Category: Travel

Basil and I didn’t just Coffeeneur in Suttons Bay; we did a little exploring, too.

The town is something of a tourist destination, but it’s also a little arty and quirky in a very Northern Michigan way.  It’s a little rough around the edges; a little hardy, as opposed to twee or cute.

Well, OK, maybe it’s a little cutesy.  These days, too, the unusual craftings might turn out to be made elsewhere, even if they’re designed locally.  But the whimsy is still a lot of fun, and Basil was particularly pleased to see that yellow and black creature, which reminded him of his London compatriot, Brompton Bumble B.

I think they chatted a bit while I looked around inside the shop.  Off-season, especially, there’s room for a Brompton even in the smaller shops that have been converted from buildings that once were homes.

Most of the shops are rather modest affairs, with their interesting wares discreetly displayed inside. This one has a stunning exuberance, though.  Do they leave every bit of this extravaganza outside during the winter?  Imagine all this bursting forth from banks of crisp, sparkling snow . . ..

Most of the shops, like these, and the one Basil and I visited, are re-purposed along what must once have been a residential main street.

There’s something interesting to see nearly everywhere you look: gables, trellises, walkways, and all kinds of roof peaks, along with a variety of exterior colors and trims.  A fine abandon is in evidence all over the few blocks of the town center.

Michigan is sometimes called “the Great Lake state” which undoubtedly refers to the Great Lakes surrounding it, but the state is covered with lesser waterways, most of which could be fairly described as “great” on their own.

Sutton Bay’s little marina has become more polished than it once was, and it’s quite a sight in summer when all the boats are in residence.  On this day, it was simply pretty, with all that blue water sparkling in the autumn light.

The old train station has become a law office.  (I guess even as heavenly a place as Northern Michigan needs its lawyers.) These particular attorneys have a fascinating garden, round to the right of the building as shown above.

Look at that stunning beast!  It ought to be fearsome, but it’s got an awfully cheery expression, in spite of all those scales and a truly terrifying set of chompers.

He (she?) and Basil hit it off right away.   Travel is so enriching!

We were loathe to go, but the riding home was another wonderful experience.  So much to see!  So much to experience!

Basil and I are headed to a completely different part of the USA for the next week or so, and may have limited Internet access. Posts will go up through the magic of automatic scheduling, but response to comments and email may be slow, or even non-existent, until we return home.

Argyll and I returned to New York together to get his gears looked at again.  We started out from a different train station.

Parking was a challenge, but if it hadn’t been, we would have missed this wall of green, as well as the back of the abandoned stationhouse.

Not to mention an up-close look at an electrical tower complex.

We weren’t all that early, but we also managed to watch a few trains go by.

The one above is regional rail, and below, Amtrak, headed westward.

This was a turn-around trip:  I was carrying Basil’s O bag (or, rather, Argyll was) and just a day pack with a change of clothes.  (The day pack is wearing my high-vis vest — that’s what “city chic” means to me!)

I was sitting directly across from Argyll when I took this picture; we’re practically alone in the quiet car.

I always forget how industrial is the approach into Philadelphia.

After all, why wouldn’t it be?  Rail-yards are the essence of industry.

The last few times we went to New York, water levels were at record highs; this time they had ebbed to more usual levels.

The sky can be surprisingly variable during the relatively short trip to New York City from Philadelphia and points west — a journey of only two to two-and-a-half-hours.

Though I often read on the train, I love the view outside the windows, always the same and ever-changing as it is.

My first stop, even before I head out to The Manhattanites’, is always here, at “Around the World“, an international magazine store specializing in “Fashion Publications”.  Fashion magazines do nothing for me, but I do sew from European pattern magazines, and this is the only place I can buy them.  (Also, I like the proprietors.) 

I couldn’t get the train I wanted, so Argyll and I had a few hours to noodle around on the Greenway, and to enjoy my favorite tunnel view, at 181st Street.

Argyll is getting as used to going to Fairway Market as is Basil.  We picked up a baguette, some grilled artichoke hearts (to swoon for!) and cheese:  a “Great Hill Dairy Blue” bought solely because it is made “on the shores of Buzzard’s Bay 50 miles south of Boston” because who am I to resist the call of buzzard’s bay? and a Gloucestershire offering called, horribly, “Slack My Girdle”, which I bought in spite of the name, and which turned out to be an excellent cheese.

I couldn’t get the baguette into the O bag, and Argyll still didn’t have his saddle bag,  Fortunately, I always carry a shopping tote and I had already attached the straps for his (future) bag, so I tied the tote to the straps to anchor it.  The tote was bungeed to the rear rack, too, but of such amorphous shape, and of such slippery material, that I was unsure about its ability to keep from shifting.

The Greenway detour just north of Fairway is no more; in its place is this gleaming new pathway, so it’s smooth sailing all the way to the market now.

Argyll posed with the George Washington Bridge in one of the little byways that dot the Greenway, and also stopped to check out the flowers, just coming into bloom in early June.

The next morning, we returned to The Sign of the Brompton(s), aka NYCeWheels, and whatever was still misaligned in Argyll’s gearing was set right — and has been so ever since.

(Really, best trade sign ever, don’t you think?)

Argyll was quite please to be in proper running trim.

Dr. Diarist was equally pleased once I got Argyll home to him.

Then Argyll and I hopped on an evening train and said good-bye to New York (for now).

We waved to night-time Philadelphia, and its hideous screaming-blue-neon advert as we went by.

That neon blue reflects nicely in the Schuylkill River, but I can’t help thinking of this kind of willingness to let business dominate the landscape as a form of civic dysmorphia.

And then we were home.

7/7:  Various edits, due to complaints on the home front: capitalization, correction of British spelling because, uh, we’re not in the UK.  Note to self:  coffee first, blog post second.

The trip to New York for Bert’s Cebular’s memorial ride was a quick turn-around for Basil and me.  Nonetheless, we did manage to stop at Fairway before catching our train home.  There’s one conveniently located just a couple of blocks from NYCeWheels, on 86th Street.

Fairway’s produce is to sigh over, but I had in mind other fare:  cheese and rainbow cookies.  You can fit a lot of both into a Mini O bag, and still have room for an e-reader and a bunch of miscellaneous stuff, too.  (The cheeses are Le Fournols, Appenzeller and a third one I don’t remember.  Maybe a Gruyère?)

Thus fortified, Basil and I headed for Penn Station, and hopped on our train.

This time, Basil rode in the luggage rack.  A Brompton would fit upright in the lower section, but Amtrak had pre-empted the space for a box of stuff.  That’s OK; Bromptons are nothing if not adaptable, and Basil is no exception.  My seat was just across the aisle, so we were in full view of each other for the entire trip.

Unsurprisingly, the scenery, when leaving the city, along the tracks, is quite industrial.  The unusually clear sky made a reflecting pool of the waters we passed.

I loved spotting this giant yellow beast.  It’s a track-laying machine, I think. Dr. Diarist and I saw one in action recently, but I don’t believe I was able to take pictures at the time.

A historian could make much of all the abandoned buildings along the NYC-Philadelphia route.  I don’t know the specifics, but it’s easy to speculate on how changing manufacturing patterns render formerly thriving businesses moot.

Sometimes towns grow right down to the tracks.  Or maybe it’s the other way around?

It’s common to see junk yards and abandoned equipment next to the tracks, but not usual to see anything as colorful as this pink bus!

This is the Handy Street Laundromat in New Brunswick, New Jersey. (“Transportacion Gratis 7 Dia a la Semana”.)  It looks huge; I’m guessing they do linens for businesses, too, rather than simply offering access to washers and dryers for the public.

North Philadelphia is pretty gritty, most of all near the tracks.  Tagging is still a popular art form; there probably isn’t enough money in any transportation budget to keep up with graffiti removal, so it just becomes part of the landscape.

Once out of Philadelphia, heading west into the suburbs, things become much greener, even where light industry is located next to the tracks.

Though we suburbanites deal with our own bits of grit.  This is an ancient (and frequently smelly) tunnel under the tracks at a local train station.  It’s all part of the experience!

My Brompton bicycle Basil and I found ourselves in upstate New York recently, and returned to a favorite haunt there:  the Erie Canal towpath.

This time, however, we found obstructions:  traffic cones, a torn-up trail, and heavy equipment where Basil’s tires prefer to be.

We shot a longing  glance down the canal, and then headed out on surface streets until we’d bypassed the construction.

This was the first time we’d ridden on streets in this area, or over any of the rather wonderful steel bridges.

There’s a walkway along the canal in the village of Pittsford, which we viewed, also for the first time, from a nearby bridge.

I stopped in at a bike shop next to the canal to replace a patch kit that had been depleted on a recent group ride.

In former days, tradesmen used to hang signs that signified the profession practised within their shops:  In this case, a bicycle chain is embedded in the entry-way.

Some strip malls are a little different in this part of the world.  I think most of these buildings have been re-purposed since they were built during the days when the canal itself was far more active than it is now.

This little “mall”, too, looks as if the buildings once served radically different needs — relevant, probably, to the kind of commerce that was once canal-driven.

We did eventually get a little bit of cycling in on the towpath, once we got past the construction.

The trail surface is a bit rough-and-ready; it’s mostly crushed stone.  Basil, and his Marathon tires, don’t mind a bit, though:  We’ve ridden many  miles on it in the past.  Those Bromptons look small, but they’re strong and adept!

On one afternoon on a quick trip to New York City, I popped downtown sans Brompton.  It was wet and cold, and I hadn’t brought good rain gear with me, so I hoofed it (and rode the subway).

I headed down to Union Square.  All that water made for nice color saturation in the park.

It does the same thing for the streets and buildings, too, but the effect isn’t quite as vibrant.

New York babies get used to the elements early.  A carapace like this one helps.

These rather glorious blossoms were in for a rude shock:  the next day, it snowed.

Generally speaking, when I head to Union Square, I’m going to Paragon Sports just to see what’s up, but I always like stopping in at this Barnes and Noble.  Though it’s large for an NYC bookstore, I think what I like best is the building exterior, and all those Citibikes out front.

If chain stores must exist in cities, it’s a good thing when they fit so relatively discreetly into the existing infrastructure.

I enjoyed a long conversation in the sports section with a cycling advocate, and ended up buying a couple of books designed to improve my cycling fitness.  We’ll see how that goes; neither one had any advice on how to extend a day past 24 hours, which is possibly what I actually require.

While we were in New York for the 5 Boro, we met up with family for brunch.  We tried the Grey Dog at first, but decided it was too noisy (ha, ha . . . as if there’s such a thing as “quiet” in a NYC restaurant!).

I’m a sucker for signboards like this one.  I wouldn’t know a proper pub if I found one (and I don’t drink beer, either), but something about the (admittedly faux) antiquity of a sign like this calls to my Europhile soul.

The family set off in search of other comestibles, loping, but determined.  They’re a causal lot, but they get things done.

Eventually we settled on an unnamed diner a few blocks away.   I didn’t take pictures; there was construction all around, and no sign on the building, which looked as if it had been recently sand-blasted.

The diner’s cooks weren’t just slinging hash; two of our party had eggs Benedict, which they pronounced to be just fine.  Gotta love New York. The place was, in fact, a lot quieter than the Grey Dog, so that worked out well, too.

It was a beautiful day in Chelsea; no one minded walking.

Then we headed to the Chelsea Flea Market.  This institution, a used-goods sales haven, is located on two floors of an ancient, decrepit garage which has apparently been sold.  The Chelsea Flea is closing in July, possibly so that it can be turned, once again, into a garage.

It’s an institution in the neighborhood, and makes for fun, if not bargain, hunting.  I failed to buy a linen tunic I loved, owning to its missing buttons (about 8 of them, hacked off) and a price that would have been right if it had been new, intact, and offered in a luxury shop.

We each brought a small treasure home:  a vintage sewing pattern, a vintage printed monograph on a favorite subject, and a tome on a special interest.

The day involved some velocipede-spotting, including this Brompton, a bright red one with a trunk bag, and its equally burdened cyclist:

A few blocks away, a Strida was locked up.  We were hoping that we’d discover that the fenders were wood (bamboo would have been OK!), but realized, up close, that they were a nicely-done take on wood. but not the real thing.  They look quite nice with the vanilla color, though.

The first Strida I ever saw was downstairs at the MoMA (Museum of Modern Art) store.  It appealed to me tremendously (so quirky and clever!), but I’ve still not ridden one.  Gears are too important in my world, and so are long rides.

Then there was this adorable little cargo trike.  It may not be much in the sleek department, but it definitely gets points in the quirk category.

All in all, a lovely day.  And it didn’t snow once.