Mud Level Road

Driving home from the CVRT, along Mud Level Road, I observed a cute scene: A Mennonite girl of about 8-10-years old, was walking down her lane to pick up the mail. She gingerly walked upon the fresh two inches of snow we received in the morning. Her shoulder-length hair, the same color as the cornstalks in the adjacent field, was flowing from beneath her knitted cap. At her feet were three fluffy gray cats, less than a year old, weaving between her legs. They looked into her eyes begging for attention. I was tempted to photograph, but it was impractical and perhaps unethical.

Wilkes-Barre (preliminary notes)

Wilkes-Barre, named after two prominent members of the British Parliament, was founded in 1769. It was once a center of economic activity during the industrial production period of the United States but has fallen on economic hard times since. The decline has taken a toll on the city’s population and architectural legacy. In 1930, the population of the city was in excess of 86,000 residents; today, the number of people is less than half of that, hovering just about 40,000 people. As you walk around the city, replete with potholes and empty lots, you can observe the effects of deindustrialization.

Central Railroad of New Jersey Station built in 1868 

A gray, bleak Saturday morning in February is probably not the optimal time to explore the center of Wilkes-Barre. Several older men were shuffling through the predominantly empty downtown streets; the damaged ornate buildings make economic recovery feel far away. The urban landscape of deindustrialized Pennsylvania does not inspire hope. Of course, winter is probably not the best time of the year to visit Wilkes-Barre; it does not show well. Pennsylvania in the winter is often overcast and gloomy and the bitter, and the damp cold makes me walk a little faster and with purpose.

Located on South Main Street, the Engel Building was constructed in 1890. The building was evacuated in 2013 when surrounding buildings had to be immediately demolished because due to instability. The businesses that were tenants never reopened. In 2016, the buildings were sold to a developer in preparation for a new 10-story hotel, according to the local newspaper. 

The Sterling Annex building, on River Street, dates from 1912 when it opened as an Elks Lodge. In 1939 the building became an annex for the Hotel Sterling. Today, it sits empty, awaiting revitalization. The exterior of the building gives a hint to its architectural grandeur that graced the riverfront area.  

Built in 1907, the former Shriner's Irem Temple is undergoing renovation. Its distinctive features, evoking an Islamic theme, looks incongruous with the surrounding neighborhood, but also attests to a more prosperous era for Wilkes-Barre. The building is currently surrounded by a chain link fence suggesting renovations; however, the broken windows and the haphazardly nailed boards across the front doors suggest otherwise.  

Abandoned tracks leading out of town

C&O Canal: Antietam Creek to Snyders Landing (January)

The new year brings a change in venue on the C&O towpath. For now, I leave the more isolated parts of the trail to go downstream and work my way through some of the more crowded areas. The area around Antietam Creek and the towns of Sharpsburg, Maryland and Shepherdstown, West Virginia are replete with monuments and stories about the Civil War. Signs indicated where armies form both sides forded the Potomac. While interesting, and historically important, my interest lies in the beauty of this area. The river makes four distinct and sharp bends between Shepherdstown and Falling Water, creating small jutting peninsulas of West Virginia.

Antietam Aqueduct

Walking on the first day of the year, I am greeted by many more people than I have seen in the past couple of months on the trail. When I waked across the path of the Antietam Aqueduct, constructed in 1834, four women were riding horses were traversing the bed of the canal. One woman blissfully shouted, “Happy New Years!” I responded in kind, but my response slightly alarmed one of the horses, because from his perspective I was overhead. The rider gave the chestnut-colored horse a gentle stroke and told the other riders that he was not accustomed to seeing someone “up there.”

The trail was teeming with people, I think, trying to fulfill their annual resolutions, created in the hope of changing habits or opening a new chapter. The cycles of our world provide a chance for reflection and reconsideration. My decision to change location on the trail periodically is, in part, a function of an artificial calendar about when a new cycle begins. But it is a useful opportunity to keep myself engaged and provide new perspectives.

Norfork Southern Railroad Trestle a Shepherdstown

Walking the towpath provides good lessons about patience and fortitude. Undertaking this 184-mile trail cannot be done in a single day. Accepting that is important; there is no quick solution or easy fix, it is a process. Walking the C&O is an enjoyment. I have a goal, and I am motivated to complete that goal; however, there should be time to enjoy. Watching a rather large woman struggling to run past me, I think about this. Her path to weight loss and good health takes time and patience, it will not be accomplished in a couple of days, or even a month. 

I found myself following a couple, who were older than I, for about a mile. Although my pace was faster than theirs, I kept a distance of about 100 yards between us by photographing birds and admiring the river and trees. As we neared Shepherdstown, I glanced up just in time to see the woman slip in mud, and then fall. The man somewhat startled turn and said, “What did you do?” My first inclination was to rush ahead and help. But as the woman tried, and successfully, regained her feet, I decided not to add to any embarrassment. A few moments later the couple photographed themselves in front of the Shepherdstown sign, her dirty pants were the only visible injury. The incident leads me to consider how vulnerable we are to random accidents. A fall like this can have devastating consequences. No longer can I, or most of my peers, assume that we will recover from a major injury. It is something that I do not like to think about. An injury resulting from a fall leaves open the possibility of an incomplete recovery, which would be a devastating prognosis.

The towpath just upstream from Shepherdstown

A talk show on the radio argued that by January 7, the pretense for New Years’ resolutions had faded. A cold, early January Monday meant that people who I would see would be dedicated walkers and explorers. Perhaps because it is close to Shepherdstown, the trail is well used here. There is good evidence to suggest this, including a forgotten tennis ball lost by a friendly dog.

As I drove to my second walk of the month, a talk show on the radio argued that by January 7, the pretense for New Years’ resolutions had faded. A cold, early January Monday meant that people who I would see would be dedicated walkers and explorers. Perhaps because it is close to Shepherdstown, the trail is well used in this section of the towpath. There is good evidence to suggest this, including a forgotten tennis ball lost by a no doubt friendly dog. 

My favorite type of bird is the woodpecker, which I take great joy in watching and photography. Because it is skittish and elusive, I find it particularly challenging to photograph pileated woodpeckers. January and February seem to be the best months to do so, especially because the lack of foliage in the woods makes the bird easier to spot. As I reached MM74, I stopped to retie my bootlace. As I was bent over, I heard the distinctive cry of a pileated and minimized my motions so as not to scare it. As I scanned the sycamore tree from which the call emanated, I spotted a pair of woodpeckers after a while: A male, high in the tree tops, surrounded by small branches, making a shot that was in focus virtually impossible. Meanwhile, closer to the ground a female, who was backlit, was digging for insects on a dead branch. She periodically poked her head around the corner as if to invite me to a game of hide and seek. Actually she was trying to determine if I were a danger, while the male continuously warned that I was.

I stood and watched for over ten minutes, trying to maneuver to achieve better lighting and for one of the birds to uncover well enough to get a good shot. A woman with her dog walked by, the look on her face suggested that her initial reaction was that I was off the trail to relieve myself. I tried to wait patiently, yet of all the days this was the one when I was scheduled to meet someone for lunch. But before I did, I wanted to walk a mile further on the trail before returning to Shepherdstown. After several mediocre shots, reluctantly, I continued to make my way to MM75.

As I approached MM74 again on my return trip, I scanned the trees for the birds. About a tenth of a mile past the mile marker, I again her the familiar cry. This time I had a better sightline, but the long lens and reduced light of an overcast day meant that the photographs were dark, grainy and not very sharp. I was running late; I took passable photographs and continued. Then, a half-a-mile farther, I heard yet another cry; two more pileateds flitted around below me this time. The lighting was good, and their colors showed well. The male fussed so much that a blue heron, which I had not seen, scuttled from the river bank behind me. Within a few minutes, the pair would dart off again, leaving me with a series of unsatisfying photographs. 

Carolina Wren

After adventures like this, I think about Dick Davenport, a character from the Doonesbury comic strip, who famously died photographing a Bachman’s warbler, a small yellow bird that became extinct sometime during the 1980s. I was an avid reader of the comic during high school and college, even purchasing several collections in books, which I read and reread. Davenport’s dying thought upon snapping the picture was that he had achieve immortality by photographing the now probably extinct bird. I have no such pretense, I am photographing fairly common birds, in highly populated areas. It is a hobby, like a collection, that gets me out in the woods for a little exercise. My photographs are a test of skill and patience; I have little hope of publication and do not suggest that there any greatness be attached. At the same time, I understand how exhilarating it must be to photograph the extremely rare.

After my walk, Lonce picked me up at the parking lot for lunch in Shepherdstown. He had moved here a few years prior and really likes the charm of the small college town. Because I had yet to visit, Lonce gave me a quick tour before lunch at a local taqueria. It was a popular local place, with great food and specialized service. The young gentleman taking our order knew Lonce by name and they conversed about local events and happenings.

In American society it is rare for males to sit down, with no business agenda, and have a chat. Lonce and I share a profession and many similar interests, and our conversation turned to books and articles, food and entertainment. The communal gathering for meals is an important aspect of human interaction. Each culture has specific customs and traditions when dining together. It is a chance to convey stories or seek advice, which are necessary to a well-rounded life. But like many things in our hyper-connected world, the simple gathering of people for meals is increasingly rare. Sometimes I must explain to students while traveling in Europe that having meals alone in from of a television is not acceptable. In many places the act of eating is essentially communal. Even our propensity to have lunch at our desks, prioritizes work over people, especially our colleagues.

My last walk of the month was on the final day of the longest federal shutdown. It was my fourth foray into a national park during the shutdown. In addition to the C&O towpath, I had also taken an afternoon walk through the battlefield at Gettysburg. Each time I walked in a national park during the shutdown, I experienced some pangs of guilt. Although there are many of us who will use the parks responsibly, it is disheartening to learn how many will not. The disturbing stories that emerged from National Parks during the government shutdown of overuse, off-roading, and, in particular, the destruction of rare Joshua trees at Joshua Tree National Park led me to question if citizens at large can be trusted with the responsibility of our common heritage. Have we come to a point where individual consumption, through the destruction of unique beauty and wilderness, is considered to be more important that our collective enjoyment? Is it necessary that natural treasures must be guarded for all from the overuse and carelessness of a few? This is why we have rangers, but the incidents seem to indicate that increased vigilance is necessary. It pains me to consider the callous disregard of nature and collective property.

I love to photograph trees set against the twilight of a winter’s day. In the winter, the light is diffuse and interesting, there are no leaves so we can see the intricacies of branches highlighted against a twilight sky. Lone trees create excellent photographs, call the viewer’s attention to the subject of an individual tree. Yet trees are part of a collective. Peter Wohlleben has argued that trees are able to communicate to one another. They show signs of intelligence; if a tree is bitten by a deer, it will send poison to the area to deter the deer from continued nibbling. If it is pruned by humans, it will send healing chemicals to where it has been cut. It appears that trees have memory, because they are able to remember long term droughts, adjusting their intake so to retain enough water in future years. It is remarkable for these majestic plants have such capabilities. Most trees have lifespans that exceed humans; a way of knowing and learning that is completely unknown from ours. Wohlleben’s work reminds me of one of my favorite animated films, Rooted (2011), which follows the lives, interaction, and love of two trees.

Although trees are majestic and awe-inspiring, a forest is not just about trees. It is the interaction of several species of plants and animals, water and weather. If we plant a field of trees that will be harvested sometime relatively soon for lumber, it is not a forest. It is the same as planting a field of corn, or wheat, to be harvested for our food supply. It is for commercial use, not a forest.

The walk, on a late Friday afternoon, was very quiet. The wind was still. Puddles of water on the trail were frozen. The river was quite high. It has been difficult to maintain my Zen approach when, while driving to the towpath, a colleague replied all to sixty people passing along erroneous information causing a minor uproar. There are things to distract us. I see another pileated woodpecker, and surprised to espy a black squirrel, an uncommon sight in this region of the country. I am always surprised by what is left on the trail. Today, after a week of the maximum temperature still not reaching freezing, I happened upon a size 44 winter coat, frozen stiff laying beside the trail. Half a mile farther away, a lone winter glove.

I finished my walk by going the third of a mile beyond Snyders Landing to MM77. I met an older couple who were walking an even more elderly dog as the sunlight faded behind the hills and trees of the West Virginia side of the river. I finished the remainder of my walk with the couple walking back to my car parked at the landing, chatting about the weather and other trivial things. We exchanged where we lived, and what we did. When I confessed my profession, the man offered one a standard reply I often get, something along the lines of, “This must be an interesting time to teach…” We confronted with the comment, I usually respond that international relations is a growth field: it is not going away anytime soon. They politely laughed at my little joke and wished me well. The woman called to me, “We hope to see you on the trail again soon!”

Downtown Austin Theaters

Paramount Theater

The Paramount Theater opened as the Majestic Theater on 11 October 1915. It was designed by the famous cinema architect John Eberson. The house was renamed the Paramount in 1930. Located at 713 Congress Avenue.

Ritz Theater

Located at 320 E Sixth Street, the Ritz opened in 1927 as an early talkie house. In later years it served as a concert venue. 

State Theater

Opened on Christmas Day 1935, screening The Bride Comes Home, with Claudette Colbert and Fred MacMurray, as its first feature. Location: 719 Congress Avenue. 

C&O Canal Licking Creek to Tonoloway Creek (Autumn)

The summer had been a bust in terms of walking the trail. An abnormal amount of rain meant the trail was frequently flooded and, worse, the standing water in the canal was a breeding ground for mosquitoes. Walking the trail during the summer was grueling: Near Dam Number 4, I clamored to make my way up a mud-covered incline, only to slide half way down. The mud had the musky odor of the river, and I kept Imagining about the likely causes of those rancid smells. The mosquitoes were so thick that, at times, I was running to avoid their bites. Once, I stopped to take a photograph of a gold finch and three mosquitoes lit on my right arm.

Because flooding had forced the NPSA to close parts of the trail, and the mosquitoes so bad in the area around the Dam Four area, I decided to postpone walks in that section and return to the towpath upstream of Williamsport. I reasoned that the canal was further away from the river in that area, therefore there would be less swampy ground and, hence, fewer mosquitoes. The fault in my logic of course, was that there were still sections of the canal with standing water that was prime breeding territory. The towpath in this section, however, is higher and there was a decreased chance of flooding. Autumn would bring a return to cool weather, walking would be more pleasant, and I would make my way to Big Pool and Hancock.

My plan only partially worked, because the rain and warm weather continued. 

In late September, I thought the heat, rain and humidity had subsided enough to make a walk on the towpath appealing. I parked at a parking lot for the Western Maryland Rail Trail, a concrete path that runs from Fort Frederick to Hancock and closely parallels the canal and towpath most of the way. The first challenge of the day was to find parking because the lot was full. I was not going to be deterred because it felt as if that for the first time in three weeks, I did not have to consider the possibility of rain while taking a walk. Many of the people on the rail trail felt the same way. Cyclists greeted me enthusiastically, expressing relief in hushed tones that a pleasant day has finally occurred. 

To access the C&O I needed walk for almost a mile on the rail trail. Just as I was leaving the parking lot to get on the trail, a man stopped short with his bike and I nearly walked into his back tire. “Dagnabbit!” he exclaimed. At first, I thought I had committed an offense. He looked at his wife, and then the source of his frustration: a flat tire. In a conspiratorial tone, he continued, “I wonder if someone let the air out!”  I was bemused that he thought anyone cared enough to play such a prank on him. I briefly considered what it must be like to live with someone who believed the world. I kept walking but took pity on his wife, who I could tell was going to hear about the incident, whatever the cause, for the rest of the day. 

The red-eyed figurine that sits at the entrance to the towpath
in Big Pool

After nine-tenths of a mile on the rail trail, Ernstville Road provides access to towpath. The small road runs along a couple of homes, several with lawn ornaments and political signs that led me to believe that some local residents do not really enjoy walkers coming close to their homes. I felt my suspicions were correct when I observed that someone had stuck a figurine, with oddly painted red eyes, on a fence post at the entrance to the trail.

On the drive I listened to an Irish radio program that briefly recounted the life of Nick Drake, a troubled artist who never knew success in his lifetime. The haunting music and lyrics to “Northern Sky,” along with the story of his struggles with depression and his subsequent suicide, created a melancholy mood for a walk. The pain that people feel, their inability to cope with the demands of life, or even their struggles with reality, stand in juxtaposition to the life I enjoy. Walking on the trail, enjoying wildlife and solitude, is evidence that I am lucky. I can explore and contemplate; it is not a luxury that everyone has. 

I watched turtles suddenly jump into the stagnant water of the canal when they sensed me coming near. Several had been sunning themselves on the numerous trees and branches that have fallen into the remains of the canal. I was amazed at how many turtles were diving for cover. It is difficult to believe that within this small body of water so many creatures lurk below the surface. There is a hidden aquatic world, obscured by murky green water. I notice the matted grass along the path as well, suggesting that many deer bed themselves here during the night. Walking through this area in October, there are several corncobs on the path. Deer have snatched a meal from the cornfield that is now brown. When I walk this way again in December, prints of deer hoofs are aplenty on the path. Yet, it is unlikely that I will see any deer at this time of day. It is the unseen world of the towpath, one that many people never glimpse, let alone see.

The Tuscarora Trail at MM117

The Tuscarora Trail, a 252-mile side hiking trail of the Appalachian Trail, intersects with the towpath near MM117. The Tuscarora runs from Pennsylvania, through Maryland and West Virginia, to Shenandoah National Park in Virginia. It was created in the 1960s when it looked as if the Appalachian Trail was in danger of being encroached upon by development. At first, the Tuscarora was proposed as a new route for the AT, further west than its current path, to save the wilderness trail for future generations. After the threat to the AT subsided, the Tuscarora has been created as an alternative, standalone trail. 

I decided to take a quick look at the trail, which is quite close to the interstate. Just about a hundred feet from the C&O was a remote dead-end road that I reckoned could serve as parking for access during my next walk. When I returned home that night, I deduced how to return to the remote road with my car but ii was a road with no name according to Google. A week later, when I returned with Angie, I found the turnoff to the road from US 40 at the foot of the bridge that crosses Licking Creek. A single street sign indicated that the name of the road was Mile Marker Lane. 

Mystery cemetery on Mile Marker Lane

One mystery solved, but another discovered: About halfway down the half-mile road, a cemetery is wedge between the road and the Western Maryland Rail Trail with no indication of name or upkeep. Once again, I consulted the internet to find a history or story behind cemetery, but my searches suggested that it was a mystery cemetery, literally so listed by Google. What in photographs looks like a quiet, remote, and perhaps abandoned, cemetery is, in reality, a noisy strip of land, commemorating a handful of people, facing the constant barrage of cars and trucks passing on the interstate. What small community was destroyed, which was vibrant enough to build this cemetery but small enough to make way for the interstate? 

On the way home, I stopped by Ernst Country Market for a quick snack that would serve as an ersatz lunch. The line at the deli counter was very long, and I opted for a small container of pimento cheese and crackers to hold me over for the trip home. The topic everyone was discussing in the market was the high water on the Potomac and surrounding streams. As I was driving from Big Pool to the market on Maryland Route 56, small rivulets of water were draining across the road. A man in shorts and a t-shirt was discussing the level of the Potomac with a Mennonite man and his wife, both traditionally dressed, saying that the logjam along with a lot of trash and debris was causing problems on the Potomac in Williamsport. The Mennonite couple politely listed to the story but did not seem as interested as the man conveying it.

The towpath in October

One would expect that by early October that the temperature would have subsided, and the leaves would have begun to fall. But this October, the trail remained remarkably green. Mosquitoes remained an irritant, especially at places where here was significant standing water, which, because of the excessive rain, was everywhere. Music from the Sleep Creek HarFest, on the West Virginia side of the Potomac, carried quite well across the water and offered noisy competition to the traffic of the interstate. If peace, quiet, and the gentle sound of nature were the goal, this was neither the place nor the time. 

Around the Licking Creek area, Interstate 70 is very close. The interstate parallels the canal for the next seven miles or so, until just before both reach Hancock. It can be deafening loud as a steady stream of trucks and cars pass. Most are in excess of the 70-mile-per-hour speed limit. Yet, at the same time, there is a sense of isolation. On two walks in early December in this area, both over seven miles long, I did not see a single person on the trail. With the leaves gone from the trees, I could stand and count cars go by. Despite my relative closeness, all the vehicles were completely oblivious to me. Radios, audiobooks, conversations in the car, or phone calls kept each person from paying any attention to those of us who may be near. Pedestrians are not supposed to be anywhere near the highway and, therefore, no one sees us unless we are right on the road. The interstate is a major east-west artery that runs from Baltimore to Cove City, Utah, a total of 2,150 miles. I stand and watch the cars and trucks go by for a few minutes. I suspect that many of the car are taking people on distance journeys for the holidays. The trucks are carrying goods from one part of the country to another, just as the canal had once done in the 19th century. The population of the United States in 1830, about the time of the beginning of the operation of the canal was 12.8 million people. Today, it is well in excess of 325 million. Watching the stream of cars go by, I feel both crowded and in solitude. 

I think about the tradeoff walking on this section of the trail. Are the health benefits of walking being canceled out by the amount of air pollution I am consuming by walking this close to the interstate? I try not to think about all the carcinogens that I am breathing in. In high school, one day after practice, I was waiting for a city bus. A woman who I would have classified as “kooky,” struck up a conversation with me. In my mind’s eye, she wore a white sundress, and a rain coat, despite it being a sunny afternoon. She utilized an umbrella and discussed some of her pet theories as we waited for our respective buses. I do not remember the specifics of the conversation, but what I vividly recall is when a through bus went by, in mid-sentence, she ran around the corner at 4th and Winkler until the bus had passed. I must have had a surprise on my face when she returned because she immediately started explaining that she was getting away from the exhaust of the bus. Her impulses were probably correct, but her methods likely flawed. The incident was a source of merriment at the dinner table that night. All these years later, that little episode has stayed with me. I thought of her again, standing there on the trail, but knew it was pointless to run and hide behind one of the big sycamore trees. There is no escape from the invisible, odorless pollution I am ingesting.

I enjoy the tactile sound of frozen mud crunching beneath my boots. I am not sure why, but there is something satisfying about the sound and feeling. I am reminded that John Clare, the 19th century peasant poet from Helpston, England and wrote extensively about nature, used the local dialect word crumping in this poetry, which simply refers to the sound a foot makes while walking on fresh snow.

A thin layer of ice developed on the near side of Little Pool the week before Christmas. The sun, hanging low in the sky, had yet to melt the ice because of the long shadows provided by the trees. I stopped and watched an otter just beyond the ice fish for about five minutes. I watched him repeatedly dive headfirst under the water, so that its sleek dark body was briefly visible above the waterline. His dark silky fur, and muscular body, reminded me of Pip doing a somersault onto the carpet so that I can pet his belly. The otter watches me but does not see me as a threat. He successfully caught at least four fish as I watched, and he watched me as he ate his breakfast. 

Near the Visitor’s Center in Hancock, I startled a blue heron and a squirrel within a minute of each other. I feel bad when I do this. My intention is not to disturb the animals, but inevitably I do. Because I was walking on a Tuesday, during the latter days of December, I am positive that fewer people have been hiking though this section in recent weeks. I anthropomorphize the local wildlife, thinking to myself, they must be asking, “Why can’t humans hike on the weekends and leave us be during the week?” 

On Boxing Day, while others were shopping and returning presents, I finished the section of the towpath between Licking Creek and Tonoloway Creek. Despite work, weather, commitments, and flooding all conspiring to prevent me from more frequent walks on the C&O, I have a sense that I am now committed to walking the entire towpath. But my route will be circuitous. I am on the doorstep of Hancock, the northern most point of the canal. The towpath becomes more remote as it moves further west. I have another 60-odd miles to get to Cumberland, and about another 80 miles to complete downstream. 

Eating in Pittsburgh

Ham and Cheese Sandwich, fries included, at Primanti

Travelling to Pittsburgh usually means either hockey or a Dickens Fellowship meeting, sometimes both. After a hockey game, a late-night meal usually constitutes one of a handful of local eateries but most frequently Primanti Bros., where sandwiches come with grilled meat, cheese, vinegar coleslaw, tomatoes, and fries between the slices of bread. Legend has it that the sandwich was invented for steel workers in the Strip District of Pittsburgh, so they could be easily purchased and consumed during a short lunch break.

Sunday morning is an iconic time to have breakfast. It is often a time when families and friends gather and share a morning meal as a celebration of the weekend and a day of leisure and distraction. Conversations at Eggs N’at in Moon Township revolved around the Steelers, their late afternoon game against New England, and the indeterminate prospects for the playoffs. Andrew and I waited for about twenty minutes for a table in the small restaurant that crammed seven tables and a counter that seats eight people into a confined space. Nonetheless, no one seemed to mind the wait. Album covers from the 1970s and 1980s, such Duran Duran’s Seven and the ragged Tiger and U2’s War, decorate the walls. Culinary delights such as rum raisin French toast, breakfast pizzas, and specialty pancakes, tempt even the most fatigued diner.

Eggs N'at on a Sunday morning 

There is an easy conversation between the staff and patrons at Eggs N’at. In typical Pittsburgh fashion, we are greeted with, “Yinz want some coffee?” I observed the other patrons as we wait for our food; most were wearing black and gold, several were consulting their phone for updates of one kind or another. The general din of conversation was interrupted when one of the servers hung up her phone and began complaining about the caller on the other line. He started the conversation, she said, with “Hey, Lady, what kind of pancakes you got?” A story repeated for emphasis, which elicited bemusement both times.

Thinking about Montreal

Montreal is a hip town, where even a house band in the local brew pub sounds cool while singing, “A Few of My Favorite Things” in French. Although it is a wonderful city in the summer, it is more appropriate to explore Vieux Montreal with a chill in the air and a bracing wind. It puts us in the moment; I am aware of my surroundings and the warmth each building potentially provides. I made my way to a local brew pub, where the beer was rated as excellent and the ambiance was inviting.

Sitting near the bar at a high-top table, I watch people enjoy the evening, good beer, and interesting food. Between my poor French and the loud background noise, I could only understand about ten percent of the conversations around me, but I can deduce what is going on. Two young men at the table next to me discuss their frustration at work; while a couple behind me are on a date, peppering each other a series of questions.

It is the second week in November and the late fall is making its impact felt as a light and persistent rain changes over to snow shortly after sundown. With sunset at 4:30 in the afternoon, a 7:30 dinner feels like a late-night supper. I enjoyed my light dinner and the drafted beer so much, a few nights later I cajoled Kevan into accepting a Saturday dinner invitation at the Bistro-Brasserie Les Soeurs Grises. I had a pint of the Appât-Si-Noir before we had dinner and duck carpaccio as an appetizer. As we chatted, I noted the television behind the bar each had different hockey games. People would occasionally steal a glance to keep themselves updated on the games that mattered.

When I returned to the hotel after dinner, I rode the elevator with two guys, dressed in complete fan attire, who just came from the Canadiens game. I asked about the game, and they recounted with great detail the exploits and highlights of the game. I mentioned I had been to the game Thursday night and I spent the rest of the elevator ride recounting my experiences.

It has been fourteen years since I attended my last baseball game at Olympic stadium. Yet, there is a deep imprint the Expos has left on the city. Youppi, the team mascot transferred to the Canadiens and you can by a costume at the team store. Also available are Expos T-shirts, jerseys and baseball cards. One might even imagine that the team never left, and was never having trouble drawing any fans to the games.

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