The rain it raineth every day
The Spy family’s Memorial Day plans were thwarted by some abysmal weather on Saturday. We’d plan to take the train out to a town a couple of counties over and do some hiking. Instead, we hunkered down through the worst of the rain and then headed into Manhattan to go bowling in Chelsea. Three frames and several sore arms later, we decamped to wander the streets where we bought books at The Strand, baseball cards at a baseball store, and got caught in a protest against GMOs not once, not twice, but three times.
Sunday I played half a Vivaldi concerto at Mass and then we packed our bags and headed to a hotel near Lincoln Center with a pool on the roof and deep holiday discounts. The pool, it turned out, was not heated and, since neither was the weather, no bathing suits were needed. The rooftop bar, on the other hand, turned out to be just the thing. We ate well, spent a lot of time in Central Park, walked many miles, crashed early, went out to breakfast, hung out on the roof in the sunshine and then headed home. Back in Brooklyn, we found where all the people in Manhattan had gone: Prospect Park. It was so crowded, we half expected to see bouncers at the entrances. It might have been better if they had.
Tonight, though, after a day of rain, a day of back to work, a day of too much to do and not enough coffee, the park was fragrant, misty and blissfuly empty. AJ and I went out for a walk after dinner and only saw a few people with dogs in the distance and a few runners on the road. We didn’t pass a soul on the paths, not for the whole long loop around the meadow and ball fields.
“I like it like this,” said AJ as we soaked our shoes on the puddled sidewalk.
“I wish it was always like this.”