Sleep No More

*Note: Photography was forbidden during the show, and even if it hadn't been it was too dark, so all of these images are pulled from the internet.

Last week (yeah, I'm behind on these) Ed and I went to see a show I've had my eye on for ages, Sleep No More. I was told it was an interpretation of Shakespeare's Macbeth and that it was interactive and that you walked around an old hotel and that everyone who saw it seemed to love it. An email I got after purchasing the tickets warned attendees to wear comfortable shoes. I knew little more than this as we waited in line outside the "theater," whose sign said it was actually called the McKittrick Hotel. I learned later that the hotel was actually an abandoned warehouse until the theater company (Punchdrunk, from England) transformed it. Our IDs were checked and our hands were stamped, and we were let through the front door in small groups. The entryway looked like a hotel, albeit a very old one, and we were given our "room keys" (actually playing cards) at the check-in window and wished a pleasant stay by the staff. Then a small group of ticketed guests were let into a dark corridor. It was virtually pitch black, and we bumped into walls and each other stumbled forward, between the winding walls. It felt like being in a haunted house. Suddenly, there was red light and music and we found ourselves abruptly in a crowded jazz club filled with small tables and other guests. People were buying drinks from the bar, but before Ed and I had time to do this, the numbers on our cards were called. Or, rather, his number was called. I decided to try to sneak in with him, and as it turned out, our numbers weren't even checked. A very dramatic woman dressed in a sultry, Medieval-style gown led us into a small room and distributed white masks. She told us that there was no talking, cell phones, or holding hands (Ed and I shut up and dropped hands immediately). She told us to leave our masks on at all times, and that people stationed throughout the hotel in black masks would assist us if we needed help, then herded us onto an elevator. The elevator operator told us that this show was best experienced alone (yeah right; I was not about to split off from Ed), and that "fortune favored the bold." Then he stopped the car and opened the door. I followed several people out, but to my surprise, when I turned around there was no one behind me and the elevator door had shut.

A room on the top floor. 

Ed told me later that the operator had shoved a hand in front of him to prevent him from following me, then closed the door and taken him and a group of others to another floor. It was dark and decidedly spooky, made more so by the fact that I seemed to be in an old hospital. Worse still, the padded room I walked by later indicated that it had been a mental hospital. Very few other people were on this floor, all walking silently from room to room and examining books, papers, apothecary jars of what looked like medicines, and medical instruments. Creepy. I walked through the different rooms, jumping every time I saw motion out of the corner of my eye and hesitating to enter rooms that were clearly occupied. However, eventually I realized that the only other people around were masked guests, like myself. No one jumped from dark corners or grabbed me and cackled. I got bolder.

Soon, I determined that I'd seen the whole floor. I found a stairwell, but the ascending stairs were roped off. I figured this meant I was at the top, and was relieved that this would make my walk-through systematic. I went down a level, and found I was in a completely different place. There was a room filled with structures made from cardboard boxes, and here I saw my first actor. It was easy to tell he was part of the show because he was not wearing a mask. He was dressed to fit the period, the 1920's I estimated, and, with the first sound I'd heard all evening in the background (a scratchy recording of "Guilty"), was carefully folding a suit jacket on a pool table. (Yes, there was a pool table in the middle of what looked like a hobo camp.) Other masked figures watched him silently, following him around the room. I couldn't figure out what he was doing, so I left. I found a dark, misty room filled with skinny, leafless trees arranged in a sort of maze. I wondered if this represented the Woods of Birnam from the play. It was too dark to see my watch, but I estimated I'd been in the hotel at least 20 minutes and had yet to see anything that reminded me of Macbeth.

There were also abandoned shops set up, and I wandered into a candy shop, a shop full of dusty old sewing machines, a detective agency, and an undertaker. The candy shop smelled like butterscotch balls, and later in another room I smelled moth balls. It was impressive and made the whole thing feel more real, which, in turn, made it all the more spooky. The undertaker's shop had papers on the desk and a photo album. Eerily, the black and white photos within depicted both family portraits and photographs of corpses in coffins at viewings, all mixed together. I looked through the papers on the desk, but they didn't seem to have any relationship to Macbeth. More and more people were filling the floors, but I continued to hear no voices or sound effects. Masked figures opened drawers and cabinets to examine more artifacts; this seemed to be totally acceptable and even expected. I walked into a cemetery, which flanked a large, dusty room with a bathtub in the center of it. There was water in the tub, and letters strewn all over the place. They were identical. I read one, and it was addressed to "My Dearest Love" and told all about being named Thane of Cawdor. It was signed "Macbeth." Finally. Then a woman dressed in a cloak came in. To my great surprise, she stripped naked and hung her clothes on a nail. She rinsed her face with water from the tub, dressed in other clothes, and disappeared through a doorway. Masked figures tried to follow, but the door had locked behind her.

The hotel lobby

I descended another floor and found a series of rooms that looked, at last, like a hotel. There was a restaurant and a lobby, then some rooms that looked like bedrooms in an apartment. Some had children's furniture, books, clothes, and toys. Then there was a room that contained only a crib with about 25 identical dolls strung from the ceiling above it. The dolls had no heads. Even though this floor was better lit than the others, it was clearly going to be just as creepy. (An internet search later told me that this was meant to represent the living quarters of Macduff's family, who were all killed by Macbeth's men.) Then I saw a bearded man in a tuxedo shirt and pants go striding across the room, tailed by a silent, masked group. I decided to follow him, and he led me down some stairs and into a small room that looked like a chapel. He was on his knees, praying, by the time I got there, and as we all watched, a woman (one of the witches?) came into the room, and they engaged in a dance that looked like something between a fight and an expression of lust. After about five minutes, they both left the room and we all followed. I saw a maid come out of a door, though, and took off after her instead. She went to the restaurant, crushed some things with a mortar and pestle (I smelled licorice), then dumped them into a glass with some water and handed it to a pregnant character who clearly wanted to drink it but kept being interrupted by the bell boy. Perplexing... I kept wandering and saw many more scenes, only some of which I could make sense of. I determined that the bearded man was Macbeth after I saw him, covered with bloodstains, taking shots and arguing (wordlessly) with someone who I figured was probably Banquo. Later, I happened upon a banquet scene with Macbeth at the head and the formerly naked actress at the foot. Lady Macbeth, I figured. A bloody figure sat at the table and raised a glass with everyone. Banquo's ghost? Later, I nearly ran into Lady Macbeth while she wandered the hallway between the shops, murmuring about wanting to be unsexed. On another floor, a man backlit by a spotlight did an interpretive, silent dance in another wood, this one with pine trees.

As I wandered through the trees, a man in a white mask walked toward me, and it took me a few moments to realize it was Ed. I widened my eyes at him, and we walked around a bit more. We saw a man carrying a door across his back. Ed pulled my aside and whispered that it was starting to repeat, as he'd seen that scene before. Either way, we'd been in the hotel for about two hours, and were getting hungry and increasingly confused. So we wandered around until, in rush of sound and light, we found ourselves in the jazz club again. It had seemed dim and vaguely foreboding when we first saw it, but now it appeared bright and welcoming. Able to talk at last, we removed our masks and headed for the door. I overheard a staff member, trying to talk other guests into buying a book about the show, say that there were about 14 hours of content in the show, and that many people came to see it multiple times, following different characters to ensure they'd experience it all. The world outside the hotel seemed warm and friendly. Ed and I went to a pizza place, and I learned that he had seen none of the same scenes I had, though we'd gone into almost all of the same rooms. In the room with the bathtub, he'd seen a bloody Macbeth strip naked while Lady Macbeth bathed and comforted him. (I'd come across the tub again later in the show and noticed that it was bloody.) We discovered that we'd made some of the same conclusions about who was who, but that neither of us could explain most of the show.

Lady Macbeth comforts Macbeth after he slays Duncan (I think)

I wanted to see Sleep No More because I love Shakespeare. I enjoyed it very much, but I don't think it necessarily fit into the "Shakespeare" category; it followed a lot of the same themes, but there was just too little that was an obvious tie-in. Still, the performance was a pretty incredible experience. The intricacy of the set alone was worth seeing, and while I wasn't always sure what the actors were doing, I was impressed by how well they did it. I loved the masks and the silence. It made the whole place feel eerie, and kept people's expressions invisible. It seemed that each of the characters was being watched by a crowd of inescapable, silent judges, which is fitting because the play is all about guilt. Brilliant. I'd certainly recommend it, though not for the faint of heart, or to anyone averse to walking. I don't think I'd go to see it again, but it's a unique experience that I think almost anyone should see once.

Legit Lit: Let the Great World Spin

To me, the mark of a great book is one I think of often after I finish it. I've read plenty of books that do not immediately strike me as being great only to find myself that little things in my daily life trigger reflections about their plots, characters, and themes for months or even years afterward. I knew that Colum McCann's spectacular Let the Great World Spin was wonderful while I was reading it. But only now, having finished it a year and a half ago, am I aware of just how wonderful. 


Jonathan Mahler, reviewer for The New York Times, calls McCann's spectacular book "one of the most electric, profound novels I've read in years." His reasons are probably different from mine, in part because his review appeared shortly after the book was released and he didn't have the time to let it marinate the way I have. But both of us recognized the gem we held in our hands immediately. The story begins in Ireland but moves quickly to New York in the 1970s as it follows two emigrees, brothers, who set up vastly different lives here; one becomes a bartender and the other eccentric, infinitely loving priest who ministers to prostitutes and other residents of a housing project and, for all his naïveté, may be the wisest character I've encountered in a while. (Isn't that always the way?) As the story unfolds, more and more characters are introduced, all united, however peripherally, by the real-life bravado of tightrope walker Phillipe Petit, who once danced on a wire strung between the towers of the World Trade Center. (While it is this wire that binds them all together, Petit's act does not have a central role in the book.) Some of the characters reappear throughout the novel, and some make only a brief appearance, but even the most minor are imbued with depth and vividness that makes them all feel deliciously as though they stepped out of their real lives to flit momentarily into the plot before rejoining their separate existences again. 


The books is filled with fascinating juxtapositions. The dichotomy between inseparable opposites is established early with the two Irish brothers, Ciaran and Corrigan, and continues throughout. One of the characters is a judge who doles out justice to the very people Corrigan, the priest, tries to save. His wife is a member of a small circle of mothers, different in every way but for the grief that binds them after losing sons in Vietnam. And, as the book is a contemporary work, the grimy picture it paints of what I consider today to be a luminous city, one in which the twin towers are nothing but a haunting memory, creates yet another poignant pairing. 


Let the Great World Spin is at once heartbreaking and uplifting. It will stay with you, and you'll be happier for it. You must read this book.

Philharmonic in the Park

Ed's friend Rasool invited us to join him and some of his former colleagues to listen to the Philharmonic play for free in Central Park. Obviously, this was a no brainer. We met him towards the end of a hot summer afternoon and were settled in the grass about a million miles away from the stage by 7:00. There were speakers set up all over the place, though, so I wasn't too worried about hearing the music once it began. Ed and I relaxed on a blanket, ate cheese, crackers, olives, and hummus, and sipped champagne and chatted with Rasool's friends. We watched the Great Lawn around us fill up. It was crowded when we first arrived, but by the time the music started a little after 8:00 there was hardly any green visible between blankets. The people-watching was excellent. A family next to us had brought its well-behaved Boston terrier. An elderly couple lounged in folding chairs. A group of peroxide-blonde girls in shorts skirts, half with obvious breast implants, munched on Special K crackers and giggled together. The evening cooled slightly as the sky darkened, but the temperature was absolutely perfect. It was one of those nights when the air feels soft.

We were treated to three different pieces, one by Wagner, one by Tchaikovsky, and one by Brahms. It was absolutely lovely. At one point, I had to weave my way between blankets to find the port-a-potties set up not too far away. Using a port-a-potty is never pleasant, but doing it at sunset on a warm summer night in Central Park to the sound of one of the best orchestras in the world playing Tchaikovsky makes it a fairly transcendent experience. I had a wonderful time, but one thing that was slightly challenging about the evening in general was that Rasool's friends had a different agenda than I did. I was hoping to spend most of my time listening to the music. They were hoping to get drunk on a blanket and enjoy each other's company. An older woman actually approached the group at one point and asked them to keep their voices down. She said it was really all about the music. They laughed her off and said it was all about the camaraderie. I'm not sure who was right, but I determined that when I do this again next year (and I will definitely do it again next year) I will make sure I go with people who are on the same page as I am. 

As the evening turned into night, seasoned veterans of Philharmonic park performances lit candles. This was a very good idea. There is always too much light pollution to see too many stars in New York, but the light doesn't really penetrate into the middle of the park. Under normal circumstances, people are not supposed to hang out on the Great Lawn after sunset, so there are no lights, and there was no moon either, resulting in pretty dim surroundings. The candlelight formed small circles of coziness in the gloom. The orchestra played the last notes of the last piece a little after 10:00, and a few moments after they finished fireworks erupted in the sky along the southern edge of the park. We all turned to watch, and it was interesting how the group that insisted on talking loudly throughout the music shut up to watch the fireworks... Anyway, it was a good if not terribly elaborate show that lasted about five minutes and left the air shimmering. I hadn't expected fireworks and was thrilled to see some, particularly since Ed and I didn't see any on the 4th of July. 

I was struck by the size of the audience more as we were leaving the park than when we'd been lounging on the grass. The Great Lawn is located in just about the center of Central Park, and so there was a good bit of walking to do to get to where we were going. We joined thousands of people streaming toward exits. Luckily, the park is huge and people had lots of options to get out of it, so the crowds thinned the farther we went. We walked several blocks west and hailed a cab, which had us home in a jiffy. Though I'm fairly sure I won't live in New York for the rest of my life, experiences like this make me wonder why anyone would want to live anywhere else.

A Flowery, French Saturday

About six weeks ago, NPR informed me that the New York Botanical Garden had rebuilt Giverny inside the conservatory! Needless to say, I was thrilled to hear this. I've never been to that part of France (or to the Botanical Garden), and the exhibition was supposed to be great. It opened in late spring and was supposed to go until October, so there was tons of time to get there. On Saturday, Ed and I finally made it. 

The gardens are way out in the Bronx, near the zoo, so it took us ages to get there. I'd done a 15-mile run that morning and Ed had done a shorter, faster 9, so we were both a little weary. The weather was searingly hot, and the subway was crammed with exuberant fans in Yankees gear heading to the game, so it was a relief to finally arrive. Upon entering the garden, I felt myself relax almost immediately. It is huge and green and beautiful. We made a beeline for the conservatory. This would have been my first choice anyway, as I've always been a fan of greenhouses. This one dates back from the Victorian era and is made of glass and iron instead of steel. It's graceful and lovely. 

I was rather hoping that the $20 ticket into the garden would save Ed and me the time and expense required to visit the real Giverny. I would not recommend the exhibition for that purpose. Still, it was very beautiful and well thought out. For one thing, the flowerbeds were punctuated with quotations taken from letters and diary entries Monet wrote about gardening. He was an avid gardener, and he planned his landscape the way he'd plan a painting as far as composition and color scheme. There were also placards with tidbits of information about Monet's life at Giverny. The theme spread beyond the conservatory. In the garden's museum, which we did not have time to visit, there were apparently lots of photographs of and more information about the Giverny house and garden, and there were large signs printed with poems about water lilies and the like planted along the walkways leading up to to the conservatory.

I thought the exhibition itself was beautiful, though it was smaller than I'd expected. There was a walkway surrounded by the flowers that Monet would have planted in his own garden with a replica of part of his house applied to the back wall. The walkway led to a small pond containing as many lilypads as could be crammed into the small space. A green bridge, like the one in many of his most famous paintings, curved gracefully over it, though it was much shorter in both length and height than the one I've seen painted so many times.

Real house and garden

Replica

Painting of bridge

Replica of bridge. (This is pretty much the whole thing.)

Still, it was all very pretty. Ed and I wandered through the rest of the conservatory, where we saw some lovely orchids, some less lovely carnivorous plants, and water lilies and lotuses growing in outdoor ponds, complete with koi paddling lazily just below the surface. I loved the rainforest room, were we followed a curving path through lush, drooping foliage that we often had to duck under. I did not like the desert room, less because of its contents - which were mostly really cool cacti - and more because of the heat. It felt like an oven.

Ed finally dragged me out of the conservatory and we took a free tram around the perimeter of the park while listening to an informational recording about all the different attractions. This was a great way to get an overview of what was there and catch glimpses of lovely vistas like the rose garden and the azalea garden. We visited the gift shop, a Must Do when visiting any museum or garden as far as I'm concerned, but then had to leave so we'd be in time for the second part of the day's agenda. I look forward to going back in fall and spring, when I expect it will be a different place altogether.

Our friend Dennis has a French girlfriend named Marine who lives with him in White Plains. Dennis also has a British friend named Dave who lives in Brooklyn near a spot called the Dekalb Market. The market is an assortment of shops and food and drink vendors operating out of storage containers in a lot that takes up a city block. Since July 14th was Bastille Day, there was a special celebration going on at the market. Dave saw this last year on Bastille Day from his apartment, which overlooks the Dekalb Market, and so some combination of Dave's reports and Marine's nationality convinced Dennis that we should all go this year. It was a very international group: Dennis, Ed, and I were the nationals, while Marine and Dave were joined by another foreigner, Sarah, a former neighbor to the north who now lives in White Plains, too. We met at a Mexican restaurant before heading to the festival for fear that the lines would be very long at the vendors, and after dispatching some watery margaritas and fairly decent fare, walked over to the market. 

My first impression upon entering the grounds was that it didn't look very French. There were a few red, white and blue streamers here and there, and a photographer was set up to take pictures of people who lined up to pose with French props like plastic boater hats, wispy scarves, and false mustaches, but that was about it. The place was simply crawling with hipsters. Most of the food vendors were open, but they were still selling the same thing they'd sell any day of the week. The hamburger stand still had hamburgers, the mac 'n' cheese place still had mac 'n' cheese, etc. No snails or delicious cheeses in sight. Ed and I foraged around the perimeter, as he was still a little hungry. (He's been a bottomless pit since he started training for all these triathlons.) We discovered that the place that advertised milkshakes was out of vanilla, and chocolate seemed rather heavy for such a hot day. We tried the frozen yogurt place which had only "original" and strawberry-banana to choose from. The doughnut place had an Open sign displayed but was most certainly closed. Ed commented that he felt he'd been taken in by the hipsters. We managed to catch the one and only performance by the Love Show Burlesque, which consisted of three heavily made-up girls in frilly, feathery costumes doing high kicks for three minutes. Then they left the stage and we never saw them again. The Hot Sardines, however, a jazz band who sounded like they'd walked out of 1930, were not only talented but long-lasting. We could hear them from our table, which wasn't quite as far from the Port-a-potties as would have been ideal but which we were lucky to get as the place filled up. We did not see the baguette eating contest, though we heard the French emcee commentating. Ed decided to fill up on beer instead of food, and he, Dennis, and Dave took turns waiting in an absurdly long line for $7 beers.

The Hot Sardines

I had a really nice time hanging out with the crew, but I certainly wouldn't recommend this Bastille Day celebration to anyone. We should have put the $12 towards more beer somewhere else instead of toward admissions to this place. Still, it was a thoroughly enjoyable Saturday.

Babbo

Ed had been talking about Mario Batali's restaurant Babbo for ages. He'd been several times, once years ago when he was visiting the city and one or two times since moving here, but I'd never gone with him. The problem, though, was that it's just about impossible to get reservations unless you call several weeks in advance. So last night we decided to just wander over and see if we'd get lucky. We did.


Babbo is in the west village, about a 15- to 20-minute walk from our apartment. I had gone for a run earlier that evening and taken a very leisurely shower, so we didn't get out the door until probably 9:30. But the restaurant was still busy when we arrived, with lots of people standing around the bar (seats were reserved for dining only) waiting for tables. We were told it would be half an hour, but we were deposited into a cozy little two-top table within about 20 minutes. From it, we had a view of the herbs, tomatoes, and, oddly, marigolds planted in the window boxes outside.


The feel of the downstairs was cozy - I did not see the upstairs - and it was sort of hard to believe I was in one of the best restaurants in New York. There was no hint of snobbery (perhaps this was due to their musical selection: mostly the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Moby, and the Foo Fighters), and I was surprised to see that, while this was no Gray's Papaya, the prices were actually pretty reasonable. After about ten minutes of staring at the menu, I finally narrowed it down to just a few items, which was challenging because I'd never heard of a lot of the dishes; since they were under the Primi menu, though, I figured they mostly different kinds of pasta. I decided on a wild mushroom sformata to begin and sweet potato lune (pronounced "luna") to follow. Ed chose asparagus with a soft-boiled duck egg on top followed by paparadelle with wild boar ragu. It all sounded pretty good, but I had no idea how good it was actually going to be. 


While we waited, we sipped wine from, what I am told, is an excellent selection, though I know very little about wine and have to trust that this is true; I can affirm that I liked my glass very much, and that the portion was generous. We were also served a tasty little pile of sauteed and seasoned chickpeas on a piece of bread as a gratis appetizer. I was pretty hungry when our first courses arrived, but it was worth every minute of the wait. A sformata is sort of like a custard. This one contained pureed wild mushrooms and who knows what else, all poured into a mold and baked. More mushrooms were scattered on top, and there was a streak of balsamic vinegar drizzled in a circle around the food. It was absolutely sublime. The custard was just the tiniest bit sweet, but also very creamy and earthy. The texture and flavor were lovely, but it was the contrasting, sweet bite of the vinegar that really made it for me. Ed's asparagus was perplexingly good, as it looked a lot like several pieces of steamed asparagus with an egg and Parmesan cheese. I have no idea what that genius Batali did to it, but I fully support his methods. 

I savored the sformata for as long as I could, but eventually, alas, it was gone. I figured my main course was probably going to be a disappointing sequel - how could anything top that blissful mushroom concoction? - but I was wrong. My lune were superb. They were tender pieces of ravioli, filled with sweet potato and doused in sage butter. Heaven. Each ravioli was small, but I cut each one into quarters to make it last longer. Ed inhaled his paparadelle, and I don't think they even had to wash our plates by the time we were finished.


The nice thing about high quality restaurants is that they're careful to keep the dishes small. This is probably to ensure quality control (or to keep down costs), but as far as I'm concerned this policy exists solely to ensure that I have room for dessert. I gazed at a saffron panna cotta for a while but couldn't resist a polenta and peach upside down cake served with a dollop of something creamy that tasted like almonds. It was sweet, light, and fruity, and the almond flavor was the perfect accent. 


I wish I could say everything about our meal was elegant and satisfying. The couple next to us, however, kept me grounded. They looked to be in their mid-40's, though the woman was doing everything in her power to take two decades off that number. It wasn't a successful attempt. She had dyed black hair, orange skin, and too much eye make-up, and wore glammed-out rockstar jeans with a tight, white tank top. The diamond in her engagement ring was absolutely enormous; I've seen bigger ones, but mostly in museums. I'd estimate that she had approximately 20 brain cells, and none of them were working too hard. I think she was tipsy on top of that, or at least I hope she was, because I'm not sure what else would explain the graphic acts she was performing with her coffee swizzle stick for her husband's benefit. (This is a family show, so I won't go into too much detail.) Her husband appeared to be charmed by each empty headed declaration and crude gesture. I suppose it would have been awful if it weren't so amusing. I wished for the 5,000th time that Ed and I could communicate telepathically. 


It always amazes me that even places like this don't keep the riff-raff out. Still, for the opportunity to eat more sformata and lune, I'd happily be roommates with that woman. Well, maybe.

Ed Tris Again

The New York Tri, the one Ed has been anticipating most, took place on Sunday. Ed went to bed early and I went to a dinner party (hey, I wasn't doing a tri the next day...) but when I came home at 11:45 he was still tossing and turning. Too much adrenaline I suppose. He was up again and out the door somewhere around 4:00 in the morning, and I followed at 6:30. I arrived at the course in plenty of time to see him pass by three times on the bike and twice on the run, though I did not get to see him finish as the chute was too crowded with people for me to push through in time. (I did not even try to watch the swim. Once the athletes enter the water, it's impossible to tell who's who anyway.) His time was 2:15, what he'd been shooting for to the minute! He was sweaty and happy and tired and covered in blisters, as he decided to run the 6 miles without socks. Ouch. Ed wrote his own post about the race itself, so I thought I'd share parts of that rather than try to reconstruct what he told me about it:

"So this is my first Olympic disatance triathlon, having completed two shorter sprint races in the last 13 months and another sprint 8 years ago.  Olympic distance is still on the short side of triathlon: 1500m swim, 40km bike, 10km run.  Results: 2:15:31, 11th out of 395 finishers in the 35-39 age group, 109th out of about 3,500 (as far as I can tell) overall.

The swim for this race is in the mighty Hudson river, starting at 99th street and getting out around 88th I think.  They start 15-20 athletes every 15-20 seconds.  I was near the back looking forward to a crowded course.  There is usually a strong current that makes this swim very fast - so much so that in past years "competitors" could be seen floating down the river clinging to pool noodles and posting times experienced swimmers would love to be able to have in the pool.  When I toed the line at the dock, I noticed a dead fish float right into the spot where I had to jump.  The horn blew and there was nothing to do but scrunch up my nose and go for it.  Pretty soon I found myself swimming through the groups in front of me and did not see many of my fellow 35-39ers around so I thought I must be doing OK, Definitely had to steer around lots of weak swimmers.  Time out of the water: 18:10 - 20th in my age group.

Ed passes another victim.

Bike - this is what i was dreading the most - almost 4000 mostly newbie bikers crowded into a 25.5 mile narrow lane in front of me with some climbs and fast descents and I wanted to blow through them without getting into a wreck and maiming myself and others.  For the most part, I was able to put in a good effort but it was so crowded there was basically never a moment that I was not passing 1-4 people.  Generally I'd be going 40mph, approaching people going 15-22 mph, screaming "ON YOUR LEFT" as loud as I could but I would always be terrified that someone would make an unexpected maneuver so I would hit the brake and go by at slower speeds.  On the fastest descent there was a little person on the smallest tri bike I have ever seen cruising pretty fast actually, and I was blocked on the left by an official on a motorcycle... I tried yelling at the official to give way but I had to do some heavy braking. As far as I can tell, I was passed by only two people, and I may have passed the entire population of Luxembourg, it's hard to say precisely.  Bike average speed: 22.5mph, 7th place in my division, 54th overall.

At the end of the first big hill

Transition 2 went pretty OK, though I seem to be 40 seconds slower than everyone else putting on my shoes.  Then it was out to the run.  It starts with a STEEP climb up to 72 street and then mostly uphill for the next 2 miles.  I was feeling pretty rough and my pace was not what I hoped... I definitely need to do some more bike-run workouts. The run course takes you into Central Park and you do the upper 5 mile loop clockwise, or backwards from the way I have run it 1000 times before.  I never realized how hilly that loop is!  Two or three more people in my age group passed me.  At this point, there were basically no male contenders to be seen except for the occasional 50-55 year old.  They were either MUCH faster than me and already eating a doughnut at the end, or they were way behind me.  Run pace was a disappointing 7:19/mile for 45:24.  24th in my age group and 280th overall.

Finishing in the top 15 in your division in this race qualifies you for the National Championships in Des Moines on September 2.  Alas, I think I will have to miss it after 10 days of fun and training in the Dolomites I will be attending the Belgian Formula 1 Grand Prix that day."

Ed and Team Edward reunite!

After the race, we got to ride in style in a free pedicab back to the transition area where Ed had to pick up his bike. Thank goodness, as it was about a mile from the finish line and I don't think I could have carried Ed that far. Hooray for a successful day!

Montauk for Independence Day

Last year, Ed and I hadn't been together all that long when the 4th of July rolled around. We went to Central Park and had a mellow picnic, which was very nice. This year, I decided I knew him well enough to step up our planning, and proposed a day trip somewhere. I figured I didn't need a back-up escape plan in case things went awry. (This is a precaution I highly recommend taking early in any relationship.) Ed's been wanting to go to the beach for a while now, so we planned to take a day trip to one of the many beaches in the area, probably somewhere on Long Island. I was worried that everything would be so crowded that we wouldn't enjoy ourselves, though, and spent lots of time on the internet looking for beaches that were reputed to be sparsely populated. Then Ed called me with another idea: We'd hop a train to Montauk as soon as I was done with work, spend the night there, and lounge on the beach all day on the 4th before coming back to New York that night. The only problem was that the train left at 5:50, leaving me virtually no time to get home, pack, then rush with Ed to the train station. So I sent poor Ed an extremely detailed packing list, including descriptions of where to find everything on it, and hoped for the best. A little after 5:00, he met me at Penn Station with two well-stocked suitcases, and before long we were aboard the Long Island Railroad (LIRR) and headed north. 

Montauk is at the very end of the LIRR line, and so we were on the train for about 3 hours. I enjoyed the trip, which took us through lots of picturesque little towns. We read, napped, played Boggle, and shivered to pass the time. (The AC on those trains is ridiculous.) A little after 9:00, we pulled into Montauk and took a cab to our beach side hotel. While the location was superb, the hotel itself wasn't. The bed was small and hard, the TV didn't work, and everything felt damp. Still, we didn't plan to spend much time in the room, so I was happy. We put our bags down and went onto the balcony, where we saw a guy on the beach trying to launch one of those paper air balloons that you light a fire under. The wind took it immediately and he began to chase it toward us. Then he seemed to have a hold of it, so we went back inside. Five minutes later, we were walking out the door to find a restaurant when a man came barreling by us into the office. "There's a fire on the side of the building!" he yelled. Oh boy. Sure enough, we peered around the building and saw that some of the plants covering a dune were glowing softly. The lady at the front desk called the fire department, and the man went charging back out with a fire extinguisher. There wasn't much to extinguish though, as another guy had just about covered the whole blaze with sand already. Then several fire trucks arrived, so we figured it was safe to go find something for dinner.

During the night, I woke up to the sound of pouring rain. By the time we woke up the next morning, the sky was an ominous gray, and the forecast, which we had not consulted before boarding the LIRR, called for rain all day. Glumly, Ed and I decided to go for a run on the beach anyway. We ran by the water's edge where the sand is firmer and followed the beach for a mile and a half before turning back. We took a dip in the ocean to cool off - it wasn't terribly hot out, but it was pretty humid - and it felt wonderful. Then we showered and packed our things, and by the time we were out on the beach again the sun was in full force! Within a few hours, there wasn't a single cloud in sight. I slathered on sunscreen and spent the next few hours lounging on a towel. Ed went swimming a few more times, but I didn't relish the thought of a 3-hour train ride home with salty, sandy hair, so I abstained. We had a late lunch and wandered around the town a bit, then got on the 5:30 train back to New York.

It's hard to believe that this time yesterday I was basking on a beach, though a glance at my ankles is a good reminder. I didn't hit them with sunscreen, so while I'm mostly unscathed, I have red blotches on my lower shins and feet. D'oh. I look like I went wading in a poison ivy patch. But since my red ankles are a souvenir from a lovely day, I don't mind much.

Remembering Atticus

I was very saddened today to get an email from my mother telling me that our goose Atticus had died over the weekend. We estimate that Atticus was eight or nine years old. I've read that geese can be expected to live 20 years but also heard that Atticus had reached a ripe old age. I'm not sure which is right, but either way, it wasn't long enough.

 Atticus came to us in a strange way. Eight or nine years ago, I was home alone on a summer's day. I was went out to the backyard to enjoy the sun and found, to my great surprise, that there was a small, fuzzy bird in our swimming pool. It was paddling around in circles and peeping. I called my mom, and she suggested that I call a vet to figure out what to do. I called two vets and was also referred to a wildlife agency. No one was seemed totally sure what to say, but everyone seemed to agree that I should get it out of the pool before it got exhausted and drowned. My mom said she'd head home with a cat carrier. So I headed to the pool with a net and scooped. To my surprise, the bird took one look at the descending basket and dove. It swam around the bottom of the pool for a while before coming up for air. Hmmm. I tried a few more times but got the same result, and I couldn't move my basket through the water as fast as he could swim.

I was starting to get quite worried when I heard a car pull up in the driveway. Moments later, my brother David and several of his friends came into the backyard. They'd finished a morning water polo practice and were still in bathing suits. Excellent. I explained the problem, and Casey immediately hopped into the water. The bird dove again, but he was no match for Casey, who simply dove after him and emerged moments later with a very wet and unhappy bird help gently in his hands. I was reminded of the scene in The Story of Ping when Ping is pulled from the water by a little boy with a barrel tied to his back for flotation.

My mom arrived home soon after, and we installed the bird in the cat carrier with water and bread. It was clearly not a duck, as its neck was too long. We concluded that it was either a swan or a goose, but since cygnets are grey and this little fuzzball was yellow we figured it was probably a goose. A search through the neighborhood proved fruitless; no one was missing a gosling. And so we named him - I can't remember where the name Atticus came from - and put him into the pen with our goat. We were never sure whether Atticus was actually male, but it seemed like such a good name we decided to assume he was.

As Atticus grew, he confirmed that he was indeed a goose. His fluff was replaced by snowy white feathers, and his beak developed a large knob where it met his forehead. My brother some internet research and says this meant he was a Chinese goose. Atticus never learned to fly, apparently having missed that important developmental stage, and never really liked the water, possibly due to trauma from the pool incident. Overall, he turned out to be great pet. For one thing, he ate the same kind of food that our goat ate, so feeding was easy. For another, he honked the moment a car turned up our drive, alerting us even before the dog noticed that someone had arrived. He did, however, go through a rather mean phase, biting anyone who ventured into the pen. One summer, though, that all changed.

I can't remember whether my mom and I arrived home that afternoon together, or just very close to the same time. I noticed immediately that something was wrong with Atticus; instead of honking to announce our arrival, he was eerily quiet. He didn't waddle over to the fence to say hello, either. Instead, he was sitting in the sun and seemed barely able to lift his head. My mom and I rushed into the pen and he still didn't get up, though he tried feebly. We brought him a bucket of water and he drank for a whole minute without stopping. The water seemed to have revived him, but though he looked perkier he still did not stand. My mom lifted him up, something he'd never let us do before, and I saw that one of his feet flapped and paddled the air while the other was curled up and seemed immobile. Not sure what else to do, we dragged a tub to a shady corner of the pen, filled it with water, and set him into it. He seemed much happier and was able to paddle around. At dinnertime, we brought him his food and he ate from the tub. I stroked his unbelievably soft feathers while he ate. To this day, I have no idea what caused his foot to stop working, but the morning he was waddling around the pen as if nothing had happened. Both his foot and his disposition seemed to have mended, because he was generally very gentle after that. His foot seized up once more that summer, but a bit of time in the tub and he was back in action again.

Atticus impresses his roommate.

Atticus continued to thrive with only a few incidents of note. Our dog Daisy loved to bark at him, and once she managed to get her muzzle through the fence just as he was thrusting his head out at her and bit his beak. He bled, but seemed to recover well. I loved to watch him flap his wings, stretching them out to their full length and beating them back and forth before settling them at his sides. And when he drank he would dip his beak into the trough, sip some water, then lift his head as high as it would go to allow the water to slide down his long throat.



Then, about two weeks ago, my mom emailed me to say that Atticus seemed to be slowing down. His vibrant orange beak was beginning to fade, and the neat rim of orange around each of his eyes was practically indistinguishable from his white feathers. He took his first trip to the vet to have an abscess on his foot drained and had to spend more time paddling around in the tub for "rehab" after his surgery. He seemed to be doing fine for a while, but the woman who came to feed our animals while my parents were away for the weekend found him on Friday morning, lying in the pen with his head resting on his back, just the way he used to sleep. She said he looked very peaceful.


I will really miss Atticus the next time I go home. The pen will seem quiet and empty without him there, and I'm sure Henrietta, the goat, will be lonely without him. She still has a few chickens for company, but she and Atticus lived together for years, and really seemed to get along well. (Once, we had to clip Henrietta's hooves, which involved putting a pillowcase over her head and laying her on her back. She was relatively calm once her eyes were covered, but Atticus was distraught and kept waddling around us in circles, honking in indignation and trying to peck us.) Funny how the pet we never intended to have ended up being one of my favorites.