Back in the Bronx, the fire escape lettuces have "bolted," meaning they got too hot too fast and flowered; they're past eating now. Phooey. How did that happen? I go away for a week, and all hell breaks loose... Living things (sigh) do need constant attention.
Where am I? Not in Kansas anymore. The pup and I went for a short run, partway across the Triboro and down to Randall's Island. Our normal park route is blocked off, the whole area dug up. We're told it's being developed into a giant, privately-owned tennis center. We like tennis, but...no more community baseball, no more public access. There goes the neighborhood.
We've been exploring other areas of the Bronx, looking at real estate. In particular, areas near large parks. Pickings are slim. As we venture north, it starts to feel like another planet - 50, 60, 70 minutes by subway to downtown Manhattan. We've been told apartments in the Bronx rarely allow dogs. How odd. I find myself pining for Manhattan, which surprises me. It's a momentary lapse, irrational. Longing for something that feels like "home" or vaguely "comfortable" - but really, there's no such thing (no place called home, my own Dorothy-esque chant), not in the form of real estate anyway.
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