I am on my way home (via Amtak/Acelaaaahh) from a 24 hour trip to Manhattan. Train travel manages to be both thrilling and civilized. I’ve read a book and a half.

I love New York. Especially in the spring — warm but not smelly.  Especially Central Park. Especially when someone else is picking up the tab and I’m wandering around, looking into store windows and museums, and at the urban parade. So many tourists. So many children in school uniforms. Ice cream and hot dog vendors.Bakeries flaunting sexy bread and cookies on every other corner. The light pouring through the avenue canyons. Crocuses everywhere.

I was in movie-land Manhattan; the upper east side, which I hardly know, where on Friday night at 6 pm there was virtually no traffic (at 90th and Lex, at least.) The trip to Penn Station wasn’t quite as mellow, but I dig the madness, too. Cabs are back to honking in NYC. I thought they got fined for that.

New York makes me want to make  lists that would put Walt Whitman (who loved New York) to shame.

Walking to the hotel this morning, a guy in a rush (I guess) came up behind me and stepped on the heel of my shoe, pulling it right off me. He apologized and hurried off. A woman came over and clucked over his rudeness and hurry. Are you okay?

She was from St. Vincent in the Carribean and we chatted about the end of winter as we proceeded up the avenue. She’s been in  NY for 18 years but says she’ll go back in three more. Go to college. Start a business. Here you work to pay your bills, she said.

We bid each other goodbye at 89th street.