New England, New York

Big Apple, Here We Come
It wasn't on the itinerary, but when we drove through Providence, Rhode Island, on our way to Manhattan it looked so neat we had to see more of it. We ended up parking near Brown University and walking from there to the busy downtown area, where well-dressed business people rushed here and there to keep their lunchtime appointments. The downtown streets were still cobblestone in stretches. We had Mexican pizza (it's impossible for us SoCal boys to go more than a few days without Mexican) and old-fashioned macaroni and cheese at the City Diner. For desert we bought half a dozen cookies at the Providence Cookie Company in America's first indoor shopping center, the Arcade, built in 1828.

We sped though Connecticut at 70 mph, stopping only in Westport, where bandleader Ricky Ricardo lives with his wife Lucille. It's also Martha Stewart's home. The grand houses were all behind gates or else so far into the woods you couldn't see them.

Never let it be said that Los Angeles has the worst traffic. We have driven in Boston. We have driven in New York. By comparison, Los Angeles is an art form of traffic. The key is our traffic moves. A freeway blocked? Take a parallel route. An offramp crowded? Get off at the one a quarter-mile later. With all of NYC's island boroughs, however, if a bridge or a tunnel is out you have to haul yourself halfway across town to another, and everyone else is doing the same. Our advice: Just turn off the car, get out, and find yourself a bar.

Coming down through the Bronx around five o'clock on our way to La Guardia to drop off the rental car, we heard on the radio that the Throg's Neck Bridge was closed on account of not one but two jackknifed fuel trucks. Traffic was being diverted to the Whitestone Bridge two miles over, where the delay was an hour and a half. We didn't bother with that one. We found out too late that the third option, the Triborough Bridge four more miles away, was under renovation and had only one open lane each way. From the spot where the traffic had come to a complete halt in the Bronx, La Guardia had been a mere six or seven miles away. IT TOOK US THREE HOURS. We have only our lucky stars to thank for not having needed to go to the bathroom during that time. Out the window went our plans for a relaxing shower and a clothing change before taking our time finding a nice restaurant. By the time we had the rental turned in at the airport and ordered a car to drive us into the city, it was nearly nine o'clock and our nerves were shattered.

But fortune smiled down upon us at our hotel. The Woodward, a historical 12-story beaux arts building in the middle of Manhattan, upgraded us to a suite on the spot. We had a complete living room, a bedroom with a walk-in closet, and a large bathroom. So maybe getting into town three hours late had a silver lining. We freshened up and walked to the immense, dazzling Times Square, where we ate Chinese at a crowded, neon-lit place called Ollie's Noodles. The city sure has cleaned up the Square. For years "Times Square" was synonymous with urban sleaze and petty crime, but we found it clean and relatively safe. Thousands of perfectly respectable people rushed here and there, gathered outside the Broadway theaters, or poured in and out of shops and restaurants.

Can you make out Eddie in the bottom center? He's sitting on the couch in the moodily lit lobby of our hotel, The Woodward.

In the autumn of 1997, Eddie and Craig embarked on a tour of New England. They began in Bangor, Maine, and worked their way through New Hampshire, Vermont, Boston, Cape Cod, and Connecticut, culminating in a three-night stay in Manhattan. Craig wrote the following travelogue in order to share the trip with distant family and friends. They invite you to read it.

Click for our hotels

Maine
Our New England vacation was everything we thought it would be: beautiful, stimulating, and historical. The week before, all Eddie could talk about was the rain forecasts he saw on The Weather Channel. According to that insipid station all of New England was going to be rained out for a week. We never opened our umbrellas ONCE!

We landed in Bangor, Maine, around 10 o'clock at night. The whole town was asleep. We checked out our nice Dodge Stratus rental car and drove to a nearby motel. We had been on the ground for 45 minutes in Cincinnati around six o'clock, so neither the flight there from Los Angeles nor the connecting flight to Bangor served dinner. We hadn't eaten for seven hours, and we were ravenous. We ordered in Pizza Hut. It was the best pizza ever!

Mt. Desert Island, part of the gorgeous, evergreen Acadia National Park, lies about an hour southeast of Bangor on the other end of a short bridge. It was in the opposite direction we needed to head, for we were to check into a New Hampshire bed-and-breakfast that night, about six hours to the west; but as we relaxed in the motel room we kept reading about how lovely the island was, and we decided to see it.

We rose early, walked around downtown Bangor, and explored the banks of a nearby stream. Then we headed for the island. We went to Bar Harbor, the island's largest town, which is to say it had three roads instead of one. It was charming. We walked around in the brisk morning air and stopped in at Jordan's, a bustling coffee shop with pinewood booths, for luscious Maine blueberry pancakes soaking up fresh Vermont syrup. Real maple syrup is so unlike the corn-syrup snot we're used to being served as "pancake" syrup out west. When I was a boy I didn't care for it because it wasn't extremely sweet; now that's exactly why I like it. After breakfast we walked along the shore and gazed out across the Atlantic. Ships for Nova Scotia leave daily.

New Hampshire An hour into the trip toward New Hampshire, it was clear we had underestimated the time it would take to drive New England distances. We had translated the distances on our maps into Los Angeles time: 60 miles would take about an hour, we supposed. But the highways in New England are rarely more than one lane wide, the speed limit is generally 35 mph, and when you pass through sleepy little towns--which you do all the time--you must slow to 15 or 20 mph. We weren't complaining--the scenery was gorgeous and fascinating always--but we knew we'd have to keep up a good pace if we wanted to reach the bed-and-breakfast before nightfall.
That didn't keep us from stopping off at Fort Knox to explore the 1844 structure built of solid granite into a cliff above the Penobscot River. We followed dark passageways through the fort and peered across the river from the casements at the picturesque town of Bucksport. The fort was built to protect Bangor's wealthy, unprotected lumber industry upriver. The British had sailed up the river and taken over Bangor during the War of 1812, and the fort was built to ensure it never happened again.
We pulled into the gravel lot outside the Horse & Hound Inn just as darkness fell on the New Hampshire woods. The inn, built in the 1830s as a farmhouse, was off the beaten path in the little town of Franconia, nestled in Franconia Notch in the White Mountains National Forest. The early settlers called the narrow valleys "notches" because they resembled the notches an ax made in a log. Mountains rose up on all sides of the town, all of them afire with autumn color.			Eddie in the parlor of the Horse & Hound Inn, New Hampshire.
The inn's mascot, an elderly Cocker Spaniel, greeted us at the door. Inside it was spacious and homey. We had a tidy, well-decorated room with a private bath. After showering, we dined in the candle-lit Hunt Room. I had delicious stuffed, mustard-glazed pork chops. Eddie had filet mignon.
Eddie's youngest brother, Stephen, lives in Upstate New York with his family. We called him and told him we'd be at the Ben & Jerry's factory in Waterbury, Vermont, at one o'clock tomorrow. He was excited about the visit and assured us he'd be there.

On the Road to Vermont
It rained forcefully that night while we were snug in the canopy bed. By morning the clouds had opened and the sun shone. We polished off a quick breakfast of cereal and fruit juice in the inn's breakfast nook, then hopped into the car.

Our drive toward Vermont was leisurely. I took picture after picture of the vibrant fall foliage and the quaint towns. Eddie often pulled to the side of the road so I could scramble into the damp woods to take a photo. We rarely encountered mud in New England; the ground surface was mostly gray gravel, which water went right through; so I thought nothing of walking into a meadow to shoot a picture of a log pile or a close-up of a leaf.

We stopped in Bath, New Hampshire, to walk on an 1832 covered bridge and peer inside "America's First General Store." Then we headed into the hills on a narrow country road up to Peacham, Vermont, settled in the Year of Independence. The town has changed little in a hundred years. The filmmakers of Ethan Frome chose it to stand in for the 1800s New England town where their story was set. Recently Peacham General Store served as the title set of The Spitfire Grill. The town was tiny, and we walked through it in a few minutes. A helpful local woman gave me a tip about where to stand for the perfect photo of the handsome white church and nearby red barn. Eddie and I found everyone's accent charming. We loaded up with tins of maple syrup from the general store, then headed down the mountain toward Waterbury.

Ben & Jerry & Craig & Eddie
The Ben & Jerry's factory sits on the side of a hill one mile from the center of town. A Visitor's Center comprises a gift shop, a tour box office, and of course an ice cream parlor. Eddie's brother Stephen wasn't there at one o'clock, or even one-thirty. Eddie and I sat on a picnic bench and shared a double-scoop of ice cream (Chocolate-Chip Cookie Dough and Chunky Chocolate Peanut-Butter Cup). Stephen still wasn't there at two o'clock. No sign of him at two-thirty. By now we'd spent over an hour and a half sitting on a hill in Vermont when we had so much on our itinerary. Tours of the factory were leaving every 20 minutes, but we didn't dare take one for fear that Stephen would drive up. The storm that had passed over our inn the night before had knocked out Stephen's phone, so there was no way to call him.

Eddie and I, starved for lunch, settled on two cheeseburgers from the Snack Shack. We kept our eyes on the parking lot while we ate. At three o'clock we threw in the towel, having wasted hours doing nothing. We didn't even have time to take the tour that we'd watched a hundred other people go in to take during the two hours. We moved on quickly to another item on the itinerary. We headed 15 minutes up the road to the resort town of Stowe, where the Von Trapp family settled after fleeing Austria, as depicted in The Sound of Music. They must have felt right at home; while not as grand or imposing as the Alps, the mountains of New England and the little villages they embrace reminded me of places I saw in Austria, Switzerland, and Germany. We parked along the main street and strolled up and down looking at the shops, then we went behind the parish church and stepped quietly through an eerie old cemetery where tombstones dated back to the late 1700s.

It just so happened that we chose a route next that took us back through Waterbury. "Pull in," said Eddie as we approached the Ben & Jerry's factory again. "Just in case." We circled the lot, looking for New York plates on a car with a baby seat inside. We spotted one. "There!" I cried. Eddie thought it was the model Stephen drove. From up on the hill we heard Eddie's name being called--it was Angela, Stephen's young wife, waving down at us. We found Stephen by the tour line. He explained that he had slept too late, then stopped for lunch on the road. We accepted his apology and took the tour, which culminated in free samples of the new cranberry flavor sherbet.

Just before nightfall we stopped off in Montpelier, Vermont, the nation's least populous state capital. We parked and walked around. The bronze dome of the impressive State House gleamed in the setting sunlight. Within minutes we'd walked the entire downtown area. A chilly wind kicked up, and we were glad to be back in the car. We had dinner in Littleton, New Hampshire, just outside the White Mountains. At a tasty Italian restaurant Eddie had spaghetti and meatballs and I had a creamy chicken and pasta dish. Back at the inn, I wrote out a dozen postcards on the couch in the parlor while Eddie showered, then we reclined in bed to read our guide books while another storm broke outside.

Our Hotels
New Hampshire	Boston
Horse & Hound Inn Go 205 Wells Rd., Franconia, NH 03580, (603) 823-5501 Delightful, secluded bed-and-breakfast in what was once an 1830s farmhouse. Guest rooms are tiny but in a good, cozy way. Nice buffet breakfast. The inn contains the Hunt Room restaurant, which we recommend.	Inn at Harvard Go 1201 Massachusetts Ave., Cambridge, MA 02138, (617) 491-2222 On the corner of the Harvard campus squats this understated brick building with an atrium lobby. Guest rooms are modern, with cherry headboards, brass lamps, and sturdy desks that recall the 18th century. A Fodor's star pick.
Provincetown	Manhattan
Six Webster Place Go 6 Webster Pl., Provincetown, MA 02657, (800) 6-WEBSTER Charming bed-and-breakfast in a 1750s house, with a modern addition out back. Our room was in the original structure, just off the parlor, and came complete with a biker teddy bear.	The WoodwardGo 210 W. 55th St. (at Broadway), (407) 740-6442 Great location, a 5-minute walk to Times Square in one direction and Central Park in the other. The lobby is lit beautifully at night. The guest rooms are plain and soothing.

The Kank Again, the storm was gone by morning. Our umbrellas remained where we'd packed them. Eddie and I had another light breakfast in the nook, then checked out. We drove to nearby Profile Lake to see the state symbol, the Old Man of the Mountains. It's a giant granite outcropping that, from the side, looks remarkably like the profile of an old man. The air was terribly cold, which was fun; we SoCal boys don't get to wear heavy clothes that often. The highlight of the morning's sightseeing was the Kancamagus Highway ("the Kank," as the locals call it), a breathtaking scenic route that winds through the White Mountains.			The most scenic way through the White Mountains of New Hampshire is the Kancamagus Highway, a 34-mile trek that explodes into blazing color each autumn. Shown is the Albany Bridge, built in 1858.
The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and we took a hundred pictures. The tree colors were extraordinarily vivid, almost unreal: magenta, orange, red, amber, yellow, even chartreuse--basically, the colors of Fruity Pebbles. We hiked 15 minutes to the three-tiered Sabbaday Falls. We skipped stones over a calm blue lake. We reached the middle of the Swift River by stepping along white rocks. I took pictures of two more covered bridges, then we stopped off in Conway for a Mexican--yes, Mexican--lunch. Eddie insisted the enchiladas were the best he'd ever tasted. I liked my pork burrito, and the restaurant's own microbrewed root beer was delicious too. Who would have thought you could find yummy Mexican food in New Hampshire?

Kennebunkport
Our trip from Bangor to Franconia via Bar Harbor had left no room for one of the sights we wanted to see in Maine: Kennebunkport, a pretty seaside town with lots of money. By studying the map while we headed south from Conway, I saw how we could take in Kennebunkport on our way to Boston. We drove into town around three o'clock and parked, walked around, ate ice cream, bought postcards, read a few place-markers, and drove out.

No stopping was allowed on the street through one of the most impressive residential areas, where among the many well-preserved mansions is the Wedding Cake House, which looks like one. Story has it that a wealthy whaler built the gaudy yellow-and-white mansion to placate his new bride because he would be sailing too much to give her a proper honeymoon. We saw it whizzing by at 35 mph.

Cambridge An hour and a half later we entered the horror that is Boston's rush hour traffic. We crawled through Cambridge on the lookout for our hotel, the Inn at Harvard. Pedestrians and bicyclists have the run of Cambridge. At any moment someone will step or roll in front of your car. Instantly I realized why my friend Kim, transplanted from Boston to Los Angeles three years ago, didn't think twice about crossing Wilshire Boulevard without the benefit of a crosswalk. That's apparently the way it's done in Boston.
I had considered it fortunate that the hotel was on Massachusetts Avenue, Cambridge's main street. I figured all we had to do was get on Mass. Ave. and look for the address. I didn't count on the avenue splitting around Harvard, or on so many of the streets being one-way. Before I knew what was happening, we were on the wrong side of the avenue. The hotel was only accessible on the other half, which I had to manage to get back to with everyone walking in front of me or swooping by on a bicycle. By the time we pulled up at the hotel I was a wreck, and I'm someone who drives L.A. traffic one-handed, for Christ's sake. I gladly handed over the car keys to the valet and knew I wouldn't miss driving for the two days we were in Boston taking public transportation.
The hotel, squatting on the corner of the Harvard campus, was impressive and lovely. Of all the second-floor rooms along Mass. Ave., ours was the only one with a balcony. We ate dinner at a local pizza joint and strolled all around Cambridge. Seeing all the serious-faced students walking purposefully around, the dozens of bookstores on every block, the coffee houses full of people reading over steaming brews, and the lights glowing in the dorm rooms and libraries, I was reminded of my own university days. I felt a great deal of relief thinking that, unlike apparently everyone around me, I no longer had an essay to write, an exam to take, or a paper to research.			Gyms are nowhere near as popular in Boston as they are in Los Angeles. You hardly ever see a "gym physique." Most Bostonians seem a bit chubby. Most of them also have a typical New England complexion. They have a skintone that a Los Angeleno would need to be dead three days to achieve.

The Freedom Walk We walked through Boston Common just as the squirrels were getting busy gathering breakfast. My friend Kim had recommended the swan-boat rides on the lake in the nearby Public Gardens, but when we reached the dock we found a sign saying the boats had closed the week before for the winter, so we just walked around and looked at the flowerbeds. It was strange to find Birds of Paradise blooming in autumn in New England.
We rode the "T" downtown to the John Hancock Tower, the city's tallest structure. A jiffy elevator whisked us up to the observation deck on the 60th floor, where we had a glorious view of the entire town and harbor. When he saw my photo album, another transplanted Boston friend of mine, Peter, couldn't believe how fortunate we were to have such good weather. The sky was clear as far as the eye could see.			Boston Common, as seen on a remarkably clear day from the observation deck of John Hancock Tower.
Next we followed the Freedom Trail, a red sidewalk stripe that goes by the city's most popular historical sights. We walked and walked and walked through the city, even crossing the Charlestown bridge to see the U.S.S. Constitution ("Old Ironsides") afloat in Boston Harbor. We toured Paul Revere's house, the oldest residence in Boston (it was already nearly 100 years old before Revere moved in!) and saw the Old State House, from whose balcony the Declaration of Independence was read. We enjoyed fabulous cheeseburgers at a bar and grill in the Quincey Marketplace, a newly renovated outdoor mall with patio restaurants and hundreds of people everywhere.			Copley Square one sunny day, in the neighborhood known as the Back Bay. Shown in the center is the Old South Church, 1875.
By the time we returned to our hotel we were exhausted. We rested an hour then showered for dinner. Peter had recommended Newbury Street downtown, a popular, swanky street where good restaurants, chi chi shops, and beautiful people abound. We rode the "T" there and walked around, scoping out a restaurant. We lucked out by choosing Charley's Saloon, where we had fantastic prime rib.

To the Cape I dreaded getting into the car again the next morning. The hellish evening rush hour was still vivid in my mind. What would morning rush hour be like? Eddie promised to drive into New York City the next day if I drove us out of Boston today, so I did it. It was a harrowing experience. Somehow we made it over the right bridge, onto the right highway, and out into the suburbs. Soon the signs overhead started announcing the distance to Cape Cod.
We stretched our legs in Sandwich, the Cape's oldest town (founded 1637), and saw a waterwheel-operated gristmill the Pilgrims once used to grind their corn. Next, we walked out on the sun-bleached planks of the Bass Hole Boardwalk to take in a sweeping view of the marshes and dunes. In Yarmouthsport we had no-nonsense lunches at Hallet's Store, a tiny country store and soda fountain that hasn't changed in nearly 100 years. I had a meatloaf sandwich, Eddie a BLT. The "New England's Own" potato chips were twice the thickness of ordinary chips and half as salty. Then we climbed the spiral staircase to the top of a stone tower on Scargo Hill for another great view.
From a filling station pay phone I called ahead for a room in Provincetown, once a quiet fishing village at the tip of the Cape, now popular with tourists for its quintessential Cape Cod charm and its eclectic variety of diversions. Provincetown was the only city for which we hadn't made reservations, since most places had a policy of not allowing reservations for one-night stays. We had no trouble finding a vacancy at Six Webster Place (built in 1750), which turned out to be one of the town's six oldest homes, lovingly renovated into an inn (it got indoor plumbing in 1986!). We had a clean, cozy room with a pleasant decor and a plump four-poster bed.	Eddie at the breakfast table at Six Webster Place. We customarily rise early, so we tend to beat the other guests to the goodies.
We headed to the shore. From the boardwalk, we gazed out at the countless small boats bobbing in the bay. The late-afternoon sun bathed the beaches in a warm light. Then we took in the myriad sights and sounds along Commercial Street.
Completely unexpectedly, Eddie ran into an old acquaintance--let's say an acquaintance of an acquaintance. He was multiply pierced, bleached blond, and tanned to within an inch of his life. He'd given up everything a couple of years ago and moved to P-town. "It's such a great place!" he enthused. He worked part-time as a bartender and was expected at work that very moment, but he'd been ignoring the phone's ring all day and had no intention of showing up because too many parties lately had left him exhausted, and damn it, he wanted a break! This is generally the kind of person who moves to P-town.	The variety of shops exemplifies the town's odd mix of the quaint with the risqué. Next to Stan's Clam Chowder and Betty's Novelty Candles you might find Pauline's Body-Piercing Emporium and the local branch of Condomania.
But I can say this in his favor: He recommended Grand Central restaurant, where Eddie and I had the most terrific dinner. Eddie had bourbon-braised filet mignon, and I had a five-color peppercorn sirloin in a brandy cream sauce. Our waiter recommended a tasty raspberry ale microbrew that I'm so glad to be able to find now at Trader Joe's. Oh, my mouth waters just thinking about that dinner!

On the Town The next morning we picked up cappuccinos on the way to Central Park, where we followed the wooded pathways for an hour or so. The contrast to the rest of Manhattan is startling. All around the park, skyscrapers jostle for space, traffic lurches down narrow one-way streets, and people keep frenzied pace with the city; but inside the park all is serene, birds sing, squirrels scamper around, people jog by, kids play.
We reached the enormous reservoir, the city's water supply around which hundreds of exercisers walk and run, before heading out to the city, where we caught a subway to the World Trade Center. The subways are another New York institution recently cleaned up. I remember old movies showing subway cars defaced top to bottom by graffiti; now the cars are spotless. We waited a few minutes in line inside one of the twin towers to ride the speedy elevator up to the enclosed observation floor at the top, where an escalator carried us further up to the roof deck. The view was astonishing. We overheard an employee say he couldn't remember a clearer day. I've never been so high and not been on a mountain or in an airplane. On one side the Statue of Liberty was a Barbie Doll in the harbor; on the other side the skyscraper canyons of Manhattan lay beneath us, trailing away to the park.			Here we are, atop the World Trade Center. The day was amazingly clear, and we could see to the ends of the earth.
We lunched at a hot spot called Alva in the newly trendy district known as The Flatiron, named after the style of its most distinctive building. We were the only diners not wearing black from head to toe. (Are New Yorkers too stressed and frantic to learn color coordination?) Then we toured the Empire State Building. From the main observation deck on the 85th floor, where we could have spent all day looking at the amazing city all around us, we rode a tiny, less-traveled elevator 14 floors up inside the slender tower that caps the building. The small round metal room reminded us of being in a lighthouse. It had a maximum occupancy of eight people and offered dizzying 360-degree views.			The tower atop the Empire State Building was intended as a derigible landing, but after the first blimpload of passengers risked life and limb to climb down a precariously anchored, wind-tossed ramp, no one else would dare try it.
Next we visited the largest department store in the world, Macy's New York. It was bewilderingly huge, but then again the city has eight million people so the size is relative. I found it crowded and labyrinthine--give me the spacious California stores any day. Next, we polished off a snack at the Carnegie Deli and returned to the room to shower and change for the theater.

Broadway
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum was hilarious. Star Nathan Lane had everyone in stitches, and the Sondheim score was light and catchy. Did you hear who's replacing him in February? Whoopie Goldberg. I can't imagine. The producers haven't decided whether she'll play the role as male or female, but considering how many jokes are sexual I think she'd either have to play it male or lesbian.

Right after the show we darted into Sardi's for a table. They go fast after the shows let out. Within minutes of our sitting down and ordering cocktails, every last table in the place was taken and the maitre d’ was turning newcomers away in droves. Hundreds of celebrity portraits adorned the walls. I guess they put me in a mood to see stars, because every other person looked famous to me. Was that Brenda Vacarro over by the tree? Did Charleton Heston just go to the bar? Could that really be Patrick Stewart dining with Helen Mirren? I couldn't trust my eyes anymore, so I concentrated on the meal. My prime rib was satisfying, and Eddie raves to this day about the house specialty: chicken under scalloped potatoes.

Statue, Tavern Saturday morning we rode the ferry from Battery Park to Liberty Island for an up-close view of the Statue. Then the ferry floated us over to nearby Ellis Island, where we tried to find Eddie's maternal grandfather in the records, to no avail. In the middle of our walking tour of Greenwich Village we dropped into a cramped diner for lunch. Then we found Grand Central Station completely under scaffolding. Major restorations will be done in the spring. Then we visited St. Patrick's Cathedral, Radio City Music Hall, Rockefeller Center, and the GE building before returning to our suite to put up our feet.			Craig snapped this photo on the boat returning from Ellis Island, where we searched in vain for records concerning Eddie's grandfather.
Early that week we'd made reservations at Tavern on the Green. Around eight-thirty we taxied up to the park, where the farm houses that once overlooked a sheep meadow have been converted into the stunning restaurant. (That part of Central Park is still called the Sheep Meadow.) The trees around the place were strung with thousands of tiny blue lights, and from the branches over the patio hung a hundred glowing Chinese lanterns. The grand dining hall, where we were seated, is enclosed in floor-to-ceiling glass, so all the beautiful lightwork surrounds the diners. Of several chandeliers, Eddie pointed out the green one, which he read was used on the Tara set in Gone With the Wind. After two leisurely rounds of cocktails we both enjoyed the beef tenderloin with parsnip mashed potatoes and asparagus.			The glass-enclosed main dining room of Tavern on the Green. If there's a more beautiful setting for dinner in the world, we haven't seen it. Craig propped up his camera on a patio chair and used an extended exposure to capture the ethereal scene.

Last Day
We picked up some cappuccinos and rode the subway to the Metropolitan Museum of Art the next morning. After touring the collections for a couple of hours, we admired the handsome apartment buildings of the Upper East Side, where the wealthy and socially prominent reside (a two-bedroom less than $5,000 a month is a steal, we heard). Uniformed doormen stand outside on red carpets waiting for the tenants to ride up in chauffeur-driven cars. We saw similar prestigious digs around Central Park West next, then we walked down 57th Street to the new and popular Brooklyn Diner. We'd read about its great food in Gourmet magazine. I had a cheeseburger with a crispy nest of fried onion strings on top, and Eddie went all out and ordered the gargantuan and obscene 15-Bite Brooklyn Hot Dog. It looked like a foot-long kilbasa in a bun. Our waitress could hardly believe he finished the whole thing. So much walking gives a person an appetite.

After collecting our luggage from our bellboy, we rode a shuttle to JFK, America's least-liked airport, according to a recent survey--and us. Here's where we were trapped for five hours between Berlin and Los Angeles last year. This time, after being assured by the check-in clerk that our departure would be on time despite the flashing "delayed" warning I had seen on the video monitors, we went to the gate. It was an hour after our departure time before the plane even showed up. Dozens of musicians with the Bolshoi Ballet were taking our flight, so the gate was full of badly dressed Russians who stank of b.o. (I'm sorry but they did).

Finally we were allowed on board, only to find our seats occupied by two Russians who refused to budge. We tried to help them find their true seats but couldn't; their tickets seemed to indicate an area of the plane occupied by the bathrooms. The men spoke no English. Finally a stewardess explained that their tickets were issued for a different model of plane, and she showed them to the equivalent seats. We strapped ourselves in and listened to an hour's worth of announcements that all promised "five or ten minutes until take-off." If we never see JFK airport again as long as we live it'll be too soon.