MTA

I stepped on the platform at Brooklyn Bridge, the subway doors closing shut behind me with their usual singing "ding-dong." I didn't feel like walking NY style. I wanted to stroll along the platform to the stairs, climb the steps one at a time -- this kind of things you know.

I had a flashback of summer in the South of France, Mistral playing with the trees, bees buzzing over lavender, the distant echoes of a basketball on the nearby outdoor playground that you can only access by climbing over the school's roof. Kids racing on noisy mopeds.

When I came out of the subway I stepped aside, looked up and smelled the air. But the Brooklyn air wasn't smelling anything, not even food or exhaust. It seemed suspicious. I suppose I miss being in open space. I mean, Central Park is big and all, but it's just not the same. Not that I feel claustrophobic in the City. But maybe it's time to go to Coney Island to get some fresh air and turn my back to buildings.

For no reasons I thought about this today -- and I had to check my notebook to make sure there was a little mark next to my entry to confirm that it was a fact and not the product of daydreaming: A few months ago, as the train was crossing the Williamsburg Bridge, I saw a small seaplane taking of from the cold waters of the East River and flying over the bridge to wherever it was bound.