I’m starting to type my post for Ocean in the heavy cloud of a tired mind. (The rose? Oh, Ed would say that at $3, it’s an awfully cheap way of getting days worth of goodwill from me.)
And it was a rush of a day. Straight out of the shower, we did our usual walk to the courthouse. Yes, wet hair and all. Both of us.
We search for a quick bite to eat, find nothing good and settle for a standup muffin. Greasy and sweet. Bleh.
At the trial, things proceed with a certain degree of sanity. I find myself wishing for the moment where everyone would stand up and say – let’s all go home. We know this entire proceeding should not have come to pass, we’re sorry that we let it go this far. Not surprisingly, the judge does not say that. She admits evidence, even unnecessary evidence, because it’s better to err on the side of having a complete record than to make hasty pronouncements that later will be appealed by the party who sure as hell loves to appeal everything, even though he has never won (known here as “the bad guys”).
Walking home, I notice, as ususal, the traffic lining up to get into the Holland Tunnel. It’s rush hour, and the cars are clamoring to get in, or rather out of the city.
The cars stand frozen and you can do a dance between them and not get hurt. I am always surprised the next morning when we pass this way, that nothing of their mess remains. They do eventually get into that tunnel. People reunite with families, sleep and the next day it all repeats itself.
We stop at Bruno's Italian bakery for cookies. It's our aperitif. To help maintain the pace for the closing hours of the day.
Ed has a quick meeting with the attorneys in the evening. We’re really on the last stretch. Everyone expects tomorrow to be the final day of the trial.
I take a walk, weaving my way through the Village, taking it all in, sometimes mesmerized by the hyper crowdedness of it all, sometimes confused by it all, watching people hang out in the neighborhood that has made a cult of hanging out, so long as it includes lots of late night food, late night drinking, and in between, things I can’t really give a label to. Colorful? Sure, with insanely dizzying color.
Again I think back to when I was a kid here. After Warsaw, New York’s frenetic buzz was a stunning distraction. But I missed even then the quiet of empty spaces. Now, too, I’m starting to itch for an espresso in the stillness of a flowering garden. Or a walk where the birdsong isn’t that of a pigeon.
Ed comes back and we head out to dinner. Not far. Sammy’s Noodle Shop and Grill. Ed wants Chinese. Sammy’s, he later tells me, served up the best egg roll ever.
