In NYC the season has begun for outside dining. Many people wonder what allure street dining has in Manhattan amongst the crowds, noise, fume spewing trucks, dogs and homeless walking by, etc. I once saw a cartoon in the New Yorker that pictured a family eating at an outside cafe and the mother admonishing the children: "Hurry up and eat before your food gets dirty." Yet I am one of those who would rather wait for an outside table than be seated immediately inside.
If you remember the picture I painted of dining next to the waterfall in the canyon, or with the waterfall on one side and the valley and mountains to the other, forget them. Where I ate today is where the gods would have their lunch. Of course there was the stream, and the thick verdant forest. But in the stream were boulders, the size of horses, and rhinos, and elephants, and all sizes and shapes in between. The water poured over, and around, and under, and roared like a train, and so overwhelmed all other sounds as to instill a peace in that valley. Those boulders were millions, if nor tens or hundreds of millions of years old. (The oldest rocks in the park are 1.2 BILLION years old.) And on a dead tree was a scarlet tanager, so common, yet so seldom seen.
I climbed one of the boulders and sat on it dining like royalty, or a god. Not a bad table for one.
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