In Pursuit Of A Bagel

It's possible to find adventure anywhere if you try hard enough.

This morning I woke up at 4:30 a.m. (which is not unusual) and decided to walk a mile to a bagel store to buy their fine bread product. If you arrive when the store opens at 5 a.m. there's no line of customers -- that annoyance starts later on Sunday mornings. Despite being on one of Long Island's busiest commercial roads (Route 110), the store and streets are empty this early except for Spanish-speaking staff at the store. They always greet me enthusiastically but probably wonder "What's this gringo doing up so early? This is when only we have to be out of bed."

Did I mention that, at this hour, it's pitch-black? (Sunrise is 6:32 a.m.) Did I mention that it is pouring rain? (I brought an umbrella.) Heading out I anticipated (correctly) that my feet would get soaked up to the calves (multiple unseen puddles) and my ankles were at constant risk of getting sprained from ubiquitous potholes on the edge of the roadway. (There's no sidewalk.)

I make it to the store, succeed with the purchase, and head home. All good, right? Not exactly. Remember the dark streets? Heavy rain? Mr. Magoo eyesight?

I reach home -- or what I think is my home and... What the...? It's not my house. The number on the mailbox is mine but it definitely is not my house. Hmm... After walking up and down the street a few times I finally realize I turned down the wrong block. This is not Somerset Street. In the darkness I can't see anything except mailboxes so I didn't suspect my mistake until now. Okay, so I walk around, find the right block and am finally able to peel off soaked sneakers, socks and pants. All this for a bagel.

I didn't expect the expedition to be so challenging, but that's life in the slow lane.