Breakfast in Great Barrington for an entire week.   We had also booked this in October as it was the only B&B we could find that was more than a room, more like an AirBnB, yet still an Inn, including breakfast.  Our stay was in the entire upper floor of the separate, later built annex:

 

The main Inn was built in 1766, a charming old house with spacious yet cozy rooms on three floors.  Innkeepers Chris and Barb made it a pleasure.  I don’t do reviews on any social sites, just what I write here, but it was a wonderful stay, very convenient, and we made every minute count.

I can’t write in great detail, but the high points besides walking towns such as Great Barrington and Stockbridge, was visiting some of their restaurants, their public libraries, and of course museums and theatre. To me, architecture and people are the most important aspects of any such visit.  I want to imagine living in the places we visit (and I’d live in New England in a heartbeat, but Ann likes it here and so happy wife, happy life as they say).

Some of the highlights.  Our all day tour of the grounds, the museum, and a guided tour of Norman Rockwell’s studio were moving.  He and Edward Hopper are my favorite artists, the former capturing our aspirations and the latter our isolation.

Here is Rockwell’s famous painting, The Golden Rule, on display in his studio.  If you look carefully at the lower left is a photo he used for one of the subjects, most of these people from his home town.

 

Perhaps my favorite reason for connecting with his work is that I lived in those times.  One of them, ‘Soda Jerk’, features his own son, but a copy was displayed at the outside restaurant so we could walk into that time zone.

 

Most moving, and most evident of Rockwell’s transition from depicting Lily-white Americana to becoming an active civil rights advocate in the 1960s is his fabulous portrait of Lincoln for the Defense.  It depicts a famous murder trial, capturing his client, Duff Armstrong, shackled in the background.  It is spectacular, in its perspective, showing the towering strength of the future President.

 

No visit to Stockbridge would be complete without a meal at The Red Lion Inn, originally established as a small tavern on the main corner in 1773.  Norman Rockwell’s original studio was just across the street.

 

But much of our week was spent near our home base of Great Barrington, taking advantage of the town’s varied restaurants, and fun walking trips. Love visiting libraries wherever we go.  Found one of our best selling books in the Great Barrington Public Library and it was somewhat dog-eared meaning it’s been used frequently.  No better compliment to author and publisher!

 

Also notable there was a production in town of ‘A Jewish Journey through Broadway 1920-1980.’  As the majority of that journey was by Jewish lyricists and composers, it covered so much of the beloved music of our times, and it was an evocative reminder of the power of music.  Although performed at the St. James Place church, and by only three singers and three musicians, it nonetheless rang out a full Broadway sound, arranged by the gifted pianist and mega talented singer, Brett Boles (who I was amused to learn from the program notes is the vocal arranger for Randy Rainbow).  But make no mistake about it; his is a giant talent, along with the other two singers, Jennifer Mintzer, and Michael Pizzi, all Broadway pros with lavish singing voices.  How nice to emerge into a cool evening and be “home” in five minutes.

Another production we took in was in nearby Lenox.  Our timing was so lucky.  I thought we had seen virtually every Rodgers and Hammerstein show, even multiple times, until we learned that the Berkshire Theatre Group was putting on a full blown production which (embarrassingly to me as a pianist and to us a theater buffs) I had never heard of,’ Pipe Dream.’  Now I could spend the next few pages describing why this show “failed” but I’ll let the Berkshire Edge tell about this particular production.

 

I might add the following:  it was clearly R&H, much of the music beautiful.  R&H have always rooted for the underdog, and here we have a prostitute and, amusingly, an ocean scientist in love (not until the end though!).  The influence of Steinbeck whose stories the musical’s book is based on can be clearly seen.  Ironically, it reminded me of seeing the London production of Lin-Manuel Miranda’s ‘In the Heights,’ also about people living on the fringe, and yet an energetic and tight knit community

Another day side trip was to a tour of The Mount, Edith Wharton’s home in Lenox.  I can never do justice to the visit fully describing this phase in her life and post all the photos I took, so just linking their web site for further information, especially the introductory videos, shows why a trip to the Berkshires would be incomplete without visiting her home.

Here, though, is Ann in Edith’s bedroom where, remarkably, although Wharton had a beautiful library and a writing- greeting room, she wrote most of the novels while she lived there, dropping long-handed complete pages from her bed to the floor for her amanuensis to pick up, collate, and then type.  Stunning one can write a novel without a word processor!

 

Finally after one full week in this paradise, we drove off to Boston, first visiting Chris and Megan in Upton, MA.  Megan had prepared a lunch and we spent a lovely afternoon with them and our grand-dog Lily.  Maybe I was also “out to lunch mentally” – I was back on an antibiotic for a severe cough (Covid test negative!) and I thoughtlessly didn’t take pictures of that visit.  A shame.  They’ve fixed up their home as a dream cottage.

And so we went on to Boston to check into our hotel and drop off the car. Originally we had planned to hop the ferry to Provincetown for one of our days there, but I needed rest.  However, Monday we caught up with my old college buddy, Bruce and his wife Bonnie who came into town from their home in Sudbury.  We met at the Boston Waterfront where we were staying, and they took us to a lovely lunch at Legal Seafood.  Again, in my antibiotic haze, I neglected photos, but there are plenty of Bruce in my blog, including a piece I wrote more than 15 years ago.

The following night we met up with Chris at his office.  You can see Ann pointing to his office window in the Old City Hall building, which conveniently has a Ruth’s Chris Steak House in the back of the bottom floor. 

 

So for the second time in two days, we were treated, not only to a lovely dinner, but again getting together with Chris and Megan.  So wonderful that they found each other during Covid, on line, and have a meaningful, relationship.  Love and commitment later in life has its virtues.

After a lovely three day stay at The Seaport Hotel, the area filled with activity, from the fishing wharfs, to new architecture, plenty to explore, it was time to pack up for an eleven day cruise on The Celebrity Eclipse, not a mega ship but one of the largest ships we’ve ever been on, some 3,000 passengers.  It needs refurbishing.  But we selected this cruise back in October for its timing and itinerary, departing from Boston, visiting mostly the Canadian Maritime, some of which we’ve been to on previous cruises.  This itinerary included an overnight in Quebec, which we were anxious to visit.

The cab ride to the Boston Cruise terminal was short, easy, so you can imagine our surprise when we arrived on time and we could already sense chaos, long lines of people, many more elderly than us and we’re no spring chickens, with their walkers and wheel chairs, trying to get into the cruise terminal which looked like a dilapidated old warehouse.  So we inched along in the hot sun for nearly an hour.

Luckily, the first day was at sea, and beautiful.  Some time to recover.  The US Tennis Open was on and I could leisurely read my book, Baumgartner, by Paul Auster, on the balcony (which I finished and was going to review here, but this entry is way too long as it is – another entry later). 

Throughout the cruise, when not touring ports, we were more likely to be in our comfortable room as the further we got away from all the artificial entertainment the better.  We settled on a regular dinner reservation in the main dining room, just the two of us, although the Captain was constantly encouraging us to make “lasting friendships” while on board.  We did not need such patronizing.  I relate more to the help, the waiters, the assistant waiters, the receptionist, the room attendant.  The service people were genuinely very friendly and hard working, all from distant parts of the world.  Bless those people.

The first port was Halifax where we’ve been to several times and still one of my favorites. 

 

On previous cruises we thoroughly explored the city, including this moving Titanic Exhibit, but this time I just wanted to test my lungs with a long walk to the Halifax Citadel.  Ann walked part of the way along the waterfront and then I booked it for a 4 mile walk, half uphill the equivalent of twenty stories.  I probably had no business doing that in my medicated condition, but like Mt. Everest, I had to because it was there?

With every 20-25 degree uphill block I stopped for a few minutes, and then continued on.

The prize: you can see the waterfront from the Halifax Citadel.

 

One of the nice things about traveling is I met a young couple touring Canada from Ghana of all places, while climbing the hill to the Citadel.  They were very impressed to meet someone from nearby famous Palm Beach FL.  They were sure excited to allow me to be photographed with them so they could show their friends back home, a Floridian!  So we exchanged reciprocal selfies with our respective phones.

 

Next stop was the one we most anxiously anticipated: Quebec.  This was an overnight and we hired a private guide to take us on a walking tour of the old and new city and boy, did we walk. 

But first, as we approached Quebec, one of the famous sites could be seen from the ship, one to which we were not taking a tour.  It was impressive though to see the Montmorency Falls from the ship:

 

As we entered the Quebec harbor I thought I recognized the magnificent edifice up on the hill where my parents had their honeymoon, Le Château Frontenac.  I vaguely remember seeing it in one of my father's home movies of that trip.  Here’s the irony. They were married on Sept 2, 1939, so the day we visited would have been the “happy couple’s” 85th wedding anniversary. 

 

Then we disembarked and met our guide, visiting first the Lower Town along the St. Lawrence River while Upper Town is circled by the fortifications, with an elevation of about 165 feet. I have dozens of photographs of architecture and people, always the main attraction to me, but I’ll make this brief.  Here is a Quebecer with her bunny:

 

 

Place Royale is a historic square in the center of Quebec City.  Film buffs will recognize this spot where Frank is apprehended (supposedly in France) in ‘Catch Me If You Can’.  The bust is of Louis XIV and the church is the Notre-Dame-des-Victoires Church, built in the 1700s.  No need to go to France with Quebec so close by!

 

Before “climbing” to the upper city we were on a street towered above by Le Château Frontenac:

 

 The Quebec funicular quickly whisked us to the upper part of the city, over the old fortifications, to spectacular views: 

 

 

And of course the requisite photograph of us in front of the Fairmont Le Château Frontenac:

 

 

 

And to complete the picture of this hotel, the lobby communicates the stateliness of the building:

 

 

But before leaving our guide, Yves Trudeau, from the HQ Services Touristiques agency (highly recommended) we stopped at a little sidewalk bistro (just like Paris!) where we treated him and us on a blustery day to cappuccinos! He was like a walking encyclopedia always imparting some important historical tidbit, explaining that after Quebec was twice captured by the British, it finally reverted to French again, thereby preserving their beautiful language.  

Needless to say we were beat walking hours on mostly uneven cobblestone streets.  We have no regrets though about not going out to experience the night life as the US Open Tennis matches were underway so we had a lovely dinner on board the ship and watched the games that night.

From there we went on to the Port of Sydney Nova Scotia.  We’ve been there before and it is a pretty town to walk but stayed on board  Before arriving in the harbor, we passed Anticosti Island on the starboard side and counted at least 60 giant wind turbines on the island and wondering, where are ours? 

Its harbor is tricky to get into and I was impressed with how the ship was handled, all it’s automatic controls and positioning being checked out by old fashioned dead reckoning, reminding me of what I had to do (without joy stick controls and GPS) to manage our boats over the decades. 

I had a clear view of the starboard control (there are three centers on the bridge) watching an officer with his binoculars checking out the position it showed on their electronic charts.  Redundancy equals safety. The harbor had been dredged about fifteen years ago and I could see the bow thrusters churning up the bottom:

 

 

Late that day we departed for Prince Edward Island in the Gulf of St. Lawrence.  Charlottetown, its capital, has rows and rows of Victorian homes.  It had a feeling a little like Block Island where we spent parts of our summers on our boat.  It is certainly known for its seafood and we were determined to have some of their famous oysters and especially mussels. 

 

 

They are justifiably proud of their heritage and they have an occasional actor walking the street, who stays in character (you can’t drag the 21^st century out of them).  Here you see a young housewife and mother being interrogated by Ann about the town in the age she is portraying, her name, her children, and, in general, her love of Charlottetown in the nineteenth century.

 

 

Finally, we returned to the U.S. with a stop in Portland, ME, where once we had a festive dinner with family and friends to celebrate Jonathan’s graduation from Bates College so many years ago.  I didn’t see the city then, but was determined to use the day to walk from the waterfront, to the arts district, the old port and see the sights.  It reminded me a little of Asheville, NC, sort of hippy in its own way, and with a dedication to more liberal values.

 

Clearly, the First Unitarian Church of Portland stands firmly on those liberal grounds and as the last religion I briefly held was Unitarian, I made it a point to see that social activism is still a foundation of this humanist religion:

 

 

A bit of serendipity brought me to the childhood home of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow which he occupied in Portland.  I stopped by the Historical Society to ask for directions to the library and a lovely woman said right next door is a research library which I toured.  It was adjacent to Longfellow’s home which he occupied in his youth and early adult years before he became closely associated with the nascent Bowdoin College and went on to become one of the most recognizable scholars and poets of his time (although now considered a minor poet).  Fascinating to read about his life.  And most of us can still recite part of his famous ‘The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere.’

Just to stand there and walk through the gardens which his family created was inspiring.  It is the oldest standing brick structure on the Portland peninsula, and was meticulously restored by Maine Historical Society to its mid-nineteenth century character.

 

As in Halifax, I covered about four miles on foot, with the inclines not as steep.  But was happy to return to the ship dreading the next day of disembarkation in Boston, getting to the airport, where we would have to wait about four or five hours for our flight. 

Getting off the ship was not quite the nightmare of getting on, and Boston Airport was quite comfortable.  A little restaurant at the end of A Terminal, Harpoon’s, served delicious Lobster rolls, ironically the only time we ate lobster on the trip (skipping the traditional fanfare lobster night on the ship for a more quiet meal in one of the ship’s specialty restaurants, unfortunately, mediocre at best).

Total time between leaving the ship and getting home was about 11 hours.  The plane, a Delta Boeing 737 was like a meat locker and we had to keep hoods over our heads to stay warm, but we were prepared.  Actually, it was a very nice flight, in spite of leaving on time, getting in a little late as the pilot was rerouted over the west coast of Florida to miss some big thunderstorms.  I watched him thread the plane between them using my Flight Aware app on my phone as we were tied into the plane’s Wi-Fi. 

We had covered 2,750 nautical miles on the entire cruise, and add in the nearly 500 miles in our rental car.  So, after 26 days on the road and at sea, it’s wash, wash, wash, and write, write, write.

Stockbridge Red Lion Inn Figures by Norman Rockwell