#trolley museum of new york

[1863-project]

hi! i recently went to visit NYC with my friend (it was fun!! veeery crowded but fun) and she mentioned that 1) there are a lot of abandoned rail lines around NYC, some of which have been reopened and 2) there's apparently an event in grand central where they put a lot of the old trains out on display???

i didn't have time but i'd love to check both of those out if i ever visit again - i was wondering if you knew any more about them? + also if you have any other recommendations for what else to see around the city 👉👈 tysm!!!

Hey, I'm so glad you had a great time in my city! NYC is really a wonderful place, even though we're packed like sardines in here.

There are definitely a lot of rail lines that aren't currently in use in and around NYC, as well as some that are only used for freight. We used to be a pretty dense railroad hub (before cars fully took over). The proposed Interborough Express would run on the Bay Ridge Branch of the LIRR, which hasn't carried passengers since 1924 and has been exclusively used for freight since. If you go into neighborhoods that once contained shipping warehouses, like Industry City in Brooklyn, you can find railroad infrastructure if you know where to look still. A bit further afield, they're looking to hopefully someday return rail service to the Delaware, Lackawanna and Western's old Lackawanna Cutoff, which would allow New Jersey Transit trains to go non-stop between Hoboken, New Jersey and Scranton, Pennsylvania. And of course, we have a myriad of abandoned subway stations, which you can look for as you pass through on your way to other destinations! (City Hall is the one I recommend trying to see the most - just stay on the 6 Train until it loops around after its last stop and you'll pass through as it gets set up to go back uptown. Or you can become a member of the New York Transit Museum and go on a tour, like I did.)

Actually, visiting the aforementioned New York Transit Museum makes getting into an abandoned station easy as pie. You pay $10 to get in and you're in the old Court Street Station. If you like trains (or trolleys or busses!) on any level I highly recommend it.

RE: Grand Central, that was an old event done for National Train Day, and I don't know if they still do it but it would generally be in early May if they bring it back. I know they've been known to roll out the Hickory Creek for that - it's an observation car that used to be on the 20th Century Limited, the New York Central's flagship service between NYC and Chicago. The Hickory Creek is maintained by the United Railroad Historical Society of New Jersey and it tends to be in their yard in Boonton, NJ when it's not running on private charters.

For other recommendations - oh my God, if you haven't been to the American Museum of Natural History, you have to go. It's my favorite place in the entire world. I'll also recommend the Bronx Zoo, the Wildlife Conservation Society's headquarters, as they do a lot of work towards the conservation of endangered species and education. If you like baseball, Citi Field (where my useless Mets play) has significantly better food options than Yankee Stadium, and I'm not saying this out of bias - Yankees fans agree with me.

Avoid Times Square. It may be geared towards tourists, but everyone who actually lives here hates it because it's too crowded and you can't get where you're trying to go. If you really have to go to Raising Cane's or Junior's Cheesecake there are locations in Brooklyn that are so much less crowded.

If you have questions on anything specific I'm happy to help! I love sharing my city with other people!

[public-transportation-tournament]

Round 1!

The TCAT, Tompkins County, NY, USA vs Seattle Center Monorail, Seattle, WA, USA

M1 (or Millennium Underground Railway, but also known as "the small underground" by locals), Budapest, Hungary vs Grande Recife, Recife, Brazil

London Underground, Greater London, England vs Rotterdam Metro, Rotterdam, Netherlands

Beamish Tramway, Beamish Museum, Beamish, England vs Catbus/Nekobus, Sayama Hills, Saitama Prefecture, Japan (My Neighbor Totoro)

The New York City Subway system, New York City, NY, USA vs Corviknight Flying Taxi, Galar (Pokémon Sword and Shield)

Buenos Aires Underground (Subte), Autonomous City of Buenos Aires, Argentina vs Monte Toboggan, Funchal, Madeira, Portugal

The Stargate Network, throughout the Milky Way and Andromeda Galaxies (the Stargate franchise) vs the Deepsea Metro, Inkopolis Bay (Splatoon)

CAT, Perth, Western Australia vs SkyTrain, Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada

Brolly Rail, Nevermoor (Nevermoor by Jessica Townsend) vs Métro Ligne 4, Paris, France

Tyne and Wear Metro, Tyne and Wear, United Kingdom vs the REM, Montreal, Quebec, Canada (upcoming)

Jeepney, the Philippines vs Sea Train, Water 7, connecting it with St. Poplar, San Faldo, and Pucci, as well as the Judicial Island Enies Lobby (One Piece)

The MTR, Hong Kong, PRC vs the Omnibus, New York, NY, USA (1832)

SeaBus, Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada vs Wuppertaler Schwebebahn, Wuppertal, Germany

Ice Highway, the Nether Roof (Minecraft) vs Battle Subway, Unova (Pokémon Black and White)

WY Metro, West Yorkshire, United Kingdom vs Tunnelbana, Stockholm, Sweden

MRT (Moda Raya Terpadu/Mass Rapid Transit), Jakarta, Indonesia vs An Luas, Dublin, Ireland

RIPTA (Rhode Island public transit authority) (it’s buses), Rhode Island, USA vs Bakerloo Line, London Underground, London, England

Mount Vesuvius Funicular Railway, Mount Vesuvius, Italy (opened in 1880, destroyed by volcanic eruption in 1944) vs AquaBus, Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada

Yarra Trams, Melbourne, Victoria, Australia vs SEPTA (southeast pennsylvania transportation authority), Pennsylvania, United States

Cable Cars, San Francisco, California, United States vs MAX Light Rail system, Portland, Oregon, United States

Amtrak, United States vs Fenelon Place Elevator, Dubuque, Iowa, United States

Ninky Nonk, Night Garden (In The Night Garden) vs Prague Metro, Prague, Czech Republic

Polar Bear Express, between Cochrane and Moosonee, Ontario, Canada vs the Crosstown Express, Robot City (Robots (2005))

Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority (the T), Greater Boston, Massachusetts, United States vs Worcester Regional Transit Authority, Worcester County, Massachusetts, United States

Kakola Funicular, Turku, Finland vs Angkutan Kota (Angkot), Indonesia

Galaxy Railways, the Milky Way (The Galaxy Railways (銀河鉄道物語, Ginga Tetsudō Monogatari)) vs The Ride, Ann Arbor, Michigan, United States

MST Trolley, Monterey, California, United States vs People Mover, Magic Kingdom, Walt Disney World, Florida, United States

Public Transit Victoria, Victoria, Australia vs Carmelit, Haifa, Israel

The L, Chicago, Illinois, United States vs Leadhills and Wanlockhead Railway, South Lanarkshire, Scotland

Personal Rapid Transit (PRT), Morgantown, West Virginia vs Helsingin seudun liikenne/Helsingforsregionens trafik/Helsinki Regional Transport, Helsinki, Finland

Gondolas, Venice, Italy vs the Trolley from the Trolley Problem (Philippa Foot came up with it originally, but in media it was also presented in "the good place")

Zahnradbahn Stuttgart (die Zacke), Stuttgart (Marienplatz to Degerloch), Baden-Württemberg, Germany vs Detroit People Mover, Detroit, Michigan, United States

Warp Pipes (Super Mario Bros.) vs SCMaglev, Yamanashi, Japan

Transport Canberra Bus Network, Canberra, Australia vs Stagways, Hallownest (Hollow Knight)

Roosevelt Island Tram, Roosevelt Island, New York, NY, United States vs NJ Transit (Northeast Corridor), New Jersey, United States

Sunrail, Orlando, Florida, United States vs Bay Area Rapid Transit, Bay Area, California, United States

Purple Route (Charm City Circulator), Baltimore, Maryland, United States vs Alderney Ferry (Halifax Transit), Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada

Millennium Line, Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada vs MARTA, Atlanta, Georgia, United States

Dual Mode Vehicle (DMV), Asa Coast Railway, Shikoku, Japan vs Lynton and Lynmouth Cliff Railway, Lynmouth, England, UK

Hovercraft, Portsmouth - Ryde, UK vs Funiculars, the Questionable Area (Psychonauts 2)

WildNorWester, Sodor (The Railway Series) vs Shinkansen, Japan

Métro de Paris, Paris, France vs Metro do Porto, Porto, Portugal

Deutsche Bahn, Germany vs UC Davis Unitrans Bus System, Davis, California

Vaporetti, Venice, Italy vs Harbour Bus, Copenhagen, Denmark

[supertrainstationh]

Norway to New York by Matt Csenge Via Flickr: Oslo, Norway car 3, built in Nuernburg, Germany in 1897, is seen on display in the streets of Kingston, NY during a night event at the Trolley Museum of New York.

These proportions scream "horse car" to me!

[20th-century-personalities]

Omero C. Catan on Jan. 26, 1957, when he was the first motorist on the Florida Turnpike.Credit...via HistoryMiami Museum

“This is the greatest achievement of my life,” Omero C. Catan declared in 1937, on becoming the first toll-paying driver through the Lincoln Tunnel, the newly opened artery linking New York to New Jersey. “There will never be another like it.”

In fact, there would be hundreds more: Throughout most of the 20th century, when a major public-works project arose in New York and beyond — a bridge, a tunnel, an airport, a subway line — Catan, a Brooklyn-born vacuum cleaner salesman, made it his mission to beat all comers onto, into, across or through it.

He was the first person to ride the Madison Avenue bus when that route replaced the old trolley line in 1935 and the first to take the ice at the newly opened Rockefeller Center skating rink the next year. He was the first motorist on the New Jersey Turnpike in 1951, the first paying customer to feed a New York parking meter when the city installed them that year, and the first to cross the Chesapeake Bay Bridge in Maryland in 1952.

In 1953, when subway tokens were introduced, Catan was the first to drop one into the turnstiles at the 42nd Street and Eighth Avenue station. He was the first motorist across the old Tappan Zee Bridge in 1955, the first to traverse the newly opened lower level of the George Washington Bridge in 1962 (from the New Jersey side), the first onto Interstate 595 in Florida in 1989 and the first to do a welter of other things.

Embarking on this vocation as a teenager and continuing into old age, he had bagged, by his own count, 537 firsts by the time the 20th century had run its course.

[yatescountyhistorycenter]

The place to go for a bite to eat, for nearly a century

By Jonathan Monfiletto

Representing a local history museum, this blog doesn’t concern itself much with current events. However, right now – literally, in this moment, just two days after the Penn Yan Diner sustained “substantial damage,” in the words of Yates County’s director of emergency services, in the middle of the night – seems to be an appropriate time to be concerned with current events in light of local history.

In the back of my mind, I have had the idea to research the history of the Diner ever since I heard someone describe it as, essentially, the longest continuously-operating restaurant in Penn Yan. Not knowing anything about the Diner – other than that it has really good burgers – I wasn’t sure if that was true; it turns out it likely is true, and the Diner is on track to celebrate its centennial being located in the village. Since 1925, the Diner has been situated on a previously vacant lot next to the Masonic Temple, on south side of East Elm Street between Basin Street and Champlin Avenue.

While the future of the Diner remains uncertain, should the Diner be able to re-open and continue operating, it would mark its 100th anniversary as a community institution next May, shortly before it marks one year since the devastating fire. According to the Penn Yan Democrat of April 10, 1925, Byron and Lena Legters rented the vacant lot east of the Masonic Temple and planned to install a Galion dining car. The diner was “to be placed on a concrete platform so the entrance will be at the street level,” and a concrete block kitchen was to be built below the diner. On May 8, the Democrat reported the Legters, of the Buffalo area, had opened what they called the Penn Yan Dining Car.

The original diner measured 30 feet by 10 feet, 6 inches and could accommodate 15 people; the kitchen underneath measured 10 feet by 16 feet. According to a November 1993 article by Herbert A. Wisbey Jr. in The Crooked Lake Review, this made the diner longer and wider than the typical diner – short for dining car, a stationary building modeled after a railroad car – but it retained the usual trolley-like shape. This included the long counter with stools in the front and the food prepared and served from behind the counter. The Galion Dining Car Company, of Galion, Ohio, built the Penn Yan Dining Car as one of at least 66 manufacturers of such dining cars in the country. However, Wisbey refers to the company as “evidently a short-lived company about which little is known.”

Earl Richardson and company, of Silver Creek, installed the dining car on the site and also built the original kitchen. Richard was the first diner installer in western New York and contributed to the diner building boom of the middle to late 1920s, with at least eight companies formed over the next decade. According to a history of the Diner, people lined East Elm Street in 1925 to watch the dining car travel the trolley tracks and be craned into place.

The Legter family had come from Silver Creek as well, and they apparently returned there just a year after opening the Diner and handed the Diner off to Carroll P. Bond. Bond called the eatery the Bond Dining Car, but after encountering financial difficulties he sold it to a Mrs. Williamson – whose son Douglas King managed it – in 1933. Perhaps connected to the financial issues, under Bond’s tutelage, the Diner suffered a fire in the kitchen that caused $1,000 worth of damage. Next, Odell Jones purchased the Diner in 1938 and during his tenure built a kitchen and dining addition onto the diner. This expansion allowed the Diner to seat 18 people at tables and included a new entrance with a glass-block vestibule. Since that time, the structure of the Diner has remained the same.

Yates County Deputy Sheriff Ralph Legg took over the Diner in 1949, but for whatever reason he couldn’t make a go of it and Jones took control back. In 1955, Jones sold the Diner to John and Inez Quenan, who ran the Diner for the next 25 years. During the Quenans’ tenure, according to a handwritten anecdote in the Yates County History Center’s subject files, Joe Just, who worked at Benson Printing – located in the Masonic Temple next to the Diner – broke the news to the staff and clientele of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. The print shop took a coffee break every morning at 10 a.m., and the employees headed to the Diner. Just told John Quenan that Kennedy had been shot, and Quenan thought it was a joke until Just switched the TV station and turned to the news coverage.

In 1980, the Quenans sold the Diner to Lyman Beecher, whom John Quenan had trained. Beecher was known as “Lyman the Pie Man” for his homemade pies that were a signature specialty of the Diner during his time at the helm. In 2010, Beecher sold the Diner to Dean Smith, of Conesus. Smith’s tenure was short-lived; he closed the Diner for equipment renovations and opened for summer hours when the upgrades were completed. In 2012, though, Sean and Carrie Ahearn bought and re-opened the Diner after it had been closed for about six months. Calamity took place when the flash flood that hit Yates County in May 2014 left nine feet of water and six inches of mud in the Diner’s basement. Still, the Diner re-opened just 11 days later.

The community hopes the same can be said for the Diner now under the current owners, Anna Sweet, Nate Salpeter, Alicia Avellaneda, and Cameron Mills, as they contemplate the Diner’s life after another fire. A review of the Penn Yan Diner in The Naples News of December 1940 still rings true today: “The Penn Yan Diner is a popular place for motorists as well as local people as they offer a rapid service in good foods and there is no delay. … The air of the commonplace always makes all feel at home and this makes it a distinctly American institution as there is no atmosphere of formality. The service is courteous as well as rapid. The fact that they offer excellent service and good food brings them business from the outlying districts as people know that no matter what time of day or night they may be out they can always find everything in the food line.”

[thenewyorktransitmuseum]

All About New York Transit Museum

Brooklyn, New York, a borough renowned for its cultural diversity and historical significance, boasts a plethora of attractions that cater to a wide range of interests. Among its gems, the museum scene shines brilliantly. The museums in Brooklyn are a treasure trove of art, history, and knowledge, offering an immersive experience for visitors of all ages.

The New York Transit Museum: Among the cultural institutions gracing the borough, the New York Transit Museum stands out as a unique and captivating destination. Located in the heart of downtown Brooklyn, this museum is a celebration of the Big Apple's rich transportation history. Visitors can trace the evolution of the city's transit system, from its humble beginnings to the bustling network we know today.

Housed in a decommissioned subway station, the museum's immersive exhibits include vintage subway cars, buses, and trolleys. It's a journey back in time, allowing visitors to explore the vehicles and technology that have connected New Yorkers for over a century. From the iconic token to the innovative subway designs, this museum offers a remarkable glimpse into the city's past and the engineering marvels that made it all possible.

Not only does the New York Transit Museum preserve the history of the city's transit, but it also offers educational programs and engaging events, making it an enriching experience for both history enthusiasts and families looking for an informative yet fun day out in Brooklyn. A visit to this extraordinary institution is an opportunity to appreciate the art of transportation, both past and present, and a testament to the ever-evolving spirit of New York City. It is located at 99 Schermerhorn St, Brooklyn, NY 11201, United States. Visiting museums is indeed a good idea whether you are going there with your family, friends or loved ones. At Sunrise Real Estate Corp - Brooklyn Property Management, we specialize in professional property management in Brooklyn. Our dedicated team of Brooklyn property managers is here to handle all aspects of property ownership, ensuring your peace of mind.

Map Location:

[biglisbonnews]

Connecticut Trolley Museum in East Windsor, Connecticut In the late 19th-century trolley lines connected many small towns in New England, providing a quick and efficient method of travel to other towns and major cities. This technology spurred the growth of suburbs and increased mobility for the average person. A trolley line running between Hartford, Connecticut and Springfield, Massachusetts was the only connection between the trolley systems of southern and northern New England. This route enabled travel from New York City all the way to Boston entirely along electric railways. With the advent of automobiles and highways, trolley systems became obsolete and were gradually discontinued. Though the Springfield-Hartford line closed in 1926, a section of the track in East Windsor, Connecticut was preserved for historical posterity. In 1940, the Connecticut Trolley Museum was founded to maintain and operate this remaining railway while also preserving and restoring vintage trolleys and artifacts related to this age of transportation. The museum runs regular trips along this 1.5-mile trackway aboard restored antique trolley cars. Also present on site is the Isle of Safety, a roofed platform once situated in downtown Hartford where commuters could safely wait for trollies while protected from the city’s heavy traffic. When the city's streets were altered, the Isle of Safety was moved to its current location and restored to become a centerpiece of the museum.     https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/connecticut-trolley-museum

[libramonthlyhoroscope1]

Famous russian photographers

In recent decades, new waves of Russian artists have emerged onto the national and international scene to inject innovation into the practice of photography. Breaking with tradition, these talented photographers have endeavored to reassess common modes of artistic expression – particularly in relation to Russia’s landscape, complex national history, and fascinating cultural identity. We profile ten Russian photographers to look out for.

Famous russian photographers

Frozen scenes in Norilsk | Courtesy of Elene Chernyshova

Dmitry Kostyukov

Dmitry Kostyukov is one of Russia’s most prominent current events photographers. After studying at Moscow State University – where he continues to lecture today – he worked as a staff photographer for the Russian newspaper Kommersant and Agence France-Presse. Delving deep into conflict zones such as South Ossetia and Afghanistan, Kostyukov’s photographic works provide in-depth visual insight into political and social issues. In capturing some of the most compelling news images, he has rightly been included in many top photographer shortlists around the world. He now resides in Paris and contributes regularly to major international publications.

Courtesy of Dmitry Kostyukov

Nadia Sablin

Born in the Soviet Union but raised in the USA, Nadia Sablin has grown up between two dynamic cultures. She continues to photograph her native Russia, most recently focusing on the small village of Alehovshchina, where her aunts live. The Two Sisters project is a series that depicts the microcosm that is provincial Russian life; the images follow her aunts’ daily lives, watching the ways in which they interact, eat together, and work in the gardens around their house together. In our age of industrialization and digitalization, these images offer a fleeting glimpse of an old-world Russia that’s hidden, and largely forgotten. Sablin’s work has been shown in prominent exhibition spaces across the world, including the Philadelphia Museum of Art and the Griffin Museum of Photography.

Courtesy of Nadia Sablin

Olya Ivanova

Born in Moscow in 1981, Olya Ivanova‘s work has been featured in numerous group exhibitions and can be found in private museum collections. The young photographer seeks to capture the essence of Russia and its people. One of her more recent series depicts locals in Kichuga, a small village in northern Russia. These portraits provide profound insight into this private world, capturing each unique personality, and producing evocative images that expose the reality of contemporary Russia. Ivanova’s work brings us back to a country entrenched in age-old traditions and rural communities.

Courtesy of Olya Ivanova

Alexey Titarenko

Alexey Titarenko’s work in collage and photomontage has made him one of Russia’s most prominent artists. Most notably, images from his City of Shadows series encapsulate the dramatic atmosphere of his native Saint Petersburg in the 1980s. Titarenko’s street photography merges the Russian past and present, creating powerful images through superimposed negatives, long exposure, and intentional camera movement. As a young photographer he became a member of the celebrated Zerkalo photography club in 1978, and his depiction of urban landscapes capturing the turbulent essence of contemporary Russia won him recognition around the world. Today, he lives and works in New York, and his projects repeatedly feature in major European and American museums.

Pensioner at a trolley bus stop, 1992, St. Petersburg | Courtesy of Alexey Titarenko

Margarita Kareva

Despite being relatively new to photography, Margarita Kareva has already stormed the photographic scene with her stunning fantasy photography. Her projects draw on traditional folklore, and recreate its allure of romance and magic. Featuring stunning landscapes such as frozen lakes and thick forests, the forlorn princesses in her elegant photographs evoke the darker side of popular fairytales. From huskies to basketfuls of ripe, red apples, or the elaborate full-length gowns adorning her maidens, each image is visually captivating and sends audiences into a fantasy world of their own.

Courtesy of Margarita Kareva

Slava Mogutin

Now based in New York, Slava Mogutin is a Russian-born artist who was exiled from his native country for his outspoken writings and provocative artworks in 1995. Charged with “open and deliberate contempt for generally accepted moral norms,” he is the first Russian to be granted political asylum in the US on grounds of homophobic persecution. He has since authored several books, poetry anthologies, and essays, and his artwork has been exhibited in international spaces as well as in Vogue and The New York Times. Ever ground-breaking, he channels his political views and creativity through a variety of different media, including video, sculpture and painting, continuing to defy authority and conventional forms of expression.

Ponyboy, 2007 | Courtesy of Slava Mogutin

Since you are here, we would like to share our vision for the future of travel – and the direction Culture Trip is moving in.

Culture Trip launched in 2011 with a simple yet passionate mission: to inspire people to go beyond their boundaries and experience what makes a place, its people and its culture special and meaningful — and this is still in our DNA today. We are proud that, for more than a decade, millions like you have trusted our award-winning recommendations by people who deeply understand what makes certain places and communities so special.

Increasingly we believe the world needs more meaningful, real-life connections between curious travellers keen to explore the world in a more responsible way. That is why we have intensively curated a collection of premium small-group trips as an invitation to meet and connect with new, like-minded people for once-in-a-lifetime experiences in three categories: Epic Trips, Mini Trips and Sailing Trips. Our Trips are suitable for both solo travellers and friends who want to explore the world together.

Epic Trips are deeply immersive 8 to 16 days itineraries, that combine authentic local experiences, exciting activities and enough down time to really relax and soak it all in. Our Mini Trips are small and mighty - they squeeze all the excitement and authenticity of our longer Epic Trips into a manageable 3-5 day window. Our Sailing Trips invite you to spend a week experiencing the best of the sea and land in the Caribbean and the Mediterranean.

[bespokehandengravedstationery]

Image 2 of 3 - Mrs. Collins’s new neighbor. When opened in 1909, …[it] had the two longest steel cantilever spans in the world - 1,182 feet …. These would remain the world's longest cantilever spans until the completion of the Quebec Bridge in 1917. The Queensboro Bridge has an overall length of 3,724.5 feet. It originally carried two elevated railway lines, two trolley lines, six carriage lanes and two pedestrian walkways.” —asce.org. American Society of Civil Engineers. “As of 2018, an average of over 145,500 vehicles, 5,000 cyclists, and 1,900 pedestrians travel over the Ed Koch Queensboro Bridge each day.”—New York City Department of Transpertation. The Ed Koch Queensboro Bridge, is a cantilever truss bridge over the East River. Connecting Manhattan to Queens and is the mid-town taxis often take delivering Manhattanites to Laguardia and JFK airports. IMAGE: Museum of the City of New York. #newyork #newyorkcity #bridges #newyorkhistory #construction #building https://www.instagram.com/p/CjgBVsvuH3Z/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[railbikes]

Route Review: Rail Explorers Catskill Division

Launched in 2018, the Rail Explorers Catskill Division River Run starts at the old train station in Phoenicia, NY and runs on track of the former Ulster and Delaware Railroad along the Esopus Creek. Since the Catskill Mountain Railroad ceased tourist operations on this scenic stretch of track in 2016, Rail Explorers has brought new life--and maintenance--to this historic line. I pedalled this route in July of 2018 and some details have changed as described below. Operations are closed for the winter, but will resume on May 18th and bookings are already being taken.

The Site

Nestled in the eastern Catskills, the start of the route is in the yard of the former Phoenicia Train Station, which is listed in the National Register of Historic Places and houses the Empire State Railway Museum. The yard and sheds are home to a collection of locomotives, coaches and cabooses. Until their lease with Ulster County expired in 2016, the Catskill Mountain Railroad used the station and equipment for tourist rides along the same alignment.

The Route

Running along the Esopus Creek, the River Run is a leisurely 8-mile (12.9 km) round trip beside campgrounds and country homes. At one point, the tracks cross Route 28 and the riders are treated to protection from traffic with crossing gates and signals originally installed for the railroad. 

At the turnaround, riders wait in a seating area while the railbikes are turned around using on-track turntables (shown here in former routes in the Brandywine Valley, Delaware and Saranac Lake, NY).

Given that the Esopus Creek feeds the Ashokan Reservoir, a major element of the NYC water supply, there are strict environmental standards in place along the route. Always innovators, Rail Explorers founders Mary Joy and Alex Catchpoole devised a way to keep the tracks clear of overgrowth without using polluting chemicals. Here is their trailer-mounted mower, which can be towed behind a rail bike.

The 4 miles (6.4 km) used by Rail Explorers are part of 38 miles (61 km) of line owned by Ulster County, which is part of the greater line that formerly ran from Kingston Point on the Hudson River to Oneonta, NY where it met the Delaware and Hudson Railroad. Originally envisioned as a summertime-only connection to resorts in the Catskill Mountains, it eventually ran year-round carrying both passengers and freight and served branch lines to Hunter and Kaaterskill. The second half of the 20th Century saw the demise of the line, with mail and passenger service ending in 1954 and freight service ending in 1976.

The 2.4 miles (3.9 km) from Kingston Point to the Rondout neighborhood of Kingston, NY are now used by the Trolley Museum of New York. The section from Kingston to Hurley is used for tourist train excursions by the Catskill Mountain Railroad. Beyond Ulster County, the Delaware and Ulster Railroad run tourist trains around Arkville, NY.

Closer to Phoenicia, many bridges and creekside tracks have been washed away by storms and flooding since the closure of the railroad, isolating the section from other operations. Furthermore, exposed to similar spacial politics of several routes described in this blog, the future of the line is in question and  subject to a legal battle over the use of the right-of-way, with Ulster County planning to remove much of the track to create a recreational trail. The section in use by Rail Explorers appears to be safe from this plan, although the future of the tourist trains remains unclear.

The Vehicles

I pedalled this route aboard the steel-framed, cast-iron-wheeled railbikes described in my earlier post on the Rail Explorers Las Vegas Division. However, as noted on the Rail Explorers website, they offer a “new Rail Explorers fleet of rail bikes, now with electric pedal assistance!” I look forward to returning to Phoenicia this year to see the new railbikes. Here is a great shot of a tandem from Saranac Lake on Rail Explorers Instagram account.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Rail Explorers USA (@railexplorersusa) on Feb 14, 2019 at 8:19am PST

Travel Notes

While Phoenicia is typically reached by car, Trailways offers daily buses from New York City through New Paltz, Kingston and on to Oneonta. It is a short walk from the center of the hamlet to the starting point at the station. The completion of the Empire State Trail in connection with the recreational trail planned by Ulster County might offer options for reaching Phoenicia by bicycle in the future.

Phoenicia is a popular tourist destination, perhaps best known for whitewater tubing along the Esopus Creek, and centrally located near many options for hiking, skiing and fly-fishing. Nearby Belleayre Ski Resort offers summertime gondola rides for hiking, mountain biking and sightseeing. Main Street in Phoenicia has a small stretch of shops, pizzerias, bars and restaurants. The nightlife in nearby Woodstock has picked back up in recent years, especially thanks to the Station Bar and Curio, where one can enjoy drinks and live music in a station that used to serve the same line described above.

[ponypotatoes]

Captain Potato sits at the wheel! To drive a green trolley made of metal and steel!

[supertrainstationh]

Untitled by Matt Csenge Via Flickr: Seen resting in Corona Yard are New York City Transit Authority (NYCTA) R33WF no. 9344 and a line of five Lo-V cars, with no. 5466 on the end. Though this slide is undated, it's highly likely that the Lo-V's are a special excursion - perhaps by the NY Transit Museum - given the cars' immaculate condition and seemingly fresh paint. Notably no. 5466 is preserved but no longer resides in New York City, being part of the collection at the Shore Line Trolley Museum. Undated slide, unknown photographer, Matt Csenge.

[qqueenofhades]

Are you still taking prompts? We are thirsty and were hoping for “bite me” in a fivan vampire au. Pretty please? What’s that you say? That’s not on the list you shared? Um, oops? I said we are thirsty! 🤤

Ahaha, okay, I think this is going to do it for the prompts for now. I want to get back to working on PEL, and I have (mostly) given the people what they want. But before you hasten to my inbox to request more of this (which I know the Very Hungry Lot of you will do, and I love you so much for it): do know that this is indeed related to a larger project and this is just the first bit of it.

What is that project? Shh. I am not telling you just yet. It's a secret.

Belgrade, Kingdom of Serbia

June 1896

The summer evening is warm and purple, lit atmospherically by both the older gaslamps and the newfangled electric lights (there is a Serb in New York, a man by the name of Tesla, whose great scientific inventions and experiments with alternating current may soon illuminate the entire world), and the well-dressed crowd flows toward the café in a tide of rustling satin, silk, and velvet, ladies in evening dress and men in top hats and monocles. The establishment is the Golden Cross, in Terazije, a bustling neighborhood just south of Stari Grad, and the attraction is an exhibition of the marvelous moving pictures of the Lumière brothers – the first such show in the Balkans, and indeed outside of Paris, after they were first premiered in great triumph six months ago. Or at least, so it is for most of the attendees tonight. Fedyor Mikhailovich Kaminsky has a different task.

He stands apart from the milling throngs, well dressed in a high-collared coat and silken cravat, dark hair parted ruler-straight and face freshly shaven, a old golden watch tucked in his breast pocket and his shoes polished to a perfect sheen. While the people hurry past almost close enough to jostle him, they have a peculiar difficulty in registering that he is there. They sense something, yes – a cold breath on the back of the neck, a prey animal’s inborn reflex to warily search the shadows – but it never quite clicks. They continue on their way without being troubled in their own sense of reality, or ever realizing who – what – is standing there with them. It is just one of the odd, disjointed experiences that Fedyor has had to come to terms with, in the twenty-two years since he became a vampire.

By habit, he checks the horizon. These summer days are late and long, and Fedyor is still young enough that he can’t tolerate more than a few minutes of sunlight. It has taken years to be able to go out by day at all, half-thinking he had dreamed the waking world, become wholly one with the shadows and the night. When he emerged in the last gasps of afternoon, when he felt the golden warmth on his face for the first time in almost two decades, he wept. It still causes him vestigial pain, but not as much. Not so much that it cannot be borne.

He pulls the slip of paper out of his pocket and checks the name again. Then he puts it back and slips smoothly into the crowd. At the threshold, he feels that faint, telltale twinge, the knowledge of entering another creature’s territory without being explicitly bidden to do so. The Golden Cross belongs to the vampire king of Belgrade, who is rumored to be five hundred years old and a veteran of the Battle of Kosovo in 1389 (which, so far as Fedyor can tell, the Serbs have never gotten over losing to the Turks) and Fedyor is not interested in pissing him off. But therefore it is, by Conclave law, a place where all vampires in the city can freely congregate, so long as they haven’t committed some terrible crime. It also means that Fedyor may find the man he is looking for in here, and not have to cross into enemy turf.

A rich reek of wine and brandy, of hand-cranked ice cream in cut-glass bowls, of ladies’ perfume and men’s cologne, of sweat and starch and thrumming hot blood, rises into Fedyor’s nose as he inhales, as his senses have been honed a hundred times more acutely than what he was previously used to. He searches the crowded room, on high alert for another supernatural. Nothing, at least not thus far. But it is a delicate and fiddly bit of bloodsucker diplomacy for which he is here tonight, having to do with the rumor that a local group of creatures have formed a shadowy secret society called Црна рука, the Black Hand, with the aim of expressly interfering in human politics. This, of course, is strictly against the rules, and they need to be reminded of that fact. Fedyor would very much prefer not to fight an anarchist rebel vampire in the middle of a café crowded with oblivious humans, but the thought crosses his mind that this is an excellent soft target. The eyes of the entire city, the Balkans, the international art community, are fixed on this place tonight. If something went wrong – if the Golden Cross and all the souls within it were blown to smithereens –

Fedyor orders a drink at the bar – he has been promised that one day he will again also be able to eat human food if he craves the taste, but it will not nourish him – and sits down near the back, keeping a sharp eye out. Andre Carr, the Frenchman who has traveled from Lyon as the Lumière brothers’ representative, is setting up the unwieldy projector and barking at his assistants to be careful with the fragile, bulky spools of film, his mustache bristling in agitation. Fedyor gauges the mood of the crowd, the din of their heartbeats, their eager interest, their whispered gossip. Still no other supernaturals that he can sense, but that doesn’t mean that they’re not here. The vampire king and his underlings will have plenty of ways to conceal themselves from a relative child like Fedyor. As will the Black Hand.

He leans back in his chair and samples the whisky. Not bad, he thinks, though it’s been a long time since he drank human libations. It’s nice to be out among regular people, but he always has to keep strict watch on the part of himself that yearns to feed, that wants them to run, to fear, to fall. Fedyor has been a vampire long enough to control the hunger, to drink mostly from animals and space out his feeds on humans, to ask them for their consent or pay them for their trouble, but it’s still a struggle. He understands the urge that drives vampires to sequester themselves, to only live among their own kind, to keep drones and other willing human servants to feed from, so that you are not put to the trouble of chasing down a stranger and politely asking to bite them in the neck every fortnight or so, don’t get mixed up as to whether the mortals are your dinner company or just your dinner. It is a deuced bloody bother of a business. Fedyor always feels like an idiot whenever he tries.

Carr and his minions sort out their difficulties, and eventually the lights go down, provoking another eager murmur. Fedyor is not immune to the lure of whatever they are about to see, and he could have done much worse for a new home. He arrived here six years ago from his hometown in Russia, once his lack of aging became too difficult to conceal from his friends and family. Belle epoque Belgrade is a cosmopolitan, cultured world of stately opera houses and marble palaces, grand balls and gaslights, synagogues and streetcars, mosques and museums, bohemians and bordellos and broad balconies, telegraph wires and trolley cars and twisting lanes, churches and coffee shops in the Viennese style, with white-aproned waiters and colored mosaics and demitasse cups of Italian espresso. It is an ancient city, placed in a lethally strategic location at the confluence of two rivers, fought over in almost a hundred wars and razed almost forty times (and doubtless there are still more unmakings yet to come). Fedyor has found a place among the vampire community here, enough that he is trusted to deal with the Black Hand, despite his immortal youth. As to how that will go, well…

He watches the film with half an eye, impressed by the moving pictures just like his human counterparts, and then he feels it. The coldness on the back of his neck, the chirp of a sixth sense, the unshakeable awareness that he is being observed by a fellow bloodsucker. Though that term is considered somewhat dated and passé these days, mildly offensive. Vampires are eager as humans to participate in the scientific and industrial revolution, to concoct more enlightened regulations for themselves, to create an academic literature for their origins. There is talk among the sophisticated supernatural set of organizing an Academy for Preternatural Science, to hire vampire scholars, to establish a university. It’s a nice thought, if somewhat too ambitious (or so Fedyor thinks) for a race of beings that has only just decided that solving every problem with blood feuds to the death might not be the best idea. He wonders if one of those unreconstructed barbarians is behind him now.

Slowly, smoothly, so as to demonstrate that he is perfectly aware of being hunted, Fedyor turns around, and catches sight of the newcomer across the way. He is handsome – but then again, most vampires are, as it’s one of the benefits of the transformation. This one, however, is possessed of a roguish, rough-hewn attractiveness that seems genuine, still close to the face he wore as a mortal man, and not the eerie, glossy, imperturbable beauty that Fedyor sometimes finds so off-putting about his compatriots. This vampire is also wearing good clothes, and his overcoat is dark red, embroidered with curling black patterns. He looks at Fedyor, their eyes meet, and he nods once, half an inch. Game on.

Fedyor does his best to sit still until the lights come up, and the crowd claps rapturously and disperses to fetch more drinks and gush about the performance. Then he gets up and drifts toward a velvet curtain, slipping unobtrusively behind it. Back here, it is dark, dusty, and smells of candlewax and grease paint, the remnants of another performance, a conjurer’s closet. He steadies himself, turns around, and –

“Good evening,” the voice says, cold and curt. “I believe you were waiting to speak to me.”

“Yes.” Fedyor does his best to smile and appear charming and in command of the situation. “My name is Fedyor Kaminsky, and I am a representative of the Conclave. They have sent me here tonight in hopes of locating Ivan Sakharov, of the Black Hand. Is that you?”

The other vampire regards him flatly. His eyes are brown, as is his hair, which is cropped military-short and kept as sharp as his face. When he folds his arms, his muscles bulge, even through the sleeves of the well-tailored coat. “And if I was?”

“Then,” Fedyor says, “I am authorized by that same Conclave to deliver a warning to you and your associates that your current activities fall outside the bounds of the common supernatural law, and if you persist in pursuing them, there will be consequences.”

The other – well, he hasn’t denied it, so this must indeed be Ivan Sakharov – looks back at him with an utterly unimpressed expression. “Oh, so the Conclave found a new stooge to do their bidding? You’re a bit younger and fresher than the usual corpses those desiccated old tightwads usually send out after us, I’ll give you that. How long have you been in Belgrade?”

“How long have you?” Fedyor is almost sure he recognizes Ivan’s accent; they’re speaking Serbo-Croatian, but in both cases with a familiar cadence. “You’re Russian, aren’t you?”

That catches the other vampire by surprise. He hisses, baring a pair of white and very sharp fangs, and his eyes go briefly black. “You think so?”

“Yes,” Fedyor says. “But older than me, I think. Possibly quite a bit, though by how much, I can’t be sure. If we were to – ” he switches languages smoothly, in midsentence – “continue this conversation in Russian, would that be more to your liking?”

Ivan Sakharov eyes him icily. He must know that if he speaks their native tongue, he risks giving away his age by the style of his grammar, or perhaps his place of birth, and that is dangerous information for an unknown quantity to hold over you. There is a whiff of the emperor’s court around him, or perhaps the empress – does he hail from Catherine the Great’s day, Fedyor wonders, or earlier? There’s a long, crackling pause. Then Ivan says in brittle, too-correct English, “Or perhaps we should converse like this?”

Fedyor inclines his head, accepting that he has – for now – been outmaneuvered. They still haven’t taken their eyes off each other, standing close together in the dim velvet-draped shadows, near enough that if they were human, they would feel the other’s heat. There’s nothing but the faint wintry chill of unliving flesh, though a certain hunger rises unbidden in Fedyor’s stomach nonetheless. Then he says, “This does not have to be difficult. Cease your lawlessness and tell your friends to do the same.”

Ivan takes another step, close enough that their noses almost brush. “The Conclave has no power over me, Fedyor Kaminsky.”

“Do you want to test that?” Fedyor breathes, struggling to keep his focus at the other vampire’s threatening-but-thrilling nearness, the way his blood is singing under his skin in an entirely different way than he expected or frankly, that he wants. Just because Ivan Sakharov is annoyingly attractive (and also Russian) does not mean that he is not a dangerous, war-mongering, secret-cabal-plotting megalomaniac, and Fedyor does not need that sort of nonsense in his life. “If you did, I would, of course, be authorized to place you under arrest.”

Ivan looks at him goadingly. “I would like to see you try.”

Oh, so he is indeed one of those immortals (read: the kind who really need to experience mortality just to be kicked very hard in the balls). Fedyor struggles to contain his irritation. If he shows that this handsome bastard has gotten to him, this will only get worse. “If you promise to desist,” he says, “the Conclave will drop this matter and consider it closed. You and the rest of the Black Hand will not be subject to further investigation. That, or – ”

“How do I know that you are even from the Conclave? That you are who you say?”

“Why would I lie about it?”

Ivan shrugs. “I want proof.”

Fedyor grits his fangs. “What do you expect? A badge?”

“No. But I will accept your blood.”

That catches Fedyor off guard. Not that it should, necessarily. Since vampires can sense the thoughts and feelings of the creature that they’re feeding on, it’s a quick and time-tested way to prove that there is no funny business going on (or at least, no business that is funny beyond the usual). The obvious difficulty, however, is that it requires a possibly unfriendly rival to bite your neck or at the very least, your wrist, and one can understand why there would be a natural hesitation to yield one’s neck (Fedyor happens to be rather fond of his) to the clutches of the likes of Ivan Sakharov. But if he says no, he looks like he is weak or that he has something to hide, that he doesn’t trust Ivan or regard him as an equal, and the already-febrile situation with the Black Hand will only get worse. As bluffs go, Fedyor could call this one. But it would be very risky, and if it blows up in his face…

“Very well,” Fedyor says, chillingly correct. He pulls aside the collar of his evening coat and tilts his head, exposing the side of his throat. “Test me all you like.”

Ivan looks at him with something that makes that thing in Fedyor’s stomach rise up again, hot as an ember left burning in a brazier even when all the other lights go out. He hasn’t been warmed like this, not even by the sun, ever since he was turned in 1874 by a vampire named Dmitri Karamazov. He does his utmost to force it down. If Ivan bites him and senses that –

There’s a final pause, soft as tissue paper, fine as crystal. Then Ivan steps forward, looking almost impressed, as if he expected Fedyor to find some reason to back out. He flexes his jaw, bringing out those two impressively white and sharp fangs again, and reaches out, gripping Fedyor’s waist with his big hands and drawing him somewhat closer than is strictly necessary. Then he whispers, “As you wish, Conclave whore,” and bites.

He’s not entirely gentle about it, not that vampires usually are and not that Fedyor wasn’t expecting it. But all at once, as Ivan sucks at him, his mouth pressed hungrily to Fedyor’s neck, wet and raw and savage, Fedyor goes weak in the knees. He’s been fed on before, tested before, and this is different from any of those. He utters a mewling noise of need that he is shocked and deeply outraged to hear from himself, pressing still closer, knocking Ivan a few steps backward into the wall. His hands come up, seeking purchase on the other’s broad shoulders, a smoky curl of desire rising through him like rich incense. “Mmm,” he mutters. “Mmmgh. Yes. Like that. Yes.”

Ivan doesn’t answer for obvious reasons, since his mouth is otherwise occupied, but Fedyor can feel the little frisson of pleasure that travels through him at those words. That takes him aback. Not that he should rush to generalize, since most vampires are fairly flexible in their intimate preferences (you don’t live that long without wanting to sample everything that is on offer, carnally speaking) but for some reason, he just assumed that this tough, frightening, hard-as-nails secret anarchist supernatural idiot wouldn’t be inclined to gentlemen. Not that Fedyor is necessarily objecting. This feels far better than it has any right to do, considering that it started out as a naked challenge to his veracity. Agh, fuck, he should not think about naked. That makes the arousal burn even more hungrily, as he arches his back and presses himself wantonly against Ivan and knows that he’s hard as a rock and that this utter menace can definitely feel it. Ivan is in no hurry to pull away. He drinks for a few more seconds, past when there can be any reasonable doubt that Fedyor is telling the truth, and then slowly, deliberately breaks contact, fangs still half in Fedyor’s throat, as he withdraws with luxurious leisure. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and growls, “Ah.”

“Yes, ah,” Fedyor says, trying not to stammer, as pulses of hot and cold rush through him from head to toe. “Are you satisfied?”

Ivan gives him a wicked smile, drops of Fedyor’s blood still glistening heart-scarlet on his lips. “Maybe.”

God almighty, kill me now. Difficult, of course, when one is – strictly speaking – already deceased. (And now deceased in a different way, which makes it two kinds of dead at once, which makes Fedyor a prodigy.) He wants to ask if Ivan will perform the customary service of licking the bite wounds closed, but he’s also afraid that he may physically incinerate if Ivan does so, and since fire is rather famously one of the only things that can harm vampires, it is better not to take the risk. Instead, Fedyor pulls out his handkerchief and dabs at his throat, with as much casualness as he can muster. “Well,” he says. “You’ve had my word, Ivan Sakharov. Will you give me yours that you will bring your illegal organization to an end and return to the rule of Conclave law?”

Ivan looks him up and down, eyes lingering on the too-tight fit of Fedyor’s pinstriped trousers. Then he leans in, so close that Fedyor truly does think they’re about to kiss and momentarily blacks out, and whispers against the shell of his ear, “Absolutely not.”

And with that, and no more than a rush of air, he is gone.

[barbasbodaciousbeard]

IF YOU LOVE SOMEONE, LET THEM GO: PART 9

Summary: Since starting with SVU, Sonny hadn’t kept much terribly close to the chest. The squad knew about his family, growing up on Staten Island, the classes at Fordham. What was hidden was why he didn’t date. Sonny Carisi was also separated from his childhood sweetheart, a separation neither ever took to divorce. They had the same haunts. They’d grown up neighbors. Their paths crossed every few months, and divorce talks would turn into reminiscing would turn into a night spent together, sometimes sex sometimes just talking until the early morning. It always ended with one of them waking up alone however. How will that change when the squad finds out?

Pairings: Sonny Carisi x Original Character

1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8

A/N: Ayyy, they’re in New Orleans, a place I know well enough to write about.

November 2015

“Tor, where are you draggin’ me?” Sonny laughed, hand in Victoria’s as they made their way through Jackson Square. It was almost eerie past midnight.

“You said you were hungry! We’re a block away from something I think you’ll like.”

“Doll, we’re in New Orleans. We’re always a block from something I’ll like.” What he liked was seeing her so in her element. The city had a soul more like hers, and seeing her pull him through the streets made him feel like he was a teenager with a crush again instead of a man celebrating his thirtieth birthday with his wife. They’d just dropped their bags in the hotel after their flight. She’d found them a place steps from Jackson Square and St. Louis Cathedral, and in the night, her cheeks were flushed pink from the wind coming off of the Mississippi River and excitement. 

“There’s no line at Cafe du Monde at one in the morning,” she grinned, giving an exaggerated flourish. “Louisiana zeppoli sound good? Beignets.”

“You get me.” They sat at the little metal table, and he looked out at the empty square. When they’d come so long ago, her mother had gotten a friend to lend her their apartment, and the pair had taken the trolley to the zoo or aquarium or museum during the day. This trip, he was excited to go to bars and hear live music and have cocktails. Come back to a hotel where they could order room service. He was determined to make another trip to the zoo as well. The pictures from before showed two lanky teenagers pretending they didn’t like each other. Now they’d been together a decade plus.

“You got a little messy,” she grinned, Sonny having exhaled at the wrong time. Powdered sugar was everywhere, but the broad smile as he ate was perfect. Victoria took a picture of Sonny with his crinkled eyes and dimpled grin, covered in powdered sugar with a beignet in front of him. He polished it off, paying before he leaned to kiss her as she laughed. He tasted like airport coffee, pastry, and sugar as he pulled her close on the street outside.

“You know, it’s officially the second now. You’re thirty!”

“I guess I am,” he chuckled, kissing her again.

“Happy birthday, cher. I guess you oughta get me back to the hotel so we can celebrate…” His goofy grin turned wicked as he pulled her down St. Ann’s Street to the hotel, scooping her up bridal style when they got to their hallway. Victoria squealed, slipping the key from her bag to unlock the door for him and he kicked it closed behind them. He woke with her wrapped around him and sun from the courtyard filtering in. Thirty was going to be much better, he could already tell. When she woke, she felt his fingers tracing her spine, and she curled closer into him. 

“Mornin’ handsome.” She always developed an accent when she was around southerners. Her mom had given her a little twang, but the Louisiana accent was thick now, and he loved it. 

“Mornin’ doll. You sleep okay?”

“You tired me out.” He was rewarded with a crooked grin, and Sonny kissed her softly and pulled her close again. “Happy birthday. What do you want to do today?”

“Order breakfast in? Maybe go to the zoo?”

“You want to go to the zoo?”

“Yeah. It was what we did last time when I realized I had a crush on you. Could be good before we go to dinner and that burlesque show.”

“It’s going to be perfect,” she grinned. “Anything you wanna do. All day.”

“Anything?” The impish smile was back, and they didn’t have breakfast for another couple of hours. Watching Sonny as they made their way to the zoo, she grinned, arms wrapping around his waist. 

“You’re cute.”

“Am I?” 

“Yeah. I like how excited you get about things.”

“Is that why you call me a puppy so often?”

“A little,” she chuckled, buying their tickets and leading him in. 

“Better than a lanky noodle,” he grinned, arms around her waist as they watched the flamingos near the entrance. Whenever they planned to take this vacation, he hadn’t really anticipated how nice it would be to have a whole swath of the country between him and all the dark things he dealt with at work. In the city, he would pass places that brought a case to mind easily, even if he wasn’t really thinking about it. They’d walk by a bar and some part of his brain noted that was where the vic in the case last year was assaulted. In New Orleans, he knew there was still crime. He could even guess dangerous spots. But, he didn’t have names and faces and stories. Instead, he had the old independent bookstore with no air conditioning he’d followed Victoria through, the humidity and heat making him sweat straight through his t-shirt. Here, there was the little area he’d sat and stared as Victoria watched the orangutans with a broad grin. They’d definitely be stopping there. And he was excited for the Louisiana Swamp portion. Those were the two he had the strongest memory of. As if she knew, Victoria took his hand, tugging him towards the fountain and to the roman candy wagon just before the path to the monkeys.

“I almost forgot about this,” he chuckled, fishing a dollar from his pocket. “We goin’ chocolate and vanilla?”

“Duh.” She took the long sticks of what was basically taffy wrapped in wax paper gladly. It was as stretchy and messy as he remembered, and they walked happily, pinching off pieces and passing it back and forth. Between the orangutans and gorillas was the same wooden seating area, and they sat. 

“Y’know, I think this is where I realized I was in love with you,” he said, leaning back against the tree trunk that grew in the middle. “You were watching the baby orangutan. Got so excited when they told you his name and stuff. And then you were telling everybody that came after the zookeeper left everything like you were the new tour guide. I remember looking at ya in the sun in that flowery spaghetti strap dress and all your hair up and this big smile and knowing it was gonna be you.”

“Really?” she asked, head tilted as he nodded. Now she was in one of his pullovers tucked into jeans, bundled up from the breeze. It was twelve years later, and she was just as perfect in the sun. She leaned to kiss him sweetly, staying close. “Wanna know something?”

“What?”

“I realized I loved you in the swamp part. You were so excited, and I remember already realizing I liked you. Then there’s that statue of the swamp monster? The rugaru when you turn the corner? We were there and a kid ran the corner ahead of his mom and got scared. He started crying and got embarrassed and you just sat down and told him the rugaru scared you too and hung out the minute for his mom to catch up. Knew it then I wanted you forever.”

“We’re real disgusting, aren’t we?”

“Just a little,” she smiled, kissing him again. It was nice to sit in the sun beside him, taking turns pointing out when there was activity in each enclosure. Sonny still smiled just like he did when they were teenagers, but he was more relaxed now that she had him this far from the city. His shoulders carried less tension and his smile always reached his eyes. They’d be taking a yearly vacation from here on out. They needed the time away from the city.

“If your mom had raised you here, our lives would be so different,” he mused as they leaned against the railing in the swamp portion. They took turns looking into the green of the swamp water to point out alligators floating along. 

“I’d be a swamp witch.” Her voice was serious enough Sonny couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped him. 

“And I’d probably have ended up a priest.”

“Good and evil. Are we an unholy union then?”

“Nah. Told ya before, doll. Preordained by the big guy. Might not have found you when I was five. But you’d have ended up stuck with me any way.”

“It means the world to me how strongly you believe that. I ever told you? Even when we were separated, I knew we wouldn’t get divorced, but I’d get scared we couldn’t fix it.”

“Me too. But we’re here. I get to start my thirties with ya. And we’ll have babies and grandbabies and great grandbabies.”

“We will. And short term? We’ll have a lot more trips. Get more breaks.”

“I’d like that a lot. It’s nice being way out here. Wanna do it more.”

They made their way to the hotel in time to shower before dinner and to make it to the bar putting on the burlesque show in time for drinks. Early on, Victoria had figured out Sonny was a sucker for old school burlesque. She’d done a boudoir shoot for him done up with all the vintage trimmings, and one night, she’d convinced him to attend a burlesque show at home, one with a live band. That, he’d liked. There was a bar on Canal Street, Burgundy, that had a local burlesque troupe perform on the weekends. The place was sultry when they walked in, all deep velvets and a glittering chandelier. She’d kissed his cheek, going to powder her nose before she ordered. They’d dressed up, and Sonny leaned against the counter waiting to order. 

“This seat taken?” asked a petite brunette, and he didn’t think anything of it.

“Nah. I’m going to a table.”

“You’re not from around here, are ya?”

“Visiting from New York,” he shrugged, still watching the bartender. 

“And here I was hoping you’d be a local. It’s a shame I’ll only see you tonight.”

“Yeah. It’s the only night they got the show. Came for my birthday.”

“Well, happy birthday.” The bartender stopped, and he ordered two drinks, the champagne one with rose water he knew Victoria would like and whatever the specialty was with whiskey for himself. 

“That for me?” she asked, and the way she tilted her head told him he was an idiot. He suddenly took in the way she was leaning towards him, eyes going wide. Luckily, he could see Victoria in the background, and she chuckled as he caught her eye. One thing he was grateful for was the fact she knew he could be dumb. He looked at women, sure. Victoria looked at men sometimes. That didn’t matter because they had no interest in doing anything with anybody else. He didn’t, however, tend to realize the eyes a woman was giving him. 

“It’s for me,” Victoria smiled, wrapping an arm around Sonny’s waist easily and resting the hand with her wedding ring on his chest.

“Sorry. I didn’t realize…” Victoria just gave her a smile and a nod, taking her drink gratefully and following Sonny to their table. His cheeks were pink and Victoria couldn’t help but laugh as she slid beside him on the booth side of the table facing the stage. 

“Tor, I had no clue,” he said like she was terribly upset. She cared just enough to wrap the territorial arm around him, but not enough to scold him. Hell, it was endearing. “I wouldn’t ever wanna flirt with anybody but you so sometimes I miss it.”

“Dom, I’m not mad. You’re hot as hell, and it’s really sweet how clueless you are. Not your fault other women notice the hot part.”

“Shuddup,” he muttered, ears turning red now. “You don’t notice when guys flirt with you either.”

“I do too!”

“Nah. The guy at the zoo? The one that was friendly until I showed up? Doll, he had been checkin’ you out.”

“What? No. He just wanted to know where the food was.”

“Oh? That’s why he was standing outside the ordering window when he asked you that?”

“Shit.” Sonny laughed, slipping an arm around her. 

“It’s okay. I kind of like showing up like ‘Yeah, she’s hot. And she’s my wife.’” 

“I like doing the same to you.”

“Love you, Tor.”

“And I love you, Dom. Happy birthday.”

Tags: @cycat4077​ @fear-less-write-more​