80° and sunny. I pack up as if I’m leaving town for a
week. Beach chair. Check.
Suntan lotion. Check. Blanket. Check. Book. Check.
Camera. Check. Lunch.
Check. Water. Check.
Maneuvering onto the city bus is difficult, but walking six blocks to
Central Park with my beach gear would be even harder.
I find a nice sunny spot on
a pristine piece of lawn, but not THE Great Lawn. I
take out the new MH Clark book, Daddy’s
Gone A Hunting, the perfect mindless read.
It would be better if there were a beach at my feet, but this is still
nice.
The park is filled with
people doing what I’m doing. A large rat
— which turns out to be a very tiny dog — runs by. Kids are playing ball. Others are sunning, many in bathing suits. Some are picnicking. It’s a good day to be out.
But in less than an hour, I am hot and
restless. If I were at the beach, I could
walk along the water’s edge, or even go for a swim. I could take out my raft and let the waves
carry me away. I could even build a sand
castle, though I haven’t done that in years. But I could.
I eat my lunch. Read a few pages. Make some calls. And am home within two hours. There really is no substitute for the real
thing.
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