We are in Harlem.
At least, I am back in Harlem after leading an early fall foraging walk in Brooklyn. And the Frenchman is delivering a Ziptruck back to Brooklyn, after fetching the balance of the terrace pots and delivering them here, to West 127th Street, our new digs.
The next block over is called Langston Hughes Place, and as I type (on my phone - slight cable mishap this morning) I can hear 1. A dog that sounds like six jackals having a fight, on the sidewalk, and 2. A saxophone streaming through an open window.
Also (3.) our new fridge, which is noisy, and which last night held an ice bucket of prosecco and two chilled flutes, from our landlord, Graham.
There is a lot to absorb and process, and more to do. New sounds, our own - the floor is old and creaks - and those of our new neighbors. An anxious kitty who miaowed all night and who slinks around staring fearfully up at the three ceiling fans. Endless boxes and utter disorganization.
So I should get started.