Whistle Stop Tour

When Paul McCartney first sang to his lover, "Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm sixty-four," he was only sixteen, too young to imagine having children for whom those questions might be just as appropriate. As for me, having arrived two months ago at that mystical number that lies somewhere between late middle age and early old age, where one is too gray for employment yet too green for entitlement, I am gratified that, not only do my three offspring no longer need me, they are now eager, willing, and able to feed -- as well as clothe, house, and entertain -- me.

If at first just a twinkle in the mind's eye, the suspicion that I have reached this enviable stage of life was solidly confirmed during the latest iteration of a family vacation, formerly a gathering of the troops in New York City over the Labor Day weekend and daily excursions to Queens to mingle among thousands of other junkies at the U. S. Tennis Open.

In time, however, enthusiasm waned for spectating a sport for which none of this cohort had a modicum of talent -- not to mention waiting in interminable lines for security checks, sustenance, and secondary courts; paying outrageous prices for beer, burgers, and burritos; and perspiring profusely in the far upper reaches of Arthur Ashe Stadium, the match below little more than a shimmering mirage.

Conversely, the seductive appeal of the Big Apple waxed even greater, since one now had more freedom to taste its temptations -- and avail himself of the hospitality and advice of a genuine resident, my older son David, who, since moving there in 1997 after his graduation from Northwestern University, has assembled a distinguished resume as an editor and producer of reality television.

Who wouldn't want to spend a few late-summer days and evenings trolling the corridors of this great metropolis, a mecca of culture, commerce, fashion, theater, and haute (and low) cuisine -- discovering new neighborhoods; immersing himself in art, science, or natural history; cheering on any Yankee or Met opponent; walking, jogging, or cycling through Central Park or along the Hudson River; applauding performances by world-renowned actors, dancers, and vocalists; dining on an apartment rooftop or in a quiet (or noisy), ethnic restaurant, where the entree is unlike anything one finds at home; luxuriating in a surfeit of retail wonderlands, featuring incredible varieties of product, all on sale; or just eyeballing the potpourri of peoplehood thronging the sidewalks and subways, an all-inclusive laboratory of race, nationality, socioeconomic status, and mode of dress?

Anyone would, unless he's a native, like my son David, who subscribes to the conventional wisdom that the best place for a New Yorker to be on a summer weekend -- especially a long holiday one -- is somewhere else, which in his case is lounging by a lake in the Catskill Mountains two hours away from the city, and from all the reasons we out-of-towners find it so alluring.

David's lake house has the extra added attraction of being located midway between New York City and Ithaca, the home of my daughter Sara and her husband Nate, which facilitates a reunion of sorts. They can drive down for an afternoon or sleepover and then take me back with them to Ithaca.

My younger son Matthew and his wife Patricia might have been enticed to flee their own urban environs, Washington, D.C., and complete the circle, except that they are hosting her parents, who have chosen this particular weekend to fly up from the Dominican Republic. And it's not a coincidence.

Patricia's father, Don Julio Rodriguez, is an avid baseball fan, which is not surprising; his country reveres the sport and has sent hundreds of players to the Major Leagues, including numerous superstars. Years ago Don Julio spent his pediatric residency in St. Louis, and ever since the Cardinals have been not only his team but, according to Patricia, their family team, as if loyalties can be handed down from one generation to the next like cherished mementos. Don Julio is only coming to Washington, D.C., to visit his daughter when the Cardinals, the current World Champions, minus Albert Pujols (who's Dominican, by the way) are in town. And he wants me to join him.

Even if I didn't like baseball myself, one doesn't say no to Don Julio, especially when Matthew offers to buy the tickets. "Get good seats," I tell him, "lower box, behind third base. I'll reimburse you."

Thus is conceived a whistle stop tour.

A cursory examination of the calendar confirms the adage that JSG, my dear friend and companion, never met a trip she didn't like; since May 1st, she's been to Palm Springs, Pawley's Island, Camp Seafarer twice, Ireland, Chicago, Rhode Island, and Michigan, and she signs on to this one with alacrity. Like a youngster relishing her first Lionel, JSG is enamored of the train, and convinces me that it is the most practical option for our Lynchburg to D.C. to New York staggered itinerary.

But Ithaca is our final destination, and a train ride home from there seems too lengthy and problematic for serious consideration, although the subsequent course of events will expose the smug irony of that supposition. A quick internet search uncovers a convenient Ithaca to Philadelphia to Charlottesville commuter connection. All we have to do is get our car to the Charlottesville airport.

Having left Lynchburg at 6:00 AM, we bribe one of JSG's sons into meeting us at the airport two hours  later -- an ungodly hour for a University of Virginia gentleman -- by delivering a carload of shirts, pants, and various other school necessities, so much stuff, in fact, that JSG and I must sit with our bags in our laps en route to the train station.

I've traveled by train frequently in Europe, but rarely in the States, where it's more of a novelty, even an anachronism, although recent developments have polished its image: soaring fuel prices, congested highways, airline misery, modernized rail cars, and felicitous scheduling. Under certain conditions, the rationality is self-evident: large numbers of people are transported safely, swiftly, and, one would assume, economically. I see plenty of passengers, and I am mystified as to why Amtrak is a money-losing enterprise, unless it's just another case of bureaucratic mismanagement. Maybe the owners should consider raising prices.

I look around for the gatekeepers; there are none. Do I not have to creep through switchback security lines, remove my shoes, belt, liquids, and aerosols, empty my pockets of wallet, keys, coins, mints, and lip balm, and submit my body parts and identification to such officious scrutiny that I begin to doubt my own innocence?

Where are the screeching voice amplifications -- some in accents so pronounced they are unintelligible -- warning me not to leave my bag unattended, summoning me to board only by zones, reviewing ad nauseum the safety features of this plane, instructing me how to slide my seat-belt strap through its buckle, and interrupting my nap with a one-time offer to sign up for a new credit card loaded with frequent-flyer miles?

We make our way to the quiet car, where all electronic devices are mercifully silenced, and even whispers are frowned upon. I listen in vain for the roar of the turbines revving for takeoff, for internal rumblings forewarning some catastrophic engine or hydraulic malfunction.

We settle into our seats, whereupon JSG demonstrates her remarkable knack for falling asleep at the commencement of motion; my attempt is frustratingly less successful, despite having risen at 4:00 AM for my compulsive and compulsory run.

Gazing out the window, I am transfixed by the scenery rushing by -- so rapidly that the eye is unable to focus on individual objects. The predominantly green, yellow, and brown colors coalesce in a viscous blur as if we are speeding under a sunlit river. I know what's out there, farms and fields, yet seen from a perspective totally reversed from that of the highway; when we lumber into a town or city, we are greeted by ancient warehouses or abandoned factories, which were left behind years ago by suburbanization and the automobile.

Skirting the quagmire of Northern Virginia traffic and the maniacal maze of the D.C. street system, our rolling express deposits us at Union Station shortly before noon. We make our way by the Metro to Woodley Park, up one of the steepest and longest escalators I have ever ridden, and across Calvert Street to the five-star Omni Shoreham Hotel, where Matthew has reserved -- and paid for, we learn upon checking in -- a room for us and for his in-laws.

The hotel's rich history of hosting inaugural balls and numerous dignitaries and celebrities is proudly on parade in a series of nostalgic black-and-white photographs decorating the hallways. Its exquisitely appointed lobby reminds my daughter-in-law Patricia of the Celebrity luxury liner aboard which she and Matthew recently cruised the Alaskan coast, and it is there that we rendezvous with her and her parents.

Don Julio -- tall, silver-haired, debonair, speaking flawless English -- is a true Renaissance man: he is the head of the medical staff at a major hospital in Santo Domingo, a professor of pediatrics, a scholar with four published works to his credit, a weekly columnist for a local newspaper, and a fountain of baseball lore. While not as fluent, his wife Josefina -- who gave up her pharmaceutical career to raise five children and tend to her orchid garden -- acknowledges every comment directed her way with an amiable nod and a beaming smile.

After a convivial lunch -- including  healthy dose of Bloody Marys -- at the Open City Cafe across the street, we head out for our afternoon activity.

Contrary to the universal adoration which most of my fellow citizens espouse for our Nation's Capital, it doesn't thrill me. Besides a street grid which is impenetrable to outsiders -- too many traffic circles and intersecting diagonals, designed for a bygone era -- I find its subway system one of the most exasperating I have ever encountered -- too few stations, too few trains, and a ticketing system beyond the comprehension of most college graduates.

These are minor quibbles. What I see when I breach the beltway, cross the river, or emerge from the underground, is a monument to government extravagance and bureaucratic aggrandizement: acres of gray concrete housing thousands of officials, aides, and clerks carrying on the public's business, legislating, lobbying, researching, investigating, regulating, administering, and enforcing; the entire workforce of a city larger than most countries either employed by or under contract to the federal government, drawing taxpayer-funded paychecks the wage-earners in the hinterlands can only dream of; billions, no, trillions, of dollars flowing through cyberspace on giant conveyer belts into these human factories to be repackaged and (dare I say it?) redistributed.

Years ago, this place was disparaged and derided as a dismal swampland, where disease and corruption festered. It still is.

Today Don Julio has his sights set on the Portrait Gallery -- best known for its Hall of Presidents. And why wouldn't any foreign visitor want to peruse this illustrious collection of our nation's forty-four Chief Executives in their finest poses? Except Don Julio doesn't. He's looking for a Dominican countryman, a native of his hometown, Monti Cristi, Juan Marichal, the famous San Francisco Giants pitcher.

Well, we can't avoid the presidents -- and most of the museum -- before we reach the third floor and the gallery of sports heroes and movie stars and finally track down our legend. It's a composite portrait created by Gerald Gooch for the cover of Time Magazine, July 10, 1966 -- nine images depicting Marichal's distinctive wind-up, near-vertical leg kick, and powerful delivery. Marichal, we learn by reading the adjunct biography, was the first Hispanic elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame. In his Major League debut on July 19,1960, he shut out the Philadelphia Phillies on one hit.

It's a fitting prelude for our next stop -- Nationals Park, and the first pitch of Nationals-Cardinals game at 7:05.

While it's been a surprising season for the Nationals, who, as of this date, August 30, own the second-best record in baseball, and are firmly ensconced atop the National League East Division with a comfortable five-game lead over their closest pursuer, the Atlanta Braves, I'd rather talk about those west coast upstarts, the amazin' Oakland A's; about how this ragtag collection of rookies, retreads, and low-priced free agents has astounded the pundits and prognosticators by bursting into contention; about how General Manager Billy Beane, in perhaps his finest hour, jettisoned his top three pitchers for a cadre of unproven youngsters, five of whom made the roster, eschewed his Moneyball on-base philosophy in favor of the timely three-run homer, and, overcoming devastating injuries, a drug suspension, and lackluster performances from opening day starters, managed to plug every hole in his porous line-up -- but I won't.

Instead, I don Matthew's belated birthday gift, an authentic, cardinal red Nationals' tee shirt, and prepare to root for the home team.

The Nationals' talented combination of youth and experience has been largely overshadowed by the stunning debut of nineteen-year-old phenom Bryce Harper, who has blasted fourteen home runs since his May call-up from the minors, and the controversy surrounding the impending shutdown of star pitcher Stephen Strasburg. I happen to agree with General Manager Mike Rizzo's decision to follow the accepted precautionary practice and limit Strasburg to one hundred sixty innings in his first full season since coming off Tommy John surgery. It's fatuous to argue that Rizzo should have held Strasburg back in April and May; I doubt even he expected the Nationals to be where they are today. Besides, he's got four other starters more than capable of leading the team deep into the playoffs.

One of them, Edwin Jackson, belies his reputation for inconsistency, and, regardless of one's allegiance, turns tonight's affair into a rather tepid three hours. He dazzles for eight innings, allowing only four hits, two walks, and one unearned run, and striking out ten, including seven of the first twelve Cardinal hitters. The most excitement is generated in the Nationals' initial at bat. After Jayson Werth draws a lead-off walk -- he's finally producing a modest return on his seven-year one-hundred-twenty-six million dollar contract -- Harper strokes the first pitch he sees from Jaime Garcia into the right field seats, sweet revenge for his being ejected from yesterday's game for throwing his helmet after a ground out. Werth will go on to single in the third inning, score on a sacrifice fly by Adam LaRoche (aka "the Rock," according to the Nats' scoreboard), and slam a home run of his own in the fifth with two runners aboard.

I'm not remembering all this; I'm referencing my official manual scorecard -- a meticulous description of every player's at-bat recorded in an arcane code of symbols and abbreviations. The problem with this exercise is that it requires absolute concentration on every pitch, lest a play be missed. At least that used to be the regimen, until the advent of those magnificent, animated, digital scoreboards -- like the one looming out in left center field -- that are the trademarks of contemporary baseball stadiums.

Harnessing every gigabyte of technological wizardry, these giant movie screens project line-ups, player statistics updated instantaneously, biographical trivia, candid shots of fans in the stands, cheering, dancing, and kissing their spouses, thematic video games, an occasional replay (but only when the home team shines), out-of-town results, and, for the diligent scorekeeper who may be distracted from the field (mainly by the aforementioned theatrics), a recap of previous at-bats -- all punctuated with scintillating red and blue flashing lights and throbbing background music exhorting the faithful to "ignite their Nat-itude."

Whetting our taste buds, the raucous peanut and beer hucksters roaming the aisles are impossible to ignore. Matthew and Patricia indulge in the traditional frankfurter and fries, while I crave the more nutricious supersized barrel of popcorn (refillable for an extra dollar, a bargain as it turns out), washed down with a couple of eight-dollar Coors Lights, all courtesy of JSG, who scours the food concourse while I stay glued to the action.

It's a dispiriting 8-1 loss for Don Julio, who perseveres to the last out ("Anything can happen in baseball," he says), and for the Cardinal fan seated behind us, who showers us with one foul cliche after another during his in-game running commentary, including this overwrought reference to last year's World Series:: "That was one exciting Fall Classic."

Two days later, when they return to the ballpark, Don Julio and Josefina will rejoice in an exciting 10-9 Cardinal victory (and Matthew and Patricia suffer through a crushing 9-10 Nationals' defeat). By that time, JSG and I are long gone -- to New York City and further points north.

JSG has secured us accommodations at the trendy Yotel, located at 10th Avenue and 42nd Street. Our cabin (to use the advertised vernacular) is measurably tiny, yet functionally spacious, as recessed counters and hidden cubbyholes conjoin to stretch the walls. A bed which at first glance appears too short for adult sleeping adjusts to its full length at the touch of a button, thus doubling as a seating lounge.

We descend to the fourth floor, which opens up into a grand common area suitable for night clubbing when the lights dim and a four-star tapis restaurant serving for lunch today falafel lettuce wraps, wild mushroom egg rolls, and fish sliders, and for breakfast tomorrow complimentary muffins and coffee.

The clientele is, well, metrosexual. I may not be able to define it; but I know it when I see it.

We walk a couple of blocks west to rent bicycles for an afternoon diversion, and discover yet another Yotel amenity. The attendant spies my room key card stuck to my credit card as I offer payment, and informs us that minimalist single-speed models are available free of charge to Yotel guests.

"No problem," we say, as we set our course toward the George Washington Bridge, about one hundred fifty blocks north, pedaling effortlessly along the Hudson River, beside the Henry Hudson Parkway, and through Riverside Park -- until we reach the end, reverse direction, and realize that the ten mile-per-hour tailwind formerly accelerating our pace is now a daunting headwind impeding our progress. And there are no lower gears on these coasters to ease the pain. It's a long, hard, thirsty ride home, relieved only by the blessed sighting of a lone water fountain at the halfway point.

Some friends we met on our Ireland trip, Ed and Linda, have invited us to join them for a family Sabbath dinner on the rooftop of their West Side apartment building, from which we gaze out upon the terrain we have just traversed. After a delicious meal of arugula laced with fresh fruit, chargrilled cauliflower and kale, and brisket nestled in couscous, affable Ed accompanies us twenty blocks south to the Vivian Beaumont Theatre in Lincoln Center, and, like a garrulous tour guide, points out every neighborhood school, preferred restaurant and grocery store, historic landmark, and stop light en route.

My son David and his significant other Mary are waiting in the lobby to distribute the orchestra level tickets he has purchased for us, per my instructions, and a promise to reimburse him.

Since David and Mary have already seen the much-ballyhooed Book of Mormon, we have opted for the equally-lauded War Horse -- the story of Joey, the skittish colt bought at auction by the drunken farmer Ted to spite his brother; raised, nurtured, and trained to pull a plow by Ted's son Albert; and sold to the British cavalry at the outbreak of World War I. Albert is heartbroken; though underage, he enlists in the army and embarks on a valiant quest to recover his beloved steed. Both man and horse endure their cruel and capricious rites of passage on far-flung battlefields until their ultimate, emotional reunion.

If I fail to appreciate the encomiums that have been bestowed on this show, it may be due to the mental and physical exhaustion of a long day, which started at 6:00 AM with a run through D.C.'s Rock Creek Park. The seats in this theater are jammed together like suits on a clothes rack; there is hardly any leg room, even for a shrinking violet like me. It's hard for me to stay awake for the two-and-a-half hour duration, despite my having violated one of my cardinal dietary laws, and consumed a sugar-saturated (and caffeine-infused) Coca-Cola during the intermission, probably my third sampling in ten years.

I am alert enough to be awed and amazed by the technical brilliance of the production. Once Joey is transformed from a foal -- a "life-size skeletal puppet visibly manipulated by three 'stable hand' performers" -- into a full-grown stallion, the puppeteers magically disappear, disbelief is suspended, and a flesh-and-blood animal cavorts into our consciousness. (Robert Cushman, Toronto Evening Post, February 29, 2012)

"A marvel of engineering from his exposed aluminum skeleton to his translucent fabric skin, the horse almost seems to breathe, to bristle with the stuff of life as he canters about the stage or nuzzles a tendered hand," his range of expression even surpassing that of the more monolithic, less soulful human actors. The puppeteers are the true stars. "You can feel the Herculean effort required to capture the glories of movement from the flick of an impatient tail to the unmistakable shiver of fear." (Karen D'Souza, Mercury News, August 4, 2012; Charles McNulty; Los Angeles Times, July 1, 2012)

No less fascinating is the harrowing depiction of the gestation of modern warfare, as rapid-fire machine guns and heavy artillery expose the frailty of thoroughbreds and unprotected flesh, rendered in haunting tableaux, confluences "of design, music, lighting, and projections that are preternaturally stark, clear, and economical." (Robert Cushman, Toronto Evening Post, February 29, 2012) Two scenes stand out: shell fire raining down upon the trenches, where the stage level is the actual dugout, and the ground rises above it; and the climax, the entanglement of Joey in a silvery but deadly barbed wire barrier.

Some critics have found fault with the sentimentality of a young man's fixation on a horse in the midst of unimaginable human carnage. That doesn't bother me. My attention drifts as the brittle, accented dialogue and the period-style hymns and ballads attenuate the action, and my interest fades as Joey bounces from English masters to German and back again.

"But the gorgeous, intricate, and astonishingly lifelike horse choreography" is not to be missed. (Robert Hurwitt, San Francisco Chronicle, August 5, 2012)

The next morning, after a brief tour of David and Mary's roomy -- by Manhattan standards -- two-bedroom apartment on West 38th Street -- the four of us load up David's Zipcar suv rental with our bags and weekend supplies, and head up Interstate 87 toward the Catskills, Livingston Manor, and the desperate city dweller's dreamy summer hideaway.

I must admit the place has come a long way from the damp, dreary, dinghy domicile to which I was abducted by my son three years ago; there were about eight people there, who, when they got tired of standing, were all trying to squeeze into four plastic chairs that had been bequeathed by the previous owner. Now it's a refurbished, fully furnished playhouse, complete with pool, patio, floating dock, and enough beds to sleep twelve.

It's perhaps too comfortable, as David's partner now insists on moving in every weekend with a busload of revelers and leaving David and Mary no time for privacy or entertaining on their own. Here's hoping the two can reach a meeting of the minds, as each has invested too much time, energy, money, and affection to walk away, even for a fair price.

For a few days, David and Mary have it all to themselves, and they roll out the red carpet (actually, it's a little gray) for JSG, me, and a handful of other guests -- David's elementary school classmate, New York City roommate, and film editing workmate, also David, now married and living in New Jersy, his wife Dina, their precocious two-year-old son, Cassian, and a friend of Mary's, Patti.

Well-provided for once again, JSG and I are awarded the master bedroom with private bath, and treated to a prime steak dinner and an egg souffle brunch.

In a stroke of genius, David's siblings have christened his rural retreat Camp David, since organized recreation -- swimming, hiking, kayaking, video gaming, movie viewing, and intermittent alcohol imbibing -- is the order of the day, with him as head counselor. Occasionally, however, I notice him shirking his duties and engrossing himself in his laptop. "It's work," he says. He's reviewing scripts for his latest television project -- a realty show centered around a family-owned furniture, no, firearms store and shooting range which will be broadcast on the CMT network. I don't want to miss it.

Ever since we left New York City, JSG and I have been prepped, primed, and pumped for the notorious Livingston Manor triathlon, an arduous test of athletic prowess and endurance consisting of a 300-yard swim from the lake shore to the floating dock, a quarter of a mile of kayak paddling from the dock to the lake dam, an eighth of a mile run through the forest, and then a repeat of the course in reverse back to the starting point. Even more daunting than the obvious physical exertion are the transitions from one sport to another: clambering into and out of the kayak, twice no less, once onto a treacherous rocky slope in bare feet, and donning and removing one's tennis shoe.

I am hoping to avoid this contrived competition, pleading my sixty-four years and a five-mile run that morning -- uphill all the way back -- but once JSG takes a dive, it's like a duelist throwing down her gauntlet, and I know I am cornered. To make matters worse, the luck of the draw pairs me against my son-in-law Nate -- he and my daughter Sara having driven down from Ithaca the previous evening -- for whom a hundred mile bicycle ride is like a walk in the park.

In order to spare my readers the gory details, suffice it to say I am exhausted after completing the first swimming leg. I figure running is my strong suite, yet I squander that opportunity by wandering off on the wrong trail and wasting precious seconds. For some sadistic purpose the organizers of this event have decided to maintain a permanent log of Livingston Manor triathlon times, and sadly mine goes into the books at 15:21, next-to-last, beating out only my daughter-in-law Patricia, who scored an incomplete last July. As for Nate, he establishes a new world record of 11:00; even JSG glides in at a respectable 13:58.

There's always next year, and I plan to get in shape by engaging in some serious indoor kayaking and perfecting my shoelace tying dexterity.

By now it's Sunday, and time to be chauffeured by Sara and Nate to our last whistle stop, Ithaca, New York. We detour to the quaint village of Trumansburg to enjoy local pork and produce at one of the area's finest restaurants, Hazelnut Kitchen by Ny.

If I have previously characterized Sara and Nate's modest Victorian mid-century abode -- located "downtown," within walking, running, or biking distance of Cornell University, where Nate is a research professor in computer science -- as a "fixer-upper," it's currently in stage two, or stage one-and-a-half, since the workmen are making typically slow progress.

In the upstairs bathroom, which is getting a complete makeover, they get the shower installed the day before our arrival, but not the toilet, which means that anyone needing to use the facilities in the middle of the night -- like a sixty-four-year-old father -- must stumble blindly up and down the stairs. In the guest room, where the hardwood floor is only partially refinished, there's no space for a bed, so Nate and Sara camp out on a mattress and hand over their master sleeping quarters to JSG and me.

This charming city of 30,000 is dominated both physically and figuratively by the hilltop citadel of Cornell University, although across the valley towers the equally-imposing Ithaca College. In our two brief visits there, including this one, JSG and I have been enchanted by a diverse landscape of crystal lakes, rugged gorges, and thundering waterfalls; tantalized by the savory offerings of an open air market, niche dining establishments, and local vineyards and breweries; and intrigued by the staunchness and blatancy of the liberal politics.

If my effusiveness suggests a desirability akin to that of our most interesting spot, Lyncburg, Sara is quick to remind me that I have yet to experience an upper New York State winter.

Having run for four consecutive mornings, I join Sara and JSG for a ninety-minute hike up the hill, around the town, and through the campus of Cornell. The wide walkways are nearly deserted this peaceful Labor Day morning, complementing the serene beauty of the immaculate lawns and the stately red brick, gray stone facades -- permanent, timeless, and hallowed repositories of history, tradition, discovery, and intellectual vigor.

More mundane is our afternoon activity, a two-hour cruise over the placid waters of Lake Cayuga. Sara and Nate are more amused than edified by the exhaustive glibness of our guide, a retired schoolteacher, who, I find out later, has sent several graduates to, where else, the opposite end of the political spectrum, Liberty University. Identifying every golf course, cemetery, and parking lot we pass may indeed be excessive blather, as is his endless repertoire of fishing tales, but the rest of the lecture informs and entertains.

Among other tidbits, we learn that the Finger Lakes were named after Indian tribes, at least five, Cayuga, Seneca, Owasco, Canandaigua, and Keuke; cormorants and hydrilla contamination are scourges on the vegetation and fish population; Cornell was founded as a coeducational institution; the famous Montreal Canadiens' goalkeeper, Ken Dryden, played ice hockey at Cornell; and Dustin Brown of the Los Angeles Kings recently returned to his alma mater, Ithaca High School, to show off the Stanley Cup.

Earlier we received an ominous bulletin that our flight that evening to Philadelphia would be delayed. Later, of course, it's canceled, which requires us to reschedule our departure for the next day, and displace our hosts from their bedroom one more night. The silver lining in this cloudy weather is we get to stick around for their holiday dinner party. All three guest couples are their mirror images -- the males employed at either Cornell or Ithaca College, the females at Cayuga Medical Center (where Sara is a nurse practitioner). More impressive to JSG, in this land of liberated women, is that all three children they bring along, ranging in age from six months to two years, are borne by their husbands.

Our last supper, the final act of superior caretaking, is a delight: sliced tomato hors d'oeuvres topped with mozzarella and home-grown basil; sweet corn on the cob fresh from the co-op; tossed salad with Nate's special dressing; and grilled swiss veggie/turquey burgers.

We do make it home the next day, surviving an hour-and-a-half delay in Philadelphia and arriving fifteen hours later than originally scheduled.

We should have taken the train.