Amish Bicycle

It's funny the things you take for granted. Or, conversely, it's funny how much more observant you become when you've reached a point where you won't be observing the things you're observing for much longer. Allow me to explain.

Michele and the kids were away this weekend, so I thought I'd take a drive out to Lancaster to blow that Banana Republic gift certificate that's been burning a hole in my pocket since Christmas. The shopping was a bust - they simply don't have jeans in my size in the outlet, though if I were 4'6" and 350 lbs, I'd have had no problem. Oddly, many of the people shopping at the outlet fit this description, so you'd think the stock of 46x28's would have been more depleted than it was.

Despite the fact that I still haven't spent the GC, the trip wasn't entirely a waste, because I DID get to sample some of the finest diner cuisine this side of the Mississippi. On the way, I got a little hungry, so I stopped at Jennie's Diner, on the Lincoln Highway just outside of Lancaster. No yuppified remake here - this place is an authentic 1950's chrome and coral gem, serving genuine artery-clogging diner grub and staffed by appropriately gruff waitresses in grease-spattered aprons. They have a real jukebox, red vinyl stools at the counter, and a 'We do not have a non smoking section!' sign on the door. They don't take credit cards, they don't give you a straw unless you ask, and God help you if you try to order something in any way other than how it's printed on the menu.

I took a seat at the silver speckled Formica counter between a rotund prematurely grey man with porcine eyes, a vanilla milkshake and a thick German accent, and a biker with a voice like sandpaper who claimed not to have slept in 26 hours because he "had some business to take care of." I tried to imagine what sort of business might require someone to stay awake for more than a day, concluding that it involved either transportation of a large quantity of crystal meth or a hasty burial, or possibly both.

My grilled cheese with tomato and bacon was gorgeous - toasty brown with a generous helping of smoky bacon and a side of crispy golden fries. It was refreshing in that it came without apologies for its unheathy-ness, and didn't try to hide its true nature behind a facade of faux-healthy 37 grain bread.

In short, it was the sort of gustatorial experience one can only have in a real diner, on a real old highway, in a real part of the country. I loved every minute of it, even as the biker chain smoked Newports and complained to no one in particular about Yuppies who ride on the weekends. As I was wearing a pink shirt, I was fairly certain he didn't think I fell into that category. This was a slice of Americana I certainly wouldn't get anywhere but here.

On the way home, I saw an Amish girl riding what can only be described as a cross between an old bicycle and a Razr scooter. It's basically a bike with a low platform instead of a seat, that's powered by the rider pushing the ground with her leg. It not only looked uncomfortable and difficult to ride, it also looked like a lot more work than it was worth, since I would think that it would take more effort to push the thing uphill than just walking.

Point is, I probably wouldn't have noticed any of these things - the food, the people, the Amish bicycle - but for the fact that I know I'll be leaving them all behind soon. We seem to develop heightened powers of observation when we know in advance that something is about to end. I can still remember, for example, how the air felt during my last days at college, and I'm sure I'll remember how the air feels, or the tree frogs sound as I write this by the open window.

Unprompted, Caroline told me tonight that she's scared about moving to London. I thought it was really courageous of her to come right out and tell me. Well, maybe not courageous, but certainly self-aware; much more so than I was at that age. Hell, more so than I am now. She's afraid because she's going to miss her friends, she says. I tried to reassure her by telling her that she'll be able to stay in touch with her current friends and that she'll get to make new ones, too. I told her that I'm scared too, because I am. And that I'll miss my friends, and that Mommy will miss hers, too. I told her that the thing that helps me do it even though I'm scared is knowing that she and Michael and Mommy will be there with me. I don't know if any of this helped her, though I hope it did. But I really hope that what she remembers with her own heightened powers of observation is that her Daddy was always there when she needed someone to listen to her.