The Journey

They say "Every journey begins with a single step."

But, actually, truly, most of my journeys begin with two feet.
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These two feet, my two feet. The two best feet in the world.

Anyway. I'm going down to the other side of this fair, tiny state of Connecticut, for the beginning of the well-documented visit with Jacquie and her peeps, and I start my journey by shouldering my packpack and heading to downtown New London to go to work at the Tavern.

I typically ride my bike to work, but today I'm going straight on to south-western points afterward, so I take the New London bus for the first time ever.

I commuted to New York City for 12 years, the latter 10 of those years from my and Mistah's house in Fairfield, where I walked the one mile to the train station every day. I calibrated that 15-minute walk so closely, so perfectly, that I arrived on the platform, with my coffee and my New York Times, just as the train was about to pull out coming to a gentle halt, ready to pick me up and take me to The City.

I'm soft now, though, after all these years. So I get to the bus stop in New London 10 5 minutes early.

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There it is!

There's the bus! Hi, Bus! Bus! Hi! Please pick me up, Mr. Bus Driver! Please! Hi!

Can you see him rolling his eyes as I wave madly? "Rookie," he thinks.

I sit on the bus with a gigantic smile on my face, looking at the sights of New London:

Oh, the sights I see . . .

I'm early for work at the Tavern (no one wants to see anyone early at a Tavern) so I get off at the library:

New London's got a lovely Public Library.

Bye, Mister Bus Driver! Bye, Bus! Thanks! Bye!!!

After my shift, my very gracious sister-in-law picks me up to bring me to the train station 15 miles away.

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We pass New London's iconic (is everything in New London iconic?) Hygienic Art Building . . . .

. . . and its iconic (ha!) Union Station. This is the train station I'd like to travel from, but we have to drive to Old Saybrook so I can catch Shoreline East.

Bye, Kelly! Thanks for the ride!

Hello Mr. Shoreline East Conductor Man!

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I have an unnecessary and annoying 30 minute layover (oh, how I suffer) in New Haven.

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I have the fondest memories in the world of New Haven, though, and of its train station, because that's where I spent lots of time coming and going from Mistah Schleckah's apartment when we first met, way back in the dark ages of the early 1990s.

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And then, all of a sudden,

Good Ol' Metro-North shows up, west-bound. I may be in the minority, but I always liked commuting to New York, and always liked the train. And always got to, you know, be in New York City. Every single day.

We head west, and pass the -- okay, it's not iconic, exactly, but it's hugely important, because at this wee little minor league baseball park in Bridgeport . . .

. . . the Ballpark at Harbor Yard, where the Bridgeport Bluefish play, at this very spot, Mistah Schleckah and I decided, in the summer of 2000, to chuck it all, quit our jobs, buy a VW camper, rent out our house, and take off for a year or so.

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Which turned into 7 years, and counting . . .

A few years after that fateful day, we bought this house in Fort Davis, Texas:

Then a few years after that, we sold this house in Fairfield, Connecticut:

And a few years later, bought this house in New London, Connecticut, this past spring:

And the tiny seed of the tiny germ of it all got born at old Harbor Yard in Brideport, Connecticut.

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*I* sure never see this stuff coming . . .
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Oh, wait! Fairfield! I'm here! Hi! Fairfield! Mister Train Man! Let me off!

I wonder if anyone will meet me at the station . . .
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Aww! My niece and my nephew and my man Billy-Boy.

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All those years commuting, I almost never had a 7-year-old girl and a 9-year-old boy running down the train platform to greet me . . .

And I never had a co-blogger waiting for me on the other end, either . . .