We left Saturday morning on Amtrak. The price was right: two tickets for $47.00. But the lateness, and the cold (the platforms in between cars were iced over and the doors between cars did not close well), and the slipperiness of the entryways (one older woman fell, and I tended to her knee, which had, I think, a torn anterior cruciate ligament), and the leak in the roof of the car, which dripped water onto our coats--well, you can only imagine the Letter from Farklempt that is being composed, even as we ride on the train. This ride was comparable to the train to Irkutsk, between whose cars my hunchbacked cousin fell to his death. He lies frozen somewhere in the steppes of Central Asia.
We criched along and criched along at 15 mph, until we finally pulled into Penn Station at 2:40 PM. It was all worth it in twenty minutes, when we pulled up on Second Avenue and walked into a warm apartment with Josie beaming up at us. We went right out to a place around the corner, Star Food, which was cozy and empty and kid friendly. Josie charmed everyone who was there, toddling around at full tilt, smiling coyly, chattering away.
Back in the apartment, she captivated us for four hours. She is really engaging, carrying on a conversation, playing joyfully. And she can still eat, kayn ein hora!
In the evening, Jonathan and Marjorie went out, we had a short piano concert, Josie kissed us all goodnight, including the cat. Rob Bargad was back in town, playing at the Knickerbocker, and he stopped by for a chat. He is a sweet boy, the spitting image of his father in his youth, and a world-class jazz pianist to boot.
On To Sunday