The Big Apple

So I was supposed to be in the Big Apple this evening, spending time with the fabulous team at HarperCollins and perhaps meeting some of the English teachers who have lately been walking the floor of a convention, sharing stories about stories (and students).

My plans were foiled—something about downed wires or a slow-moving diesel that was impeding the back and forth of trains between Philadelphia and New York. The lady at the Amtrak window would not even sell me a ticket. "Look at all those who have been waiting hours," she pointed beyond me, to the vast waiting room. "Think about how long it would take for your train to finally pull out of this station."

I came home (barely beating the snarl of frustrated traffic) and read research instead—the cold, hard rain slapping against the roof as I tried to conjure 135 years ago. I was thinking about smell. I was making lists of all the food I believe would have been in a certain place at a certain time, and imagining the float of it in the air. Mixed in with heat. Mixed in with kerosene and cigars.

(A part of my brain trying to conjure, all the while, New York and the people I never did get to meet.)