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The escalators made a painful, torturous sound as they descended to the platform below. The wind funneled between columns and added an eerie sound to the cacophony of noises that made me feel as if this place was not quite put together properly. It was shortly after 8 a.m. on a frigid 20-degree Sunday morning just outside of Washington, D.C.

I had come south of the Mason-Dixon line to visit my sister, who had traded the bustle of the Upper East Side of Manhattan for the relative suburban tranquility of northern Virginia: the crushing traffic, economic disparity, transient workforce, homeless, high priced lobbyists, newly minted President and staff. This was D.C. It is familiar, partly because I’ve been here a dozen times over the years, and partly because we know it through film and television. But film and television often show us the unseen view of D.C. - the Oval Office, the Pentagon briefing room, a senator’s limo. So D.C. feels at once familiar and fresh, on one hand an elegant tip to art and architecture as reflected in the great museums and monuments; on the other, this is a tourist town and it knows it.

Late Friday night we arrived in Tyson’s Corner, an area just inside the Beltway that has seen explosive growth in the last few years. That growth has snarled traffic and opened two luxury malls and many tall office buildings giving the area an urban look meshed with a suburban attitude - in other words, soulless. My sister lives in a mammoth 14-story tower overlooking a Whole Foods, among other things. The view is open and expansive, something far different from her Manhattan apartment whose view is partially obstructed by other tall apartment buildings yearning for sky.

My sister’s husband treated us to local bagels the next morning as we shared a laugh that nothing is quite like a New York bagel. We New Yorkers are proud of our bagels, pizza, bridges, taxis and tall buildings, and impossibly judge the world against a standard that will never be met. I had lunch plans with a good friend whom I had never met face-to-face. In the age of digital expression, I still feel face-to-face can be the most effective communication. We met at Lebanese Taverna, a swanky modern restaurant tucked in the bottom floor of the Tyson Galleria, an ultra-luxury mall. Fresh, hot lavash greeted us, and the hummus was fantastic. I had the mixed Schwarma, which consisted of chicken and lamb. The meat was a tad dry for my taste, but the sauces and accouterments were incredibly tasty. My sister thinks this place is overrated, but I would return. My friend works for a big media organization, and I really enjoyed talking with him about the state of media and its trials and tribulations with digital.

After lunch, we headed 20 miles west to Dulles airport and the Udvar-Hazy Center, a ginormous extension of the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum. Jaime interned for the Smithsonian and assisted with the center’s opening in 2004. Although planes are not her thing (she likes anything in Real Simple, which makes topics such planes and technology not so appealing), she had always wanted to see the fruits of her labor. We got into my sister’s brand new car and the navigation system quickly chirped, “At the next light, make a (pause) right.” We asked Jake if he wanted to name the system whose pleasant female voice told us where to go so we wouldn’t have to think anymore. Jake thought for a minute before coming up with “Navo.” Ten minutes later, Navo told us to get off at an exit earlier than the one Jeff had expected. Jeff became visibly angry, turned off Navo and curtly said “she’s wrong a lot.” A few minutes later, after getting off the highway, the road Navo told us to take intersected with the one we were on. Perhaps we should’ve trusted her. Well, at least Navo doesn’t get angry - we hope.

Although the Udvar-Hazy Center is free (all Smithsonian museums are free except for the Cooper-Hewitt in Manhattan), be warned there is a $12 charge for parking. We pulled into a parking lot next to a massive hangar designed in contemporary modernism…a stunning building. A replica control tower rose six stories above the surrounding land. You could quickly tell why they put this building here - there is a lot of land.

We went to the top of the control tower / observation viewing area for our first stop. We were barely a mile from the Dulles runways and casually watched plane after plane land. It was a beautiful late afternoon scene, with the sun slowly descending and the occasional passing cloud to break up the perfectly blue sky. In the distance, the Shenandoah Mountains blurred in a blue haze. The highest point on Long Island is a hill on the expressway, so I grew up in flatness. Mountains (even though these are hills against Rocky Mountain standards) are always a welcome distraction on the horizon.

The main part of the hanger is populated by well over 100 planes…some on the ground, some on supports and some hanging from the ceiling. There’s enough at the museum to keep you occupied a full day, if not two. Displays on everything from plane engines to space probes titillate the imagination. The center was opened to display the vast collection the Smithsonian had accumulated over the years. The Smithsonian always reminded me of a packrat neighbor whose closets and basements are cluttered with pieces big and small. Smithsonian is just as much storage as it is museum, except instead of housing random clutter, it holds historic clutter - clutter with meaning.

You can’t go in any of the planes, which was a tad disappointing even if understandable to preserve the artifacts. There are so many planes of so many sizes; I felt we were walking through a life size toy-chest. We had just visited the Intrepid a few weeks earlier, so military planes didn’t do much for us. But old bi-planes, commercial airliners, stunt planes, recreational helicopters, record-setting aviation tools and the Enterprise space shuttle kept us busy for hours.

On the way out, we passed the “Enola Gay,” the historic B-29 that dropped the world’s first atomic weapon on a city. A nearby docent enthralled us with the story of that fateful day in August 1945. Most of the crew did not know the bomb was atomic, just that it was special. They had made many practice runs into Japan before the fateful day. When that day came, the scientists didn’t know how big the explosion would be, so each man on the crew left from the Marianas Islands thinking it could be his last day on Earth. No one spoke on the way to Hiroshima. A few weeks later, the commander of the mission visited the city he felled. Half a century later, that same commander wrote Return of the Enola Gay, and I know I will be reading it.

We left the center near dusk and watched the sun set over Virginia before driving into D.C. for dinner. We ate at the Elephant & Castle, a nod to British pubs. Just like a pub, it was warm and inviting. It was quite empty, and I asked a server if this was a sign of the economy. He said no’ it’s a sign of cold weather and winter being low season for tourists. I had a 20-ounce mug of heffeweizen and ate fish and chips. A very pleasant experience. By then, Jaime wasn’t enticed by the thought of walking on the National Mall in 18-degree weather. We drove around taking in the sights. Jake really wanted to see the Supreme Court, which happens to be right across from the Capitol. We took the obligatory picture and then headed out of the city. It was eerily quiet with very light traffic, which made getting around great. We drove right next to the Washington Monument and Jake started carrying on about wanting to touch it (he was jumping up and down in the backseat). Jaime stayed in the car as Jake and I braved single-digit wind chills. By the time we were back at the car, we were winded and frozen but couldn’t stop laughing.

The next morning, I took an early morning trip on DC’s metro, taking the scary sounding escalators to an orange line platform. About an hour later, I was in Chevy Chase, DC right on the Maryland border (I have proof - see the column that delineates the District and Maryland). It is a swank area with luxury malls and Cheesecake Factories. I was meeting another friend for coffee. After coffee, I met up with the family at Clyde’s in the up-and-coming Penn Quarter. The menu is, to say the least, interesting. I opted for the waffle and fried chicken, which is exactly what it sounds like. My sister insisted it is a southern thing, but I lived in Tennessee for six years and was not familiar with it. Jaime ordered Eggs Chesapeake: crab cakes and eggs on an English muffin.

Jaime likes new experiences. She lived in the District for four months and had visited most of the free museums. So she wanted to see the Newseum, one of the most expensive museums in the city ($20 per person). I will say, you do get your money’s worth. Six stories of expansive floor space dedicated to the history of the press. From Pulitzer Prize winning photographs to a piece of the Berlin wall to centuries old newsletters to Ted Kaczynski’s cabin to an area where you, the visitor, get to deliver the news, it was intense. The museum illustrates the importance of having free and independent media in a democracy.

Night was quickly descending. We drove past the White House as Obama prepared for his first full week in office. There is such disparity in this city. Ambassadors and homeless, grocery store clerks and senators, the president and me. This is our nation’s capital.

I went to pick up my son at a local airport. He flies unaccompanied (a U.M. in industry speak). I always have to meet him at the gate, so I check in with the airline first and get a pass to go through security.

The woman at security looked at my license - run-of-the-mill New York State issue. Then she noticed an assembly of four letters located at the bottom left of my pass. The 19th letter of the Roman alphabet arranged four times in a row signified I was special. She took out a hilighter and made several marks on the paper. And then wrote another SSSS in big, bold neon letters. She motioned to her co-worker to cover her post so she could escort me. We walked, her eyes on me the whole time. She instructed me to put my items in a bin. Then I was taken to a metal detector (actually kind of cool, I guess, as I was allowed to bypass the line). I was asked to step into a waiting area. A well placed sign informed me of my right to a private and personal search. After two minutes, my searcher came and escorted me to the search area. He was cordial and polite and asked how my evening was.

Only days before, my girlfriend and I had watched a 60 Minutes piece about the TSA. The department recently issued new uniforms to make agents look more official and required employees to attend seminars about treating the public in a more friendly manner. It seems to be working.

My searcher was even apologetic. He scanned me from head to toe and everywhere in between. Two pieces of glass sandwiched me; I was on proverbial display as a 21st century man dealing with the clash between private liberties and public protection. After a short while (and after another agent thoroughly looked through every pocket of my jacket), I was sent on my way to the gate.

The 60 Minutes report had gone on to say there are people who feel the current procedures are nothing more than window dressing, designed to look good but questionable as to their effectiveness. Just look at the nine Muslims kicked off an Air Tran flight for casually mentioning where the safest seat on a plane is located (a common conversation with no real answers…the safest place on an airplane is any seat on a plane that does not crash).

As I walked away, I did not feel violated, given the courtesy and respect with which I had been treated, but I also didn’t feel any safer. It took several minutes of work by five employees to verify I was not a threat. Did the others going through security feel safer that they had passed through with me, or scared they may embark on a plane with me? Either way, I was just an innocent dad picking up his eight-year-old son.

Every winter, an insidious enemy hiding in plain sight attacks our cities. At least that is what our local politicians want us to believe…that snow is a stoppable enemy whose attack we can assail with taxpayer dollars and back breaking labor. Most snow storms follow a predictable pattern. The major meteorologists disagree until 24 hours before the “event,” at which time local news has near hourly coverage of the preparation of the salt soldiers, ready with their tanks and hand to hand assault weapons. The news teams attempt to warn us what time the battle will commence before giving neighborhood briefings as to the damages. If this isn’t a war, I don’t know what is.

The flakes in this latest attack started shortly before 11 a.m. eastern before progressing to full fledged white out conditions. The snow quickly took the upper hand turning roads to ice and trees to Ansel Adams photographs. The salt soldiers struck back with the mayor guaranteeing that 100% of city roads would be plowed at least once. Property owners, desperate to take back their asphalt and sidewalks, came out in droves. By the time I picked up Jake at 3 pm (after trudging a mile in snow up a hill…seriously), a few inches had successfully made it to the ground.

There are some who hate snow…who attack its very presence. I have one word for them. Florida. As for Jake and I, we had a great snowball fight. I got him to the ground and was bombarding him with snowballs as he laughed hysterically. A school bus driver rolled down her window and said, “that’s not fair.” I looked at her, the snowball in my hand and Jake on the ground. Jake and I laughed as my snowball hit its target. Snow 1. New York City 0.

Wednesday evening
7:22 pm
77th street between Columbus and Central Park West

A giant Smurf sat before me. Puffy in its belly, the bright blue contrasted well with the burnt ember sky of a Manhattan evening. We had gathered, along with thousands of others, to witness the inflation of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloons.

There were the Macy’s stars, a perennial favorite dating back half a century. Pikachu, one of Jake’s favorites, hobbled on his side waiting for his chance to burst forth from his sleep and have his 2 1/2 miles of fame. The Energizer Bunny was listless and had ceased to go and go and go. It too would have its chance to fly and shine for two minutes the next day as it crossed Herald Square and faced the army of television cameras waiting for it and the other dozen or so as-big-as-skyscraper balloons.

It was impressive to see them up close, their size diminishing mine. This year, Jake and I had traveled with my friend Leslie and her 8-year-old son Jason. Jake and Jason were typical third graders, running as fast as possible to see the balloons…and then, just as quickly, moving on to the next.

We reached the end of the block and had a choice to make: Continue through the throngs of sightseers, or to head home having filled our balloon quota for the year. Jake and Jason were tired and slightly bored (ingrates), and short of an exploding balloon or one the size of the Empire State Building they were done
being impressed. We stepped below street level to travel the underground caverns back home, but not before one more glimpse of the Giants of the Parade desperately waiting for showtime a mere 13 hours in the future.

Thursday Morning 9:49 A.M.
35th Street and 6th avenue, 21st floor

The breakfast feast was impressive. A cake the shape of a turkey…cookies and brownies…dozens of bagels and spreads in every flavor. But this all paled in comparison to the view. That delightful gift to the eyes is why we were here, an outpost 200 feet above Manhattan’s floor with a window directly overlooking Herald Square.

My good friend and great person Brian Golding was the gracious host of this amazing parade-viewing party. It was surreal to watch the parade on TV and simultaneously see it outside the window. The Smurf we had seen last evening was barreling down Broadway hoisted by dozens of little blue creatures determined not to let him fly away.

The best part was we were warm. No crowds to swim through, triple layers not needed. Perhaps the most famous parade in the world and we had box seats. Another guest at the party regaled about the time when, as a cub scout, he had marched in the parade. It was cold and the parade route interminable. By the time his little legs had reached Herald Square he was exhausted…and nauseous. For a moment, I felt a twinge of empathy for those now marching…but a broad smile flashed across his face. It was a good memory.

Walking back to the subway down an empty 6th Avenue was hypnotic. The street was
blocked off to all but local traffic, barricades holding back the masses. A
block away, tens of thousands had gathered for a huge show and here it was
quiet…a moment of solitude in Metropolis.

Friday afternoon, 3:16 P.M.
17 Mott Street, Chinatown

After 45 minutes we had finally gotten a table. The sizzle of frying beef and smell of noodles permeated the air of this tiny bodega-of-a-restaurant. I was introduced to Wo Hop by my brother, and have been hooked ever since. Before long, heaps of sesame chicken, beef chow fun and mushroom fried rice rained down from the Chinese food gods.

Wo Hop is below street level, and the line often extends past the stairs onto the street. We waited on the stairs…a tired, hungry Jakob protesting the queue. The night before, our good friends Denise and Adam had hosted us for Thanksgiving, a wonderful, traditional meal of turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes and cranberries. But we were turkeyed out, and good Chinese is always a fine alternative.

Earlier that day, Jake and I had ventured to the Lower East Side to visit the Tenement Museum, a restored building depicting immigrant life at the turn of the 20th century. The building had closed to tenants in 1935, and the museum’s founders came upon it in the 1980s and decided to restore it. Two hundred fifty-square-foot apartments served as homes for up to nine people at a time. I was enthralled as every detail had been given thought to recreate apartments from the 1880s, 1910s and 1930s. Jake got a little bored but he was especially fascinated with the bathrooms (outhouses in the backyard).

After our delicious Chinese extravaganza, we ventured to the South Street Seaport, a mall built on a pier thrust into the East River between lower Manhattan and Brooklyn. It was one of my favorite places as a kid and still is…despite the plans to build a bigger open space along with a 45-story luxury hotel/condo and other high-end developments. At least a few blocks with 19th century buildings and cobblestone streets are forever preserved. Change is the only constant in a big city.

Saturday evening, 5:31 P.M.
Greenport, Long Island

The last tentacles of light were far in the western sky. This sleepy village on Long Island’s north fork was preparing to buckle down for a late autumn/early winter evening. All but a few stores were closing for the evening. We had come here, 90 miles due east of the Big Apple, to find an ice skating rink we had chanced upon two years earlier. The rink sits in a grassy field on the beautiful harbor with lights twinkling across the bay. This year, the rink was not yet up. A disappointed Jakob made his feelings known.

We had begun the day at Calverton Links, a sprawling golf course near where Long Island splits in two. It was chilly, and the driving range was not heated. But it was wide open rolling grass, a pleasure to eyes that had been fixated on the urban jungle for the last few days. We lasted about 13 holes on mini golf before we succumbed to the cold.

We ate lunch at one of our favorite restaurants, The Cooperage Inn. Jaime is always excited for the opportunity to eat at this classic American-style restaurant. The French onion soup was outstanding, and fresh, hot bread greeted us. We wolfed down penne a la vodka and a hamburger. A perfect meal before an afternoon of wine tasting.

We were heading to Lenz Winery when Jaime spotted an interesting sign with hints of modernism. We stopped at Bedell Cellars, a beautiful winery with a heavy emphasis on Merlot. The tasting room was warm and cozy and had three levels in a modern-style barnlike room. There were fireplaces and couches and it resembled a living room. I discovered I do not like Merlot very much, though I could see their wines were made with quality and care. Lenz winery had a more traditional tasting room with an impressive entrance. The wines there were excellent and the old vines cabernet was particularly tasty.

We ended up at Greenport and discovered the ice rink had not been built yet. Sunday would be filled with relaxing and a friend’s dinner. But this night, we watched the descending sun and walked among the boutiques of the town and felt as if we were on vacation. Jaime remarked that none of the ice cream stores were open, so when we came upon one later in the evening we had to stop. Ice cream for dinner is always acceptable.

A few years ago, I did a project for the Museum of Modern Art in midtown Manhattan. I worked for the curator of painting and sculpture, and it was an incredible experience. MoMA had a unique program that encouraged anyone to submit a piece of art for consideration to the museum. As the preeminent institution covering modern art, it would be remiss at missing a major force that had gone undetected. The assistant curators took this responsibility seriously, though truth be told, very few submissions ever made it beyond the assistant curators. Some of the pieces showed amazing technical skills, but the discerning eyes of the curators were looking for something breathtakingly new, avant garde and pieces that would force change and generate buzz.

Along with the piece of art, many applicants included a cover letter detailing their inspiration and history with art. A small minority of these letters were the saddest words I had ever read. One in particular stuck out, and I carry a piece of it in my heart…and it motivates me to be a force for positivism and good. The letter was written by a 50-something-year-old man who had had a rough life. His tone was as if he was writing a letter to St. Peter himself justifying what he felt had been a worthless life. A series of unfortunate incidents had left him alone and destitute, and the only thing that had kept him going was his art. He closed the letter by asking MoMA to consider his work because just seeing one of his pieces hanging in a museum, even if just for an hour, would have justified his entire life – all of his struggles and pains. His work was not accepted.

I was reminded of this story this week when Paula Goodspeed parked her car near her idol, Paula Abdul, and swallowed a lethal amount of pills. Goodspeed had been a contestant on American Idol and committed suicide on Tuesday. Yes there were different circumstances…different details. Goodspeed was allegedly a stalker and may have had other issues. But what I held onto was her failed contestancy on Idol. God gave us the ability to be inquisitive and express ourselves in so many beautiful ways, but that expression brings so much pain when one has no one with whom to share it. I am not sure what is worse…not having a voice, or having one that no one listens to?

My heart goes out to Goodspeed’s family and the 50-something-year-old man looking for meaning in other’s approval. The world can be a scary place…and the pain can seem like a lot. Sometimes, it becomes too much. A friend of mine committed suicide when we were 16 years old. Although I never found out why, there were definitely issues at play, and she may have felt as if she had nowhere to turn…she had a voice but no one to listen because she was afraid.

The pain of having something to say and nowhere to say it can be unbearable. I have felt it at times with my music and my writing. But now I have the strength to know I do it for myself and accept whatever response or lack thereof comes my way. And because of that 50-year-old man and my friend and Paula Goodspeed, I try to go out of my way to encourage everyone with a voice (that is all of us) to express it as best they can. We are all artists even if our pieces never hang in museums.

On a crisp, blue-sky day in autumn, I took a walk with friends and guests in the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge just 10 miles east as the crow flies from Manhattan.  The friends were people from my neighborhood I’d known for several years. The guests were unwelcome visitors from China, Japan and South America. I watched as my friend took a knife and slashed one of the guests. My friend was frustrated. “This actually does nothing. It will be back bigger and stronger in a few weeks.”

My friend, Michael, is a botanist for the City of New York, and his passion belongs to plants who shouldn’t be here. He calls them non-native, invasive plants, and some of them are downright insidious. “The Asian Bittersweet actually strangles native trees,” he says as he points to a tree with deep scars corkscrewing their way up the trunk. Someone had attempted to save this tree by cutting down the Bittersweet. Many other trees were less lucky, having succumbed long ago.

Plants native to a certain area have evolved for thousands of years to be in balance with their ecosystem. They will provide food for insects, birds and small mammals. It can chemically defend their turf from other native plants. They supply nutrients to the soil. But a non-native invasive shares none of these characterstics. Non-native invasives swoop in without predators and decimate an area’s diversity, leaving an area virtually deserted of natural flora.

Michael began his professional career teaching English in China and working aboard river cruises. He came back to the States and took a few jobs utilizing his bilingual ability. About two years ago, something sparked an interest that developed into an outright passion. Michael would spend hours studying plants, learning how to recognize them and how to decipher which ones were native and which ones unwelcome guests. He speaks with unbridled enthusiasm and reaches far into his now near-encyclopedic storehouse of New York City plant knowledge to identify, and, on this Sunday morning, teach.

“There are whole areas where native species are effectively gone,” says Michael. And this isn’t a New York City problem. Two centuries of global travel have spread plants throughout the world. Visitors to the American south have come across a rather noxious vine called Kudzu. Kudzu spreads over everything, literally sucking the nutrients out of the soil for itself. Where it lives, little else does. Cut it down, it comes back. Cut it down again, it comes back twice as bad. And Kudzu has been steadily marching north, some of it even making an entrance in New York, though as of yet it does not have a foothold.

In Earth’s past, about one or two non-native invasives would cross geographic boundaries and slowly begin incorporation into the environment. This changed when improved shipping, trains, and airplanes brought stowaway seeds far from their native territory. The problem was accelerated even further when tradesmen opened new markets for exotic plants. “One of the biggest problems with Asian Bittersweet is that it is kind of pretty…it makes a great Christmas wreath,” says Michael.

Even worse, many nurseries sell non-native invasives. Legislation is weak, and even experts don’t fully agree on the best use or destruction of these plants. Fire, which was all but banned in the United States 60 years ago, used to be an effective measure against invasive species. Now cutting and herbicdes are used with mixed effectiveness. Lack of funds, resources and clear cut guidelines about non-native invasives have helped to spread these plants and diminish native territory.

“So what?” I ask Michael. “Survival of the fittest, right? What will happen if we let the non-natives win?”

Michael smirks, seemingly familiar with my brand of naiveté. After all, I am an outsider who until this day saw plants as green things, just ‘there’ in the background. I was unfamiliar with their back stories and their heroic fights to the death. Those things happen in “plant time”, over the course of a few seasons. There’s no dramatic video or pictures, no sounds to be heard. Just before and after pictures that, if you know how to look, show remarkable devastation.

“This matters if you’re a fan of diversity,” Michael says after some careful thought. “We are just beginning to understand all of the relationships we see here. What scares me more than what I know we’ll lose is what I don’t know we’ll lose.”

About halfway through the walk, one of my son’s friends spots an interesting plant peeking out of the ground. He asks Mike what it is. For the first time all day, Mike is stumped. He becomes obsessed with this new variety, unseen by his eyes. He opens a guidebook he always carries, but can’t find the answer. He takes notes and pictures and even a small sample that has fallen to the ground. Later that night, I receive an e-mail from him:

“It took a while to ID the mystery purple five-petaled woody vine. I checked three books and then had to consult with an expert. It turns out it was Chinese matrimony vine - a plant I’ve never seen before, but one which I’ve eaten many times. Its dried fruits look like orange-red raisins, and it’s frequently used in Chinese cuisine, especially nutritious soups. You can buy the fruits in Chinatown. Although it’s not native, its very uncommon in our area.”

During the hot summer months, the grapes of the Eastern end of Long Island plump up. The area becomes home to weekenders, those fortunate enough to have the resources to acquire a second property here, 80 miles away from the big city. They reside in small turn-of-the-century homes or converted strawberry-fields-cum-residential-development.

Long Island forks in more ways than one. To the south is the ritzy, glammy, over-developed Hamptons where the super rich build houses bigger than fortresses and chic Manhattan restaurants open outposts on the ocean. Big yachts. Big cars. Private estates. It is pretty in its own way, but almost all of the land is spoken for. Farms have long been replaced by stately lawns.

To the north is a different world, one that in many ways is connected to Long Island’s past more than its future. For now. There are still farmers here plowing the fertile land, a healthy mixture of sandy soils and maritime climate. A quarter century ago, vintners figured that Long Island’s climate and terroir resembled Europe and thus the first vines were planted here. Thirty plus vineyards later, countless awards and hordes of people have added to a growing mystique about Long Island wines. In the last decade or so, farms have been decimated in favor of residential development, similar to what happened on the South Fork many years ago. But for now, quaint New England villages, open spaces, farm stands, weekenders and vintners live side by side, as country as you get on Long Island.

By fall, many of the weekenders have returned home. They know full well what early fall brings: day trippers. Their minivans, Honda Civics, SUVs and low-end BMWs flood the North Fork every weekend in search of a little country hospitality and a very big pumpkin. The farms smartly take advantage of the cooling weather by offering apple picking, corn mazes and pumpkin patches. And this is exactly where I found myself last Sunday afternoon, stuck in miles-long traffic as day trippers blocked my path to the wineries just beyond the great Pumpkin Patch.

“This is frustrating,” said Jaime, eyes glossing over. Her second full day off in six weeks was being wasted. She heavily resisted the urge to jump on her Blackberry and work. Her grandmother sat patiently with Jake in the back staring out the window. She had not traveled very much in this area and had never been to a winery.

“Look at the porch on that house,” said Jaime’s grandmother quietly remarking about a colonial that looked as if it was plucked from a Kansas Farm circa Wizard of Oz and deposited here. “They sure don’t make them like they used to.” Jaime looked more frustrated, fearing her grandmother was just being nice. Jaime’s event planner side was rearing its ugly head. Things were not going according to plan. In fact with me, they rarely do. “The traffic is nice; we get to slow down and see things,” said Jaime’s grandmother as the odometer hit 15 for the first time in two miles. I briefly thought about using the oncoming lane as a passing lane, but thought better of it.

We passed another house that had an old pickup truck from the 20s parked in the back. Even Jakob looked up from his videogame to say “cool.” Another 10 minutes, only half a mile. We started noticing people’s mailboxes. Many were plain, but some were fantastic pieces of art, whimsical containers whose utility seemed wasted at just delivering bills.

Finally, we spotted the source of the traffic holdup. A large pumpkin patch had been acting like a black hole, sucking in the surrounding cars in a never-ending vortex of traffic. The rules of physics seemed to be suspended here as cars were parked everywhere and on both sides of the street. People crossing and cars parking had backed up the traffic for five miles. Just beyond, the open road returned. Within no time, we were at our first winery, the traffic a distant memory.

First up was Pugliese Vineyard in Cutchogue. The grounds were very pleasant with a small lake and outside seating. Wineries are very peculiar when it comes to tasting fees. Many outside of touristy areas are free for all tastings. Others charge a fee to taste a certain number of wines (usually $3-$5). Others offer only flights, groupings of wine from which you cannot deviate (which is the most frustrating kind, because I may want two wines from flight A and two wines from flight B). Pugliese offered four tastings for five dollars and you were allowed to pick whatever wines you wanted to taste. Jaime lit up like a Christmas tree when she discovered they made five dessert wines. Her decision was made (she skipped the red port).

She tried the late harvest Riesling, Late Harvest Gewurztraminer, Late Harvest Niagara and white port. I tried the 2007 Riesling Pinot Grigio, Sangiovese (Chianti) and Cabernet Sauvignon. Their Riesling was a great table The Riesling, not too dry or crisp or sweet…very balanced and, because we both like it so much, able to be paired with most anything (I am not always in favor of paring wines exactly correctly…if you like something, drink it). The Sangiovese was really something special. It had great balance and was smooth with a wonderful aftertaste. We took both. Jaime and her grandmother enjoyed the Late Harvest Riesling. The Niagara and Gewurztraminer were ok, and Jaime did not like the white port.

Next up was Peconic Bay vineyards, a three-minute minute trip up the road on the North Fork. There are about 10 wineries within a few miles of each other, making for a fun day. Though, if you plan on hitting a lot, get a limo or a designated driver. Peconic Bay was busy when we arrived and we had to wait for fresh glasses. These glasses, unfortunately, were quite hot and skewed the wines a bit. They charged for flights or by the taste ($3 per taste). Jaime and her grandmother drank Polaris, a $45 dessert wine they loved. It was a great dessert wine, not too syrupy and perfectly sweet. We were all impressed. Peconic, interestingly enough, sells its Chardonnay and Merlot by the Magnum (equivalent to two bottles or 1.5 liters). The rest of the wines were just ok and we actually did not purchase anything there.

Finally, we hit Laurel Lake Vineyards. We had stopped there this summer and enjoyed the Riesling so we came back to buy more. I felt happy I had showed Jaime’s grandmother a variety of wineries. We were hungry now, and it was off to lunch for us.

This trip happened in part because of the Cooperage Inn, a restaurant we had discovered accidently in July. The décor was country and the food comfort and wonderful. Jaime immediately thought her whole family would love it. We had checked the time the restaurant opens. What we hadn’t checked was whether there was a fall festival happening on the restaurant grounds. There was.
A maze of people filled the parking lot. Outside, the lawn was occupied by pony rides, hamburgers, a hay playground and a live band. The sunroom, in which we had eaten in on our previous visit, was replaced by a buffet line. They were still serving food inside the restaurant, though, and we managed to score a table.

Traffic and festivals had delayed our travels. Now it was nearing 7 PM and we were on our way home. The sun disappeared behind a cloud and left behind finger clouds that rippled its way across the sky. A rainbow of colors danced as darkness neared “You know, the atmosphere is ruled by the same laws as water, thermodynamics. That looks just like a wave,” I said to Jaime who appeared very disinterested. I turned to her. “I’m sorry about the traffic and not being able to eat on the patio,” I said. She smiled and looked at me. She looked relaxed, something I have rarely seen from her lately.

“The sky is really beautiful…and right now I don’t care what made it that way,” she said.

Date: Wednesday August 13 2008
Location: Crossing the Equator and International Date Line

Time travel is possible.If you travel far enough, eventually you will cross one of Earth’s invisible gradients,  the International Date Line.  Traveling from west to east, the experience is psychologically confusing but biologically easy to deal with. We left on Tuesday night, had dinner, slept, woke up, had breakfast and landed in New Zealand. Except instead of Wednesday, this new day was called Thursday.

Day in, day out we live our lives - except on Wednesday, August 13, there was no living to be had. It simply didn’t exist.

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