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New York, Act 3, Scene 1

March 11, 2013

Sunday morning is cold, windy and sunny. Busses with Ohio license plates line the street across from the Hilton, empty and waiting, big and clean, white and green, the simplicity of the Buckeye State. Kevin will be returning to Oberlin with the orchestra, bleary eyed after a night of celebration, spirits enlarged by the places they’ve been and the things they have seen.

The near-by Europa Cafe to which we are heading is continental in atmosphere, aroma and menu. Smell dark French roast coffee, pastry, muffins and see scrambled eggs with ham piled high in custard cups, then upended onto heavy white platters.

The local Presbyterian Church is forbidding. As we passed by yesterday, I read the notice prohibiting sleeping on the steps. Like, really, who could sleep on the dirty, cold, stone concrete entry? Where were the homeless shelters for those who need them? Has my church become inhospitable, homophobic and unchristian? I took umbrage, but perhaps there are extenuating circumstances and easily found shelters in New York City.

“We can get tickets for the World Trade Center Memorial,” Beth announced. “Tim and I called yesterday to reserve four tickets.”

“I didn’t know you needed tickets.”

“They’re free, but they try to limit the number of tourists, so they limit the number of tickets.”

“We will pick them up at the visitor’s center,” said Tim. “There’s a video and you can buy souvenirs there if you want them.”

John shook his head. “No way,” he said, glaring at me.

“Just a little key chain, refrigerator magnet, or pencil,” I wheedled, and he sighed.

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