One night, two sunsets - orange then pink. My summary of our 32-hour respite up the Hudson in Rhinecliff. Benedicta and I cashed in on comp Amtrak tickets to manage a recession-lite weekend in the country.
We stepped off the train and marveled at the chunky-crusted frozen layer of ice covering the Hudson. The chunks were thick and jagged with the residue of crashing and thawing, reshaping and resettling. As a barge plied its prow upriver, crunching through the cracks, I understood how the ice had been thrown into such dazzling disarray.
We sat silently for awhile listening to lower layers shifting and throbbing with occasional crashes, which I imagined to be miniscule examples of glacial calving, before taking a quick turn around town prior to landing at The Rhinecliff, the only commercial venue in town other than China Rose, an upscale Chinese Restaurant, and a closed-for-the-season antique shop.
After a scrumptious lunch we settled in on our third-floor balcony. As I labored through the NYT Sunday crossword Benedicta wondered aloud, "Either that's moving or I'm having an Assam tea rush." Indeed, a football field size block of ice had broken away and its float downstream kept us riveted to the river until the sun went down.
We woke to snow on Sunday and headed downstairs for our full English breakfast before setting off on a trek to Rhinebeck. (The Inn was recently renovated by Englishmen so the menu is peppered with homeland touches such as black pudding. We enjoyed lunch and two dinners there and everything was superb, including the Niman Ranch steak that was so tender I cut it with my butter knife.)
There's not much going on in Rhinecliff, other than the hourly arrival of passenger trains, and the occasional freight which when barreling through at 3am creates quite a fright! The Inn is attempting to become a destination with a Jazz brunch, tasting menus and when we were in town preparations were being made for a red-carpet Academy Awards fest that brought locals out in their rhinestones and heels.
We spent the afternoon walking up, then down, the two mile stretch to Rhinebeck, known in Rhinecliff as "town" and home to The Omega Institute which adds a yogaish, newagey feel to the historic town centered around the Beekman Arms, which touts itself as the oldest Inn in America. I was glad to have my red umbrella to fend off scary cars speeding along the slippery road.
And here's sunset number two! Pink and billowy to send us on our way home to our little iceless slice of the Hudson.
Fireworks always remind me of driving to Okmulgee with my grandparents and brother to watch the 4th of July splendor. In my mind this is what we did every summer - a way I suppose of imagining sameness in my scattered tradition-less childhood. I love the 25 minute or so miracle in the sky that quiets chatter and commands awe. Okmulgee's a little far now so I only get to fireworks when they're near and hassle-free. 2009 was our year! With the fireworks staged on the Hudson in honor of the 400th year since its discovery by Henry Hudson, we were impelled to make the three-block trek.
With a little pluck, we managed to score a spot right on the riverfront. A posse of police informed us our little oasis would be under lockdown - no entry/no exit - and we gladly plopped down and began to nosh on our picnic snacks and await the night sky.
The first sign of festivity was ushered in with a water display by the fireboats against the backdrop of the sun setting over New Jersey. Then the Macy's barges came marching in: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6. All evenly spread before us.
At the stroke of 9:20 the lights came up: red, white, blue with touches of green, yellow and orange. "U.S.A." was shouted by the vodka-primed spectators behind us, patriotically punctuating the ooooh/ahhhhh spectacle of the sextet of synchronized dancing sparkles.
