Yes, I am away from my beloved island of Manhattan.
Away from my neighborhood theater that staged the Tony Awards Sunday night.Away from The Grind where I steadily pigeon watch the day away when I’m not being tormented by our new and evil fax machine.
Away from the subway train with its special brand of surprises.
The time has arrived for a vacation. I may even read a book.
I am in The Land of My Ancestors — the San Francisco Bay Area. This is my second Comfort Zone. I‘m freeloading off my sister, Dovima and brother-in-law, Herb (with a silent h). Friday, their daughter and my niece, Sweet Pea, is graduating high school. Sunday is Father’s Day so I’ll be with the man who gifted me with his narrow feet, significant nose and capacity to explode at the TV screen when my team or Rafa Nadal is losing.
Since I arrived a day early, Dovima was concerned that I would be bored out of the little brains I have left home alone with Thurber, the family hound.
Dovima was also been worried that I might have difficulty making lunch for myself, but I assured her that I mastered the art of mediocre sandwich-making at age 45. Meanwhile, Thurber and I were busy doing our own thing.
I did. Hopefully my pulled groin muscle will heal by the time I fly out. Dogs are great but resist following their advice.