Change of Pace

Traveling by bicycle provides ample time for observation and reflection, and affords contact with a rich panoply of individuals that alas, a car immediately denies you. That satisfying “cha-hungk” of the driver’s side door, so carefully considered by car manufacturers, seals you like Tupperware behind the windshield, whether your top is up or down. It is the secret source, I suspect, of that peculiarly American shallow over-friendliness, a sure sign of isolation.

We are in a lime green Saab convertible traveling typically between 60 and 90 Miles per hour, a speed friendly to feline wildlife found not at all on this continent, and to fellow citizens in air conditioned Continentals. It lends itself not at all to casual contact.

We will see what we can nevertheless, even if it ends up a mere flip book of shots through the windshield, and I will rely a little more on what others have written: Bernard-Henri Levy with his peculiarly French musings on everything American, (American Vertigo, c2007, Random House), and Michael Eric Dyson on New Orleans leached of its poor (Come Hell or High Water: Hurricane Katrina and the Color of Disaster, c2007, Basic Civitas).

New York, United States