Oh, he's cute. Mr. I can never sleep when I'm traveling. He's hugging his pillow like a sloth on a branch.

He couldn't sleep before. Now listen to him. Sounds like an elephant with a chest infection.

Well, they call him a dreamer. And now they're right.

All aboard, Mr. I can never sleep when I'm traveling.

Find all the comfort you need in the quiet lounge.

Piando Ferries, there is another way. 8 a.m. is a fine time to go out for a walk in New York City because you get caught up in the

happiness of little kids dressed up for school,

holding a parent's hand, jazzed by the hubbub of life around them,

curious and eager, jabbering about everything they see on the

way completely in the moment.

Teenagers tend to be solemn, practicing their looks of angst and disdain, but the

jubilation of little kids is inspiring. It helps, of course, that I'm not

responsible for any of them, but I walk down Columbus Avenue to pick up a couple bagels and coffee black, thank you, and

that first happy impression of the day sticks with me no matter what. I remember Estelle Shaver my first grade teacher who is

now consorting with archangels in glory. I remember her back when I was shy, was bookish, an observer,

which she encouraged, and which, as it turned out saved me from a career in politics or

operating a Ponzi scheme or becoming a psychic with curative powers to prevent Parkinson's, pancreatitis, and panic

attacks, I lacked the confidence to work the calm. Now I'm an old man in no rush keeping an eye out for curbs and

crevices and treacherous slabs of sidewalk, hoping not to make a spectacle of myself,

knowing that in New York I am surrounded by writers, real, or imagined, who would find the crash of a tall elderly author rather satisfying.

Once I was swift a foot and long a stride, and now I amble along, accepting distractions,

my barber, Tommy, a sculptor of hair at work in his barber shop, and the newsstand a historic

...