The journal of a hopeless romantic…

Oftentimes I am not the most practical person.  I have always been a little bit of a daydreamer; an idealist floating in the esoteric world that exists on the fringes or reality and the edges of dreams. While I can often take an insult with a smile, when I feel justice or principle are slighted I “rage, rage” like the protagonist of a Dylan Thomas poem.  I am a defender of truth and beauty, a modern day John Keats, and more than a little bit of an anachronism.

I am leery of technology.  I don’t like the disconnect.  Sitting on a crowded subway with everyone engaged in their own private Ipod communion has always freaked me out.  No smiles are exchanged, no conversations, and no community.  We are purposely isolating ourselves, slipping into solipsistic sanctuary, with no regard for the world or people.

I prefer the energy instead, of a semi-busy cafe or bar.  While I may be reading, enjoying some oysters and a glass of sancerre, I always leave the seat next to me open as an invitation.  I want to talk to you, and I am eager to listen.  I enjoy the  exchange of opinions in the best traditions of cafe culture.  I love any gathering of wizened old men arguing on any topic from sports to politics to who makes the best braciole or pours the best Guinness.  I love having maybe one more drink than I should have as I join the fray.  I love the eventual singing of patriotic anthems and folk songs that inevitably follows.

I prefer to walk everywhere.  I haven’t had a car in four years, and I can honestly say I don’t miss it.  I get around just fine, and walking is probably the only thing that stands between me and morbid obesity.  Walking slows the world down; it has to, as I don’t walk that fast.  Walking gives you time to pick up a luck penny from the ground, and to examine facets of architecture you may not have otherwise noticed.  You discover small businesses you never knew existed, and hidden shortcuts and alleyways.  You can also make eye contact as you walk.  Smile and exchange pleasantries.  It is good for the body and the soul.  For those who have never walked from Battery Park to Central Park I highly recommend it.  To see the sundry neighborhoods of New York City unfold like a treasure map is to understand more about the city than any history book could ever teach you; that is if you know what to look for.

I prefer a book to television.  If the TV is on at my house it is invariably Sportscenter, CNN, or background noise.  When I am serious, I read.  Upon visiting a new city, one of the first things I do is find a perfect bookstore, intimate, with a well-thought out selection.  In NYC, it is Three Lives Booksellers (and Kitchen Arts and Letters for all things culinary), in Boston it is the Harvard Bookstore, and in New Orleans it is Faulkner House Booksellers.  A good bookstore has a certain smell, and a certain tempo.  It is paper and ink and a certain mustiness that says knowledge contained within these walls and pages.  It is adagio in an allegro world.  A quiet symphony of thoughts.  It is a place that lowers my blood pressure and raises my spirits, and I shiver to think that one day it is a place that may no longer be as people increasingly read on electronic media.

I have accepted, grudgingly, some of the features of modernity.  That gaslights are indeed impractical and somewhat dangerous; that wine may actually taste better from a corkless bottle; that induction cooking is probably better for the planet and the pans than gas ever could be.  Yet I will not stand for the old ways to be completely set aside, a discarded relative sent to a nursing home.  No one will ever convince me that dinner in a restaurant is better than a home-cooked meal; that non-stick is better than cast iron; that sous-vide cooking is better than a well executed braise; that making money is more important than making friends; that responsibilities to the company ever come before family; that a day at the ballpark isn’t it’s own perfection… and I could go on, because a hopeless romantic always can… and I can accept that.

Now I think I’ll disconnect for the day and go for a walk.  I have just enough time to walk from Battery Park to Central Park if I do it right… if I “rage, rage, against the dying of the light.”

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