I've been to New York dozens of times so I don't feel like I'm a tourist. But I don't actually live in New York so that means I am. That in mind, I did my own version of the tourist experience the past four days as I wandered the city.
I was in town for a number of very good reasons: lunch with my agent, speech at the Harvard Club, USATF Foundation Board meeting, Millrose Games track meet, and an after-party. There was a lot of downtime built in so I made this a vacation of sorts….
Just back from Malta.
I really didn't want to go. Malta is impossible to reach from LA. It's a small island off the southern coast of Sicily. I met up for business with a few friends from New York. Malta is a wonderful destination, almost unknown to Americans. European tourists were everywhere. The ground is hilly like San Francisco and my runs were slow enough that I didn't want to post them on Strava. But in deviating from the main streets and into the alleys I found character and history I will long remember.
It has been a week, my people.
The moment I realized things were getting under my skin came on Thursday evening, as I tried to park for the Springsteen show at the Forum. I went to the wrong entrance and was instructed to turn around and go back down the street to an entirely different lot. Traffic was coming from both directions. I had no choice but to make a very illegal u-turn.
It's raining.
The good kind of raining where I make a fire, move my laptop to a table by the dining room window so I can watch the storm, and bundle up in cozy clothing. I went to bed adamant that my distance runners would have morning practice, rain or shine. But when I got up at five and saw the dark and wet, that felt a little obsessive. We can make up the miles some other time. I sent out a text canceling the workout and got back into bed, pulled up the comforter, and slept until eight.
I'm sitting in the cafe at the National Portrait Gallery, just across from St. Martin's in London. Coffee, loud conversation, wooden chairs sliding on a polished floor. Calene is somewhere in the second floor galleries as I sip my sparkling water and protect the seat I saved for her. The fight for tables and chairs is intense in this small public space and I am doing my best to ignore the glances of those in the very long line for sweets and coffee who are currently formulating their seating strategy.
Flying home from Oahu.
I'm on the aisle. Callie has the window, eyes closed, wrapped in a blue United blanket. Somewhere in my carry-on is the notebook I bought in Edinburgh ten or so years ago. I can't remember which book I was researching. Might have been Killing Kennedy, but it was definitely a Killing book. Between 2010 and 2020 I didn't write anything else.
If I were in the Netherlands right now, as I thought I might be this weekend, I would be driving my rental car back to Brussels from a venue known as Megaland in the Netherlands. It's right next to Aachen, the first portal into Germany for the US Army in 1945. My ears would be ringing from a Bruce Springsteen show almost four hours in length. The euphoria would linger.
