Greetings from the back of the Concord Coach Lines bus that is hauling me south to New York City. A thin morning light glimmers on the tarmac stretching ahead. We have just whipped through the York toll plaza and will soon be crossing the Piscataqua River into New Hampshire. The sky is striped with low clouds that kind of look like tire tracks in snow. It's daytime, but only barely, and so far there's no sign of sun.

The bus is full, though I did manage to snag one of the desirable single seats, so I can stick out my elbows and wriggle around as much as I like. The Dramamine has kicked in and I am feeling slightly cotton-headed, but at least I can type this note and read the Aeneid without getting seasick. Across the aisle a family of young boys is consuming Cheez-its at a rapid rate. No hour is too early for Cheez-its, if you are 11 years old.

And now we are on the Piscataqua Bridge . . . I see a power plant smoking on the bank, the river unfolding beneath us . . . and now it is gone and we are back on land driving past the Denny's signs, gas station signs, and a clutch of sad little plastic townhouses that huddle up against the highway like lost souls.

I'll stop traveloguing shortly. New York is still hours away, and soon I will turn my attention to napping, and getting some reading done. I may or may not have a chance to write to you tomorrow morning as I have to be in Jersey City quite early. But the weather report says it's supposed to be 80 degrees in the city on Thursday! I can hardly believe in such temperatures. Do they exist?