Bought Macaulay's history of England and Ellman's biography of James Joyce out of a cardboard box on a Brooklyn street corner. Walked and walked and walked and walked and never got tired. Jean-Georges was glorious: a baby pea soup that tasted like petit pois picked warm off the vine. Not to mention the tiny rare tenderloin. Not to mention the walk through Central Park afterwards, and its crowds of people, and time spent observing peculiar hobbies such as disco roller skating. But today we leave all this and wend our way back north, and by tomorrow, life will have returned to Little League baseball and the wind in the trees.
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