Prior to my most recent trip to Connecticut, as a New Yorker, I can’t recall many excursions to the Constitution State. Heading north from Long Island always had me destined for the surf or the mountains, both of which Connecticut lacks. The only times I can recall a proper visit to Connecticut involves my biyearly Thanksgiving dinners at my cousins’ house. But then there was also the kayaking trip with Eric. Read more
On a trip to Toronto’s Chinatown district, I turned to my left and saw an advertisement for massage. (The ad is featured in the picture above.) Then I turned to my right and noticed that the next massage business had a mirror image of the same relaxed couple. Read more
Over the past six months it’s been hard for me to find time to work out. In September, in a quite dramatic drive to break a 0-0 tie between the shirts and the skins, I tore my hamstring. Then, I was busy with my introductory course into fatherhood. Since I don’t belong to a gym or a pool, and most of my year-round fitness is done outdoors, this winter, which included the Polar Vortex and other unnamed days of frost, made athletics difficult. The ice and snow limited the number of times I laced up my running shoes, the rain and freezing temperatures reduced my days of cross-country skiing to two, and the one weekend that I snowboarded in New Hampshire provided me with little more than a nice leg burn. Read more
Ever since I returned from Hong Kong, I’ve had dim sum on my mind. It’s hard not to when my work-day commute and trip to see my parents takes me through America’s third and first largest Chinatowns, respectively. It’s not that carted around dumplings are more delicious than other foods. In fact, in my opinion, Chinese food pales in comparison to other Asian cuisines, specifically Thai, Vietnamese, and Japanese. But there’s something pleasantly atavistic about chasing after a dim sum cart, fighting off competitors for your lunch, and then settling down to the convivial spirit of shared eating. Read more
On the final night of February, 2014, as New Yorkers prepared for March, a month most connected to spring and St. Patrick, I rode the elevator to the twentieth floor of the Yale Club. In the ballroom that overlooked Grand Central Station, a crowd had congregated to celebrate another patron saint: Wales’s St. David. Even though the gathering had been hosted to remember St. David, most of the attendees focused their talk on a second famed Welshman–the poet Dylan Thomas.
This year marks the centennial of Thomas’s birth. While the poet’s home country is doing much to recognize their lyrical son, New York City, where Thomas had often visited and where he eventually died, is the second best place to better know the poet. Read more