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).
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.