27 May – An Ocean Apart

When I was little, I was one of those children who believed that when spending the day at the beach, the only things that came between you and a mini-break to China were a sturdy plastic spade and patience.  As patience has never been my gift, I didn’t make it to China, yet found no flaw in the theory. 

There is in Boston an entrance to the Masspike.  It’s a tunnel near Copley and says “New York City”.  I would stare with longing at this tunnel, assuming that one could speed through it and emerge a Muppet-Show* or two later in my future home, vs. the 4-5 hours it actually takes.

This weekend I found my kindred spirit – or at least the resultant instrument of said kindred spirit.  It’s called The Telectroscope.  It’s this Jules Verne-y object, with ends protruding from the Brooklyn side of the Brooklyn Bridge and in front of London’s City Hall by Tower Bridge.  You look into the barrel, and waving back at you are the smiling faces of your counterparts in the other city.  Thus, with two friends in a blustery, soggy London, I able to wave to and smile and jump up and down at my friends in a sun-drenched New York.  It was wonderful to see them, but bittersweet, as my heart grew a bit heavy with longing to join them, five hours earlier into their Memorial Day, with brunch and barbecues still in the offing.   We spoke with them on the phone, and when I passed the phone back to Harald, I continued speaking into the tube as if they were 10 feet away.  When the flaw in this plan was pointed out, it was followed with, well you’re kinda loud, so maybe.  This was followed with a glare.

The line began to grow, and the keepers of the Telectroscope gently moved us along.  There were too many more waiting to see into the future, or the past, and so we waved goodbye.

I now know what I would see in Harry Potter’s Mirror of Erised, because there they were in front of me, but like that mirror, we see our wish and not what’s real, and that’s a lot to learn from a roadside attraction.

***

*You don’t want me on a car trip in the states.  I get so fidgety that if someone had the inclination and the skill to harness the energy I begin to emit from one hour into the journey, we’d save a fortune on petrol.

When I was younger, for some reason, I related time on the now out-of-favor Muppet Show scale.  “How many Muppet shows to Grammy and Grampy’s?” – An acceptable 1.  “How many Muppet Shows to Allentown” – 14.  Unacceptable and so painful that part of my juvenile soul still languishes in the backseat of a Olds Delta 88 named Frogger, ** dulled by the monotonous gray highways and the blinking neon beacons beckoning us in hope that we would be tempted off our path by a Happy Meal.  And add a Muppet Show to the tally – I think not!

**Whom, as he aged, was redubbed Croaker.

Pictures by the lovely and talented Heather

Pictures by the handsome and talented Adam