Two Rivers, Two Towns

The drive to Weehawken turned out to be less harrowing than I had imagined. Google mapped the route; I chose the time of departure. As it turned out, a mid-morning drive to Manhattan is not necessarily unpleasant.

My heart rate accelerated as I maintained my speed through the Lincoln Tunnel, then slowed as I surfaced into the late morning light. Soon I pulled up to the curb outside the Sheraton Lincoln Harbor hotel. They gave me a room on the 7th floor that overlooked the Hudson. Like a string of multi-sized cardboard cutouts, the Manhattan skyline rose up on the far side, the Empire State Building immediately opposite.

I stashed my bag and left on foot to explore the area.

It was a short walk across the bridge to Hoboken, that old industrial city famous for the production of ships during WWI and WW2. Quickly I combed the narrow streets, hemmed in by brick row homes and shops. I made my way to the waterfront and watched as the New York Waterway ferry—the Governor Thomas H. Kean—approached the dock. A lone seagull soared above the water, while several others perched on decayed pilings that marked where piers from a bygone era once stood.

Out in the middle of the broad river a small tugboat nudged a bloated barge along. Several sloops, their sails reefed, motored down the expanse. Overhead a Coast Guard helicopter whirred by on its way down to the harbor.

That evening, after dinner, I stood on the second level of the Chart House restaurant and looked out at the city. To the north the George Washington Bridge spanned the blackness; to the south lay the Verrazano Narrows, while directly across the water the city sat, sketched out in a thousand points of light: clusters and strings of precious stones, like rich jewels in an Ethiop’s ear—brilliant diamonds, amber topazes, blue sapphires, red garnets.

Back at the hotel I crawled into bed, letting the curtains open. When I woke several times during the night, the city was still there, wide awake, beckoning.

Because of the time change I arose an hour earlier Sunday morning and departed the hotel in the darkness, driving west, leaving the smokestacks, bridges and concrete highways behind. I turned north and headed toward the upper Delaware, logging miles through low-lying farmland which eventually gave way to stone-capped mountains still draped in rustic orange-brown shades of autumnal garb.

I paid my three quarters to the attendant at the far side of the steel bridge that spanned the river and slipped into the town.

I checked my watch: I had two hours to kill before my friend would arrive. I grabbed a coffee and walked to a small park overlooking the river. You could see the water shimmering through the trees, sparkling in the sun as it meandered along. I noticed the remnants of a trail along the bank and struck out to find it.

Soon I was sitting on a tree stump at the edge of a grassy knoll, watching the last of the autumn leaves drift down from the ancient towering maples into swirling eddies. Off in the distance my eye caught sight of a large hawk circling above a stand of tall hemlocks on the far bank. I estimated the wingspan at six feet and glimpsed the white tail when the bird circled in the sun.

As I retraced my steps back up the hill, I met a man coming down. We paused in greeting, and I inquired about the trail that ran along the river. He told me where it led and asked where I was from. I learned that he made his home in Manhattan. Years ago he had purchased a small house by this river, which he frequented on weekends and holidays. I mentioned the eagle I had seen circling in the sky.

“I know where they perch along a tributary that runs into the river,” he winked, indicating with his head. We shook hands, and I walked back to my car to wait the arrival of my friend.

We had a good long walkabout filled with talk about things that matter to us most, followed by dinner in the old inn that sits on the square at the center of town.

Two rivers, two towns. Both rivers flow to the sea. One town never sleeps, the other is perfectly content to stretch and yawn as the spirit moves it.

The End of Something

The most stressful thing about a trip to Spain is the connections.  You have to wait, many times for several hours, to begin the next leg of the journey.  This time around things went well until I hit Madrid.  What should have been a 3-hour layover turned into a 4½-hour layover.  As a result, I arrived in Santiago late.  Thankfully, my sister-in-law was there to meet me.

After two more hours behind the wheel, we stopped at a local restaurant for something to eat.  It was a clean simple place, and the food was very good.  My sister-in-law treated me to a plate of pulpo a la gallega (octopus) and an entrée of rapé, a type of fish.  We finished the meal with a demitasse of coffee on the veranda.  It was a good way to wind down from traveling.  Half an hour later we rolled into Santa Marta.  It was just as I remembered it.  Everyone was there to greet me at the house in the narrow cobblestone street.

I was on my feet for close to 37 hours before I finally crawled into bed.

The next day I went for a long walk on the rustic path that runs along the edge of the estuary to the beach.  The sea undulated at my feet in gradations of blue and green, extending to the far horizon where it gave way to the faultless blue sky.  On either side the mountains rose up from the sea like prehistoric dinosaurs, their jagged peaks draped in torn green blankets where outcroppings of grey rocks broke through.  As I stood there buffeted by the wind, I understood once again why I love this country too much for my own good.  I lingered for quite some time before heading back to the village along the road.

Saturday was the wedding.  We gathered at the ancient stone church for the nuptial mass.  Outside, a small band of musicians played the drums and bagpipes as we exited through the courtyard.  Afterwards we boarded a bus for the next village down the coast, where wine and hors d’oeuvres were served by attentive waiters under a long white canopy on a small bluff above the beach.  The main meal lasted nearly four hours:  gambas, percebes, cigalas, rapé con patatas, carne de ternera, postre, an enormous amount of wine, both red and white, and to top off the meal, whiskey on the rocks and café solo.

At one point during the evening I stepped out and walked down to a small overlook and stood by the railing to watch the sea bathe the beach beneath a nearly full moon.  One of the guests, who had come from Navarra, appeared and struck up a conversation about the Spanish bullfight.  He spoke about José Tomás, the most artistic of all of the current matadors in Spain, who is recovering from a bad cornada, an injury to the femoral artery which he incurred when he was gored in Mexico this past spring.

The day before I left Spain, the provincial government in Barcelona voted to outlaw the corrida de toros.  As of Friday, July 30, 2010, there will be no more bullfights in Cataluña.  In an act of political capitulation, the Spanish national government voted to subsidize the salaries of workers in all industries associated with the corrida in the province of Cataluña for the next 90 years.

When Spain won the World Cup, Barcelonan taxi drivers displaying the national Spanish flag on their cabs were fined by the provincial police.

We are witnessing the beginnings of the disintegration of the Spanish state.

The Descent of Man

“Fire—there’s something about it, how it draws you in,” my friend muses, as we relax in our two chairs before the flames dancing in the iron circle. “Probably goes back to some primeval attraction we inherited from our ancestors.”

We sit and stare into the blaze, watching the logs shift as tongues of flame lick at their edges. The campfire throws a welcome heat across our faces and feet in the chilly northern Pennsylvania night. Overhead, bright stars bore through the canopy of tall wispy pines, while off in the distance spring peepers pipe their nocturnal serenade.

Far into the night we talk as the fire dies down to embers. My eyes grow heavy in the darkness. Soon we retire to the tent, crawl into our sleeping bags and drift off into the deep sleep that comes from breathing crisp night air in springtime.

The following morning we arise at first light, pull on our jackets and stamp off the cold. We lay another fire, feeding the fledgling flames with splintery tinder, and cook our breakfast over glowing coals: bacon, eggs and fried potatoes. Afterwards we set out on a morning hike, following the leaf-covered lake trail north along Little Pine Creek through the woods to an open meadow, where we cross the grassy plain to the stony bank of the creek. The water is high: clear and cold and deep. There are firm trout in the fast water, but we’ve brought no gear; fishing season doesn’t open until next weekend. We hunker down and splash cold water on our faces to cool from the morning sun. I slip a thin smooth round red stone into my pocket from the creek bed before we rise and retrace our steps back to camp.

A thundershower comes up suddenly that evening. High winds whip through the tall pines as lightning flashes across the overcast sky. I count the seconds before the thunder peals and mentally calculate the proximity of the strikes. We heat our stew over the small camp stove and eat under the dining fly while the water pours down in torrents. The campsite is soon drenched, but not enough to keep us from coaxing another fire from the split logs stored under the tarp.

The following morning we break camp and head out in separate vehicles. At the crossroads my friend turns northeast. I flash my headlights in farewell and head southwest along the divided highway. Several hours later I pull into the motel where I will spend the next two nights. I check in, find my room and toss my duffel on the bed. When I strip off the fleece that had kept me warm for the previous three days, my nostrils flare at the pungent residue of wood smoke. I recall the fire, remember the high fast stream and instinctively reach for the smooth round stone in my pocket.

This weekend there is a regional fishing tournament in town. By evening the motel parking lot is filled with sleek power boats hitched to huge pickup trucks. Bearded burly men hover around each boat, an occasional foot planted on the boat trailer, hands in pockets, discussing the possibilities of this or that artificial lure, and whether the big fish will be biting in the morning.

One by one my comrades arrive. Once we shared something in common: in our youth we ran together on the track and cross-country teams at the small liberal arts college housed on the hill above this sleepy central Pennsylvania town. Thirty-five years later we gather on this spring weekend to reminisce, to share a meal, to don our shoes and head out along one of the old running trails in the late afternoon. No matter our current vocations, no matter our present circumstances in life—for one short weekend we become forever young and strong and fast and free.

That afternoon, before the run, we stroll around the campus and stop by the Carnegie building to see the latest art exhibit: a collection of paintings bequeathed to the college by a wealthy alumnus, W. B. Stottlemyer. We browse muted oils depicting 19th century American wilderness landscapes and stand in silence before a genuine Rembrandt: a pen and ink rendition of Christ driving the moneychangers from the temple.

After the run we return to the motel for a round of beers at the picnic table. The burly fishermen have returned in their pickup trucks with their boats in tow. They recline in lounge chairs with a cold beer in hand and quietly eye us bantering in our running gear; we pretend not to notice.

That evening we gather at the home of our former running coach and chemistry professor for a traditional ham dinner. Several younger runners have joined the group: current members of the cross-country team. We talk until late in the night. I’m interested in my professor’s opinions on alternative energy sources: wind, solar, nuclear, water. The party breaks up after midnight; we say our good-byes and drive back to the motel.

I arise Sunday morning, pack the station wagon and head east along the highway that parallels the railroad. The sky is clear and blue; up ahead the empty road beckons. On a whim I take an alternate route north through the Big Valley, once inhabited by Native American tribes, later settled by plain people—Mennonite and Amish farmers. Nestled between high mountains on either side—mountains that resemble a sow nursing suckling spring piglets under a massive yellow-green blanket—the freshly plowed fields stretch over rolling hills. One by one I pass narrow lanes that lead back to small stands of barns, outbuildings and farmhouses. From each farmhouse chimney a plume of grey smoke rises in the clear morning air and drifts down the valley.

Up ahead I encounter a string of black buggies pulled by high-spirited horses, their hooves clip-clopping along the macadam. I signal to pass and glimpse the milk-white face of a young woman dressed in black sitting on the buckboard beside a young man: a Whistler portrait. Further along I pass by a simple graveyard, rows of short grey stones jutting up through the thick green grass, as though they themselves were the crop that had sprouted from previously planted seed.

Every so often I pass a sign posted in a field by the side of the road bearing a verse of scripture: “Serve one another in love.” “Strive to live at peace with one another.” “Love covers a multitude of sins.” Such signposts serve as a Sunday morning sermon in this spacious outdoor chapel.

After seventeen miles I turn into the entrance of the state highway. Across the road a tired horse strains at harness, ascending the hill with his portly master in tow. I glimpse the man’s red round bearded face before turning my eyes to the open road ahead that drops through the deep cut in the mountains in its descent to the ancient river below.