First Day of Summer
Change of life is upon me. I no longer sing of great journeys or of dragons vanquished. The fact is that the song is getting to be a still small voice that hopes there will be a listener, and speaks mostly about me and my adaptation to wherever.Wherever at this point is New York City and South Street Seaport, where I've landed after some scuttling around the northeast coast, inland too, as far as Petersburg VA. South Street Seaport (SSS) is a sprawl of old buildings and mod boutiques, beautiful sailing vessels and monstrous old hulks. SSS is chopped out of skyscrapered NYC, and apparently surviving on the lunch money of the hordes of high rise workers who stream into our expensive restaurants.
As I write, I'm already living aboard one of the old training ships, due to start work at the forge ashore tomorrow. There is no telephone for employees here, although there are ample public phones. No mail distribution either. I'll have to walk three blocks for mail at the administration office, 207 Front St. People, there are lots of them, mostly a bit distant - city syndrome? - but easily approached and not unfriendly.
I thought I'd be able to maintain my independence when I got back to the states and got my wheels. No such luck. Everywhere I go, I'm leaning on someone for something - especially in NYC where space is so precious, eating is so expensive, and change is so fast.
But I've been over the tracks, somewhat hurriedly. Got to Tom in North Carolina, Ann in Vermont, Stan in Cambridge, and of course Wilkie in Maine. He had my wheels, and ready to go too. No they are a bit of a problem, but there may yet be a solution.
If you're in NYC, please look me up, even if I missed you last time around.
Peter
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