Downtown Doo Doo Brown

Manhattan in the summer. Dark rain clouds hover overhead. But nothing falls. It just remains miserably hot and sticky, like the best of Louisiana. Our backs start to get slippery, the fabric of our shirts stick to our skin, as we enter the big city with our hiking packs on, carrying all that we’ll need for the week. This time, cooking pots and flashlights and survival gear get replaced by fancy shirts and extra pairs of shoes and designer jeans. New York City style. So far so good. Our host, Virginia, has a quaint little studio apartment in the middle of it all. There’s just enough room for our sleeping arrangements - her queenly bed, a pull-out bed from the couch and a folding floor mattress. The once hardwood floor is just a mattress floor now, a carpet of blankets and pillows and sleeping bags and such. Outside the world is alive. Down the street there is a donut pub, a 24-hour porn store and a host of other eateries and bars. The entertainment is endless. Our friends are wonderful. There are museums to see, theater to watch, restaurants to taste and a load of other adventures we are going to have to pack into the course of this one week. Poor Cedars, out in the countryside of New Jersey. He doesn’t know what he’s missing.