I only marginally believe that America exists when I am not there. No place does, really, to my feeble mind. I can barely process all that is happening in time and space immediately around me at present. So, the notion that one Sunday ago, a mere 7 days in the past, we had just left our cozy room in the almost charming New Haven Hotel, having enjoyed Starbucks, The Sunday Times and The E! Network thoroughly and were en route back to Brooklyn, is tricky. Later that night, we were in another familiar place walking around the streets of Cobble Hill/Boerum Hill/Carrol Gardens/Red Hook looking for a restaurant. We settled on the excellent Korhogo 126, where we enjoyed a rich seafood chowder, Greek salad, duck two ways, braised lamb shank, tart tatin, and a decadent banana dessert with good wine and Malcolm’s favorite Belgian beer. It is a perfectly elegant restaurant, a neighborhood French African bistro with fine food and warm service. It was to be our last night in the States and to think we almost didn’t take a car to Queens at 10 to join our friends at a bowling alley in the abandoned/Asian area of Astoria. We would have missed so much. Though perhaps not our flight next morning (okay, it was afternoon). Here we are today, another Sunday, back in Mexico, currently typing in our doorless office, having walked the dogs on the beach and puttered around our house poaching eggs all morning, etc., as if none of that had happened. Thank goodness for this scar on my lip and the bruises on Malcolm’s chest to prove it, otherwise I might not believe it occurred at all. Life is large and time seemingly infinite. I wish I understood its intricacies better.

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