Arrived!

 The door-to-door travel clock

The door-to-door travel clock

I left my little house in Melbourne on a scorching hot morning, and twenty-nine hours, thirty-almost-two minutes later I was standing on the stoop of a big, old brownstone in Brooklyn.  My friend V met me at the door, lugged my heaviest suitcase up four flights of stairs, fed me delicious soup and a Campari, and then showed me to my bed, where a hot water bottle was waiting. Surely, a special place in heaven is reserved for her*. 

This morning I woke to gently falling snow. There's no wind, so it's piling up on the bare twigs, the wrought-iron fences, and the window sills. Also on the dogs, trotting about in their little coats and bare paws. 

V and I ventured out for coffee (mug o' joe) and pancakes (light and fluffy) and eggs (over easy).  

 Snow boots!

Snow boots!

 The walk to breakfast.

The walk to breakfast.

No book adventures yet, but, as ever, I find myself in accord with Anne (of the Island, in this case) ...

It was nine that night when their train reached Kingsport, and they found themselves in the blue-white glare of the crowded station. Anne felt horribly bewildered, but a moment later she was seized by Priscilla Grant, who had come to Kingsport on Saturday.

"Here you are, beloved! And I suppose you're as tired as I was when I got here Saturday night."

"Tired! Priscilla, don't talk of it. I'm tired, and green, and provincial, and only about ten years old. For pity's sake take your poor, broken-down chum to some place where she can hear herself think."

"I'll take you right up to our boardinghouse. I've a cab ready outside."

"It's such a blessing you're here, Prissy. If you weren't I think I should just sit down on my suitcase, here and now, and weep bitter tears. What a comfort one familiar face is in a howling wilderness of strangers!"

 

*Where the 2007 Grand Final is on constant repeat, and it always smells like freshly baked bread.