Welcoming autumn, belatedly
Lunch in the quiet town of Cold Spring, New York, was shattered somewhat by the harsh roaring of Harleys.
"Do you think bikers know they are a nuisance?" I asked M. as I cut my bagel into half.
"Yes," M. said. He looked over his omelette. "I think they forgot to give me sausage with my omelette."
"Oh. Maybe they ran out of sausages." They had run out of smoked salmon benedict, my first choice, earlier. I saw the black leather mob park their massive bikes in front of the tiny cafe we were in. Six burly men were being escorted into the alcove we were sitting, their gothic outfits clashing badly with the pastel blue and white interior. The waitress seemed to know them.
"Here are your menus," she said, handing out the flimsy plastic sheets to the group.
"Don't give me the menu," one of them said. "I don't have my glasses with me so I can't read. Just tell me what you have."
I raised my eyebrows. M. grinned.The waitress put her hand on her hips.
"If you can't read
, how are you driving your bike? I'm leaving here at six, and you'd better be home by then."
Another waitress passed us by, struggling with an apple pie the size of all of our heads put together.
Earlier on our way to Cold Spring, we had driven through truly convoluted roads around Bear Mountain, passing by Fransiscan monastries, country clubs and warnings against Lyme disease posted on trees.
"Look, we could buy three point five acres here!" I had pointed out to M. after reading a sign for sale. "When would we ever own three point five acres?" We had passed by roads with improbable names like 'Susan Lane', 'Jack Road', 'Fine Place' and puzzlingly 'Forest Farm Road'. What could you be farming in a forest?
"There's like, nothing here," M. had said, as we drove through fields with nothing standing in them.
After lunch we walked down to the river where a small family of canoes were heading upstream along the calm waters, following the trail of the gentle humps of mountain. The autumn colours were still brilliant. We sat on a wooden bench dedicated 'To Our Beloved Son, Joseph C.'
"Do you want to look around at anything else here?" M. said.
"No. I just want to look at this," I said, nodding towards the river.
"Well, I guess there isn't anything else around here really," M. said. The small scattering of shops on Main Street were not really worth the trip, but the view was. So we sat there, staring at the scenery spread out under the blue sky, squinting our eyes in the bright sun. It was warm enough for me to be sitting in my tee shirt.