what's the right answer?

Every Tuesday, since last September, I've been going to OsteoStrong. It's a free benefit I get from my insurance. 

According to its website, 

OsteoStrong® works ... to promote skeletal strength which impacts the entire body in many ways using a process known as Osteogenic Loading.

Translated this means: I only need to go once a week for a few minutes and this should stimulate bone density.

The place I go to on Park Avenue is staffed by a competent and friendly group of young women. The best part, for me anyway, is that it takes about 7-8 minutes to use all four machines. I wish all exercise programs could be done this quickly.

There are certain triggers to pass, and I am accompanied to each machine by a staff member who oversees my positioning. And after each session I am emailed a report showing how I did.

I am not sure if this is effective or not, but there is no downside in doing it. And it makes me feel as if I am doing something good for my bones.

Today I go. The very helpful staff appears to be in their mid-20's or so.

I arrive early and must wait a few minutes.

I finish reading today's paper and ask, "Does anyone want to read this before I throw it out?"

"I haven't read a paper in years," says one of the young trainers. "Is it any good?"

Is it any good?

I am not  sure how to respond, as I don't understand the question.

Does she mean, "Is The New York Times a good paper?"

Or maybe she means, "Is reading a real paper actually better than reading a digital one?"

Could she mean, "Can I really trust what the paper reports?"

But I think she means, "Is the news any good?"

So I confidently answer YES and hand her The Arts and Science sections only. 

today it's red hook

Susan and I chose Red Hook as our monthly NYC neighborhood adventure. (Jill can't join us as she's participating in a 17-mile walk across five Manhattan bridges). 

Traipsing around Red Hook is a lot easier. I have never been, and picture this section of Brooklyn as a quaint village with a seaside vibe. 

Except it doesn't really feel that way.

It's not very pretty. And feels more industrial than quaint.

The stores range from small, cool artisanal shops to unappealing vintage places where the clothes and plates and things look like they could have come from someone's style-less home.

We walk to the waterfront where Lady Liberty can be seen from afar. 

We browse a small gallery where two artists have created impressive collages from paper.

We spend a fair amount of time at Apotheke, an interesting fragrance studio with many eclectic, unrelated items.

We love some of the leather totes and small pouches at a leather shop called Polt Atölye. Like many of the stores here, the work is done on the premises.

We wish we could afford the gorgeous cabinetry of Leicht, a high-end German kitchen brand that has a storefront on Van Brunt.

We go to Red Hook's well-known key lime pie shop, but use restraint and buy nothing.

And we are amused by this sign on Fro Bakehouse (which isn't open). 

We visit the Pinball Museum and meet one of its friendly owners (in the red shirt).

And then finally, we drive a short distance to what ends up being our favorite stop of the day.

Located on a side street in an industrial-looking area...

we find what we have come for — Raaka Chocolate Factory.

Along with another couple who are there, we are encouraged by the very nice, knowledgeable and no-pressure sales guy to sample the many many bowls of chocolate bits. 

The chocolates (mostly dark) have unusual names like Sugar Cookie, Rose Saffron, Maple & Nibs, and Earl Grey, to name just a few. They are vegan, relatively healthy as far as chocolates go, and are exceptionally good. 

This time I show little restraint.

on being ridiculous

I am meeting a couple of friends in the West Village for an early dinner, and a play after.

Nearby is a place called Benji's Buns. The only thing they sell are cinnamon buns of different varieties. They are expensive, large and good, not amazing (as I later will conclude). 

Each bun is packed in an eco-unfriendly styrofoam box.

The server asks, "Would you like a bag to put that in?" 

"Sure," I reply, as I don't want the container to open and spread gunk inside my tote.

I use my card, sign the bill, and leave. Later, I receive the receipt.

I expect to pay the unseemly price of $10.50 for a single bun.

I do not expect to pay 15 cents for a single-use small paper bag.

But then I think how ridiculous I am being.

I pay $10.50 for a just-okay cinnamon bun that anywhere else on this planet would cost half that, and then get annoyed that I have to pay 15 cents for a single-use paper bag. 

I look forward to my next trip to the Cape. The West Falmouth Market has better cinnamon buns for about $4. And, they don't charge for brown bags.

reminders of phyllis

I think of my mom many times a day. She died in January at age 96 after a long, good life. So I cannot say these thoughts make me sad. Quite the opposite, actually.

Like today, I am talking to my friend M and mention my upcoming "collin-oscopy."  She corrects my pronunciation and I smile, thinking of my mom's often incorrect articulations.

Another example. A few weeks ago I'm talking to someone and mention that I love the white Albuquerque tuna by Catch Fresh. Warm thoughts of my mom immediately come to mind.

Last week Jill and I see a new play called The Balusters. 

The play is great. It's a satirical look at an elite group of one-percenters who represent the Board of a neighborhood conclave. Their petty arguments about dog poop disposal and the right type of balusters remind me of a story.

It was 1978 when my parents built a second home in a small, gated community on the Cape called Wild Harbor. It's a home they grew to love, and where they made many lifelong friends.

My parents so enjoyed their time there, that after a few years they sold their primary house in Brockton and moved to the Cape permanently. 

My father was always building things. He was exceptionally creative and could make or fix just about anything. He decided that a small white fence separating his lawn from the street would be nice.

I can't remember if he did all the work himself or if he hired someone. But it took some time for the fence to be completed. The chair of the Wild Harbor Association would often drive by in his golf cart, offering up a smile and neighborly wave.

Soon after the fence was finished, my dad got a letter from the Association informing him that he had to remove the fence as it violated neighborhood guidelines. It had something to do with split rail fences (either they were required for all fences or prohibited; my mom would have recalled).

After returning home from the play and remembering this story, I wanted to call my mom and reminisce. My dad did end up taking the fence down. And this story became more humorous in its many re-tellings. 

It's those small things that happen almost daily that most make me think of my mom. 

an unexpected acknowledgement

I am picking up Robin from a doctor's office, after her endoscopy.

She finishes and we are ready to leave, but we sit for a few minutes and talk. Not about anything important. Just normal banter between two good friends.

I even mention the annoying older women sitting near me who finds it necessary to stream something on her phone and watch it, volume up. I almost say something but don't.  My son would be proud.

After twenty minutes or so of casual conversation, a man approaches us. He's around our age. Good looking. Well-dressed. There with his wife.

"I couldn't help but overhear your conversation," he begins.

"I felt like I have a front row seat to a good piece of theater. It's a pleasure to listen to you two. Are you a comedian?" he asks Robin. 

She is flattered but responds negatively.

Then he turns to me and says, "And yes, I agree that people should not force others to listen to anything on their phones."

It's nice when a stranger validates what you already know. My friends are interesting, even when they talk about nothing.

Before leaving, we notice the women with the high-volume phone has turned it down.

another part of town

It's a gorgeous spring day.  I have not one thing planned. It only costs $3 round trip via subway. And because I have never been. I decide to go to Williamsburg. It's known for its vibrant art scene, diverse food options, and historic waterfront area.

I take the subway and exit at Marcy Street. I am clearly in the wrong part of town. There is nothing pretty or artistic here.

Instead, I see signs everywhere in Hebrew, and mostly Hasidic populate the streets.

Feeling like the tourist that I am, I ask a non-Hasidic construction guy where the trendier part of town is. He directs me to another section of Bedford Street, about a mile away.

I get there and am a little underwhelmed. There are stores and restaurants. Young people. Buildings (some old, some new). Nothing remarkable. I still think I am missing the best part of town. 

So I stop to eat instead.  I find an inviting little place called Weekends Cafe. I am its only customer.

I order tacos. Anticipating one to be the size of a mini-appetizer, I order two. 

I am so wrong. Each taco is surprisingly huge. And, amazingly good.

Now full, I've lost my interest in sight-seeing.

I walk over the Williamsburg Bridge back to Manhattan. It's not a beautiful bridge, but some of the views are.

Five miles later I'm home. 

Still full from lunch, I eat an apple with honey for dinner around 9:30. 

getting to know my city

"Once a month, let's pick a neighborhood of the city (there are more than 350) that we are not familiar with, and explore it."

Jill comes up with this idea and Susan and I quickly embrace it.

Almost all my time is spent in Manhattan. Jill lives in Brooklyn so I sometimes venture there. But rarely, if ever, do I have reason to go to in any other NYC borough (of which there are five).

So today Jill and I (Susan is out of town) meet at Jill's selection for April, Jackson Heights in Queens.

Neither of us have ever been, despite it being a short subway ride away.

Weather is perfect. Getting there is easy.

We meet at the Roosevelt Avenue/74th street subway station. It takes a bit to find each other, but eventually we do.

Jackson Heights is known for being one of the most, if not the most, diverse neighborhoods in NYC. It is popular, too, for its many cuisines.

While we soon notice that we are the only white people, no one notices us. We just blend in, like everyone else.

The streets are busy. The many crowded stores are open. We see no people sleeping outside. And no one asking for money.

We aimlessly walk around. Spend time in a local park. See tons of uninteresting looking apartment buildings. And eventually grab lunch at Taco Veloz, an authentic Mexican street food eatery.

The food is inexpensive and excellent.

We order at the counter; there is no seating.

Nearby we find some steps in front of an apartment building. We plop down there to enjoy our lunch. As people enter or leave the building, no one seems bothered that we are using their steps as our makeshift restaurant.

I've known Jill forever. Maybe 40 years. And still, sitting on a stoop in Queens, I learn things about her I never knew. 

7 miles. Ever-varied, but always interesting conversations. And a new neighborhood.

I adore both the city and my friend. I can count on both to offer endless surprises.