The Not Dayton Trip, Part Six: New York City

  This is the sixth post in a series; you really should read them in order. 

Here's a link to Part One; and here's a link to all the pictures from this trip

 The rain on Saturday afternoon really started to pour down just as soon as I finished writing up Part Five of this blog post. That was about half past four in the afternoon, and the pharmacy closed at six. I checked my weather app and it was predicting a break in the rain before 5PM, so I waited until then; and sure enough, the rain pretty much stopped by about five, and I was able to make the 15-minute drive north to Chappaqua in relatively dry weather; and without too much traffic. I got there and got my pills -- I did not see either Bill or Hillary Clinton, though I did witness a sort of Gathering of the Clans in the drug store's parking lot. There were a surprising number of people wandering around there on foot, and the guy in the car in front of me seemed to know them all. 

 When Steve got back from whatever he'd been doing, we decided just to go down to the Village* for dinner. The train station in Valhalla has been converted to a restaurant. (Trains still stop here, but all the ticketing functions are now done by machine, so the station building is surplus to requirements.) The new restaurant, called Valhalla Crossing, occupies the entire old station building, plus a rail car added for the purpose. I forget what Steve had; I ordered the shrimp po-boy, which is served "on a wedge." This, it turns out, is not a slice of lettuce, but the local word for a hoagie roll. It was just okay; the shrimp weren't very plentiful and were prepared in some unusual way that made them look like they were fried until burnt, but actually were just in some kind of dark batter. They had a good texture but no memorable flavour. There were maybe half a dozen of these oddly-dark medium shrimp on the "wedge", with lettuce and the other proper accoutrements of a well-dressed po-boy. I had it with a kölsch, which was the best thing on the table. The service was excellent, and the ambience was good. I think Steve picked up the check -- we seem to have been taking turns, completely unplanned -- so I don't recall if the prices were right. I'll assume they are.

 Sunday was gorgeous: cool, with clear blue sky. We went for breakfast to the City Limits Diner in White Plains, getting there just as it opened at 8. This time it was Steve who went for the lox and bagel with cream cheese and all the trimmings -- red onion, capers, olives, I don't know what else -- while I went simple with just a bagel with cream cheese, and coffee. The coffee there was excellent, the best we'd found to that point, and the service was outstanding. We had a relaxing breakfast, and I was surprised to learn that we'd spent an hour and a half there. Once we were done, we drove to Port Chester to pick up Steve's girlfriend Dorothy, who wanted to go with us into the city.

 The only thing I had on my list of things to do in NYC was to go across the Brooklyn Bridge. I think that in all the times I've been to New York, I had never even seen the old bridge, and I wanted to get some of those famous shots of the Manhattan skyline that you see on TV all the time. It took us almost an hour to drive to the bridge access on the Manhattan side, and then we crossed it in the car and found a place to park not too far from the pedestrian access on the Brooklyn side.  

 The number of people walking and biking on the bridge late on a Sunday morning is amazing, and they're almost all young, like 20- and 30-somethings. I had heard that Brooklyn is currently a big draw for the post-college crowd, and it certainly appeared to be so from this, my one time in the area. I think, though, that it may be a victim of its own success. The living spaces we saw in the area immediately around the bridge are surely out of reach for the vast majority of young people, but until the upscale market is completely saturated I don't expect they'll be building more affordable housing in any place where you can see even the tallest tower of Manhattan or the slightest hint of the East River.

 Anyway: we spent at least an hour out on the bridge. We only walked to about the halfway point, just far enough that we could get views of Manhattan free of bridge cables. The weather was gorgeous, and the crowd was tolerable. Even though you're on the upper deck of a very busy artery, you hardly notice the traffic down below; which, by the time we left (after a light lunch in a small park there), was bumper-to-bumper heading into Manhattan. We drove over to Williamsburg, which is another neighbourhood that I'd heard was sort of up-and-coming; and I suppose it is, but mostly it's remarkable for the number of Hasidic Jews that live and work there. I've never seen so many people wearing black, or so many men with wide-brimmed hats. And, of course, with the sideburn-curls that are the most immediately identifiable affectation of that population.

the Vessel

 From there, Dorothy -- who is even more of an urban aficionado than me -- suggested we go see something called the Vessel, near the newly-redeveloping Hudson Yards. The Yards used to be a train-storage facility for the railroads, but it's being phased out, and there's a clump of new skyscrapers already rising there, even as the area becomes the Disneyland of the City. The architectural motif seems to be glass and steel with non-standard angles plugged in at random to set the buildings there a little apart from the other tall towers of Manhattan. Apparently the miles of distance between that clump of skyscrapers and all the other clumps of skyscrapers isn't enough to differentiate it.

 So the Vessel is ... what can I call it? A climbable sculpture? A tourist attraction? At the moment it's closed -- has been for years -- while the people responsible for it install clear barriers to keep people from using it as a launching pad for suicides. In the brief time it was open to the public, it quickly became the go-to spot for people who wanted to end it all in the most unpleasant and public fashion possible. (The possibility of that happening seems never to occur to the designers of these projects, despite the long history of Falling to One's Death as a means of shuffling off the mortal coil.) 

 That evening, back in Westchester, we dropped Dorothy back at her place, then just cruised around the area. Steve has lived in Westchester essentially his entire life, so every place is a memory for him. For me, who has been here only a handful of times for a few days or a couple of weeks at a stretch, the memories are fewer and farther between, and less clear. Still, I enjoyed just staring out the window of the car while Steve recounted some person or event associated with a place we passed, and every now and then I could say, Oh, I remember such-and-such happened here, or there. We passed the place where Steve and I had dinner once, and he ordered satay, which I had never tried before. The restaurant's gone, apparently, but the memory remains. 

 Our own choice for dinner Sunday night was the Nautilus Diner, in keeping with our accidental theme for the visit of eating in places that feature American food. Steve got a pulled-pork sandwich, which came with an overload of french fries, while I chose the Texas Nachos.

 There wasn't anything particulary Texan about the nachos, but I guess the name suggests southwestern cuisine to people here. In the present case, I'll accept it on behalf of my home state as a great compliment, as the nachos I got were very good, and there were a lot of them (because things are bigger in Texas, I suppose). The menu mentioned chili as an ingredient, so I was expecting, worst-case scenario, Doritos with canned chili with beans on them. The chips are not Doritos, but some kind of large rounds with good corn flavour and not too much salt. There's a lot of jack and colby cheese, some black beans, some pickled jalapeño slices, and lots and lots of pulled pork on top. The nacho plate is piled high, and they're delicious; it's served with sides of good-quality chunky salsa, sour cream, and guacamole. I only managed to eat about two-thirds of the portion served me, and today (Monday) it's my lunch, and still delicious.

 After writing that, I took myself out to Kensico Dam Plaza again to walk; after all that walking yesterday I expected to ache in my joints, but I feel fine, and I want to try and build on that, in the hope of getting myself down to a tolerable weight and condition. I remembered that there are various walking routes laid out at the plaza. I picked the route that's half a mile long, and made two circuits, plus going slowly around the 9/11 Memorial (called, I learned, "The Rising") and looking at the names of Westchester's dead. No one could doubt that this country is a melting pot (or maybe a stew) when they read those names: Albanian, Arabic, Chinese, English, Irish, French, German, Italian, Japanese, Korean, Polish, Scottish, Spanish, and some with roots I don't recognize. For all our faults as a society, that mix of nations is something to be cherished, now threatened by people who prefer to hate and fear others.

 Lots of dogs out, too, setting the good example.

N.B. I wrote that last bit before I found out that Haitian immigrants are eating the dogs in Springfield, Ohio. My point was that there were lots of things going on at Kensico Dam Plaza. But I wish I knew how to embed a meme of the Cheeto making the dog-eating claim during the presidential debate.

* It occurred to me that this reference to "the Village" might confuse people. I don't mean "Greenwich Village," which is commonly known simply as "the Village"; I'm referring to the one street of shops along Highway 29 (Columbus Avenue) across from the train station that is the business district of the Hamlet of Valhalla. It also is known simply as "the Village," but much less widely.

The Not Dayton Trip, Part Five: Hershey, Pennsylvania to Valhalla, New York

 This is the fifth post in a series; you really should read them in order. 

Here's a link to Part One; and here's a link to all the pictures from this trip

 I was parked on the street in front of my hotel in Hershey, Pennsylvania, overnight, and when I started the car to leave Friday morning, the "Engine Coolant" warning light came on. I figured that it was because I was facing downhill, but as the engine was still cool I figured I'd go ahead and check the reservoir. Glad I did: it was almost completely empty! This has never happened before. But ever since the sensor started malfunctioning I've carried the coolant mix in the trunk, so I was able to refill the reservoir. The warning light never came back on after that. (I just checked the reservoir again -- noon Saturday -- and it was down slightly, so I definitely have a leak now.)

 I had breakfast at a local chain restaurant called Funke's, a few miles up the road in the next town: eggs benedict and coffee, all pretty good. The one server was a little overstretched but made up for any delay with a level of cheeriness that I have never expressed. At the next table, an 8-top, were two old guys sitting side by side and keeping an eye on the entrance, apparently waiting for the rest of their party. I thought of them as the Welcoming Committee, as they seemed to know almost everyone who came in. Eventually one more old guy joined them, but by the time I left there were still only three men at that table. 

 The route to Valhalla took me through Allentown. There's a car museum there that I plan to go to on the return trip, but it wasn't open when I passed through. I did, though, stop at a Chase Bank ATM to replenish my cash supply; it was only a few miles out of the way. Someone had left a comment on Google Maps saying that it was "scary" in that area of town, but I don't know why. It's downtown, but there are nice-looking apartments in the area, some small shops, and a convenience store (or ice-house). Maybe the other people were there at night, when it probably has a different vibe.

 It only took a few hours to cover the distance to Valhalla, where Steve lives. He's buying a condo outside Cleveland and planning to move around the end of the year, so I'll probably never be back in Valhalla again. (I was thinking the last time I was here was about five years ago, but I checked my photo albums and find that it was 2013, when I was coming back from Canada. How time flies.) 

photo by SteveStrummer

 The highway coming here is, at one point, part of the New York State Throughway; it used to cross the Hudson on the Tappan Zee Bridge, an impressive looking cantilever structure opened in 1955, but a few years ago they had to tear it down and replace it. The replacement, called the Mario Cuomo Bridge, is a sad ugly modern cable-stayed thing. The proportions are all wrong, the angles of the towers are off. It's designed to last long enough that people will forget the inappropriate behaviour that forced its namesake out of office.

 Steve got home soon after I arrived, and after picking up sandwiches from the deli at the bottom of the street, we spent the afternoon swapping family histories. As part of his preparations for relocating, he's going through all his old family photo albums and culling many duplicate pictures, and those of people and places he can't identify. I rescued a few photos, mainly of his family members that I knew slightly. After a few hours of that, we went off to meet up with Steve's Friday Bar Crowd at a place in Armonk called The Beehive. The group consisted of the survivors of a group of friends that have been going there for upteen decades on Friday evenings. It sounds to me like about half the membership has died, but those who remain are a fairly lively crowd: it includes a contractor, a realtor, a fireman (Steve) and one person, the one seated farthest from me, whose background I didn't ascertain. It was a very Noo Yawk Suburban crowd, with the edges sanded off all the accents. 

 We had gone there just to have drinks with Steve's friends, but ended up staying for supper at the bar. I just had a grilled cheese with bacon, served with a baked potato, while Steven had mussels marinara. Both were really too much food.

Kensico Reservoir at sunset

 The rest of the evening was passed at Steve's house, with the TV tuned to PBS while we ignored it and resumed swapping stories.

 Saturday was supposed to be rainy, but the morning was dry enough that we went out to breakfast at a place called the Townhouse Diner. I ordered lox and bagel with cream cheese, and coffee. The food was very good -- lots and lots of lox, and I could only use about half the cream cheese they served with it. The coffee, though, bordered on the execrable. I needed two packets of sweetener and a dose of salt to make it drinkable. I will not be returning to that place. 

 Steve had the Irish Breakfast plate, which included eggs, breakfast sausage, potatoes, and something called Irish bacon (which turned out to be, basically, ham) and "black and white pudding." Neither of us knew what that was, and honestly I think it's the reason he decided to order the dish. Turns out it's yet another kind of sausage; four sliced portions, two black, two much lighter in colour (hence the "white"). They both had some kind of seasoning in them that made them pretty deplorable to me. The scent of them, whatever it was, stuck in my nose all morning. Another reason not to go back to that diner.

Kensico Dam Plaza

 Following breakfast, we drove up to the Kensico Dam. I've passed it I don't know how many times in my life, but this was the first time I got out of the car. First we went to the top, which is just behind the village shops, and walked across. On one side, of course, is the reservoir, which is part of the water supply for New York City; the other side is a park-like plaza. It's very popular with the locals. On a pleasant day like today, they were out in force, playing with kids and dogs in the lawns, walking the measured-distance routes around the plaza, and generally just taking the air. In winter, they fill the concrete basins with a foot or two of water and have ice-skating. There are fountains on either side, but they were dry right now, and a 9/11 memorial off to one side to commemorate the many Westchester residents who died in that attack. 

spotted lantern fly

 There are also a lot of lantern flies on top of the dam. (I don't know why they're only up there and not in the plaza below.) I saw one walking briskly along the top of the dam and got my camera out to take a picture, when Steve started saying very excitedly, "Kill it! Kill it!" and he started slapping at it with his shoe. My shoe was much more accessible, so I took a swing at it, but they're quick little things. It got away.

 So, according to Steve, lantern flies, which are so named for the bright colours underneath their outer wings, are an invasive species from down south, the only natural predator of which is a type of parachuting spider that doesn't live up north ... yet. So there's a concerted effort to kill lantern flies before the predators show up and make life in the Big City even worse. Wikipedia, though, says the species is from East Asia -- ain't that typical of a Yankee, to blame the South? -- and the predator is a wasp. Not sure that's any better than spiders. (I did see what looked like a yellow jacket eating a dead lantern fly, so there is hope.)

 By the time we left the dam I was experiencing about a 55% kill rate. 

 Now it's Saturday afternoon. Steve had to go on a fire call, which turned out to be for some woman who called the police to come scare her son straight, but when you call for emergency services from a car on one of the Parkways, all the emergency services show up. Then he had some errands to run, so I've been here alone for a while; long enough to write this post, shave, take a shower, call in a prescription to the drugstore in Chappaqua, deal with gmail's security protocols (which I find so frustrating at times that I'm seriously considering changing to Duck Duck Go's email service), walk down to the sandwich shop at the bottom of the street for lunch (because I couldn't identify anything edible in Steve's fridge). Now that I'm about done I'm going to drive up to Chappaqua and pick up my prescription.

 The rain has just started.