One never sees a needlepoint decoration that declares "Hovel Sweet Hovel" or "Home Is Where The Stench Is," but I think one ought to. No sentiment better sums up the time warpy feeling of stepping off the train after a weekend in New Hope and landing outside Madison Square Garden. Gabby, clueless tourists are chatted up by some of the locals; their fanny packs gradually empty of single bills. Sophisticated natives in clever shirts that say, "F*ck you, you f*cking f*ck!" grimace when they walk past kebab stands. People like me, the lived-here-long-enough-to-know-better, still feel exhilarated upon ascending the stairs from the ground, seeing all the lights and hearing all the sounds.

I love the smooth gnaw of my apartment key in the lock. I step into my apartment's stale, rent-stabilized air from the cold hall, my arms etched by the straps of whatever bag I'm carrying, and I collapse in familiarity. Then I upload the pictures.



Last weekend was a good one for pictures. It was warmer than it had been in the city, but the Delaware River was frozen over in places and there were patches of clean snow clinging to the privileged, suburban grass. (On the contrary, that one gigantic pile of discarded snow in Union Square had already been peed on multiple times and mistaken for coke). The weekend was cozy, and we didn't brave the Pennsylvania nightlife scene, which always makes me feel a little bit suicidal and a lot bit lame. Instead, we spent Friday night talking about the coal stove in Paul's living room. Saturday night - talking about the coal stove, baking oatmeal raisin cookies, and watching Swingers. Jim joined Cade, Paul, and me then and grew intoxicated and poetic after one beer, making him the cheapest date since...me.


Saturday morning, Cade, Paul, Ziggy, and I walked from Paul's house to New Jersey - Lambertville's wing dam on the Delaware River, to be more precise. I emphasize here that we walked from one state into another in a matter of minutes, because such a feat where I'm from is unthinkable. Being able to cross state lines so efficiently now feels kind of like the fulfillment of my lifelong dream to be able to change my outfits with mind control, like Melissa Joan Hart did on Sabrina, The Teenage Witch. I'm still waiting (impatiently) for that power.

En route, the boys and I stopped at a frozen canal. We ran and slid on the ice. Cade banged his knee on a huge block of ice trying to take a picture. Ziggy's back legs got caught between ice and earth. The rescue required the sacrifice of Paul's pride - he fell down really hard on his stomach, leading to inevitable jokes of ice cracking, us drowning in the freezing few feet of water. I tried to think of a witty way to allude to Hemingway's "iceberg theory" of writing in this blog. A way to say it in an "iceberg theoried" kind of way, my meaning poking though frozen murk, like the tree limb in the ice. I've failed at that, by the way, but the picture's nice.




At the wing dam, I kicked and picked and nearly slipped like a six-year-old. Cade and Paul have had years of winters where the river becomes part stemware, part mirror, but I haven't. I once saw a little kid in Texas say, "Look! Icicles!" as she licked the frost off a pair of packaged chicken feet in the frozen foods section of the supermarket. That kid was my sister, and I understand her need for snow, frost, a real winter or whatever semblance could suffice in a place where the chicken feet are always on sale and everyone thinks organic food is for only the freakiest Pentecostals. A place where a windbreaker will always be enough.




Ahh, winter - real winter - in New Hope. I like it.