Home from The Azores (Part One)

Funny what people say when they come back from vacation.  Usually a version of

It Was Great.

Or Great But.

I’ve always been obsessed

with What We See and What We Say, and How.



A travel story starts  before the plane.  In the ride to the airport,  the driver is often a precursor.  A Harbinger.

Fred from Jamaica picks us up.  Old fashioned good natured driver (29 years he’s been driving.  Mostly to the airport and back.) He met his wife in Kingston.   She owned a restaurant and his brother took him there to eat.  That was that, said Fred.

Fred likes to eat and so does she.  He especially enjoys hamburger deluxe at an old fashioned diner on Jericho Turnpike. He gets both fries and onion rings.

Where can we eat good Jamaican food we asked Fred.

The Door. It’s on Baisley Boulevard in Jamaica, Queens. No contest said Fred.

Would you and your wife like to join us when we come back?

Maybe said Fred.  Give us a call.



Try not to talk to everyone at the airport said Peter.

We are on vacation.  I said OK and it wasn’t my fault and he agreed

when Melba from Trinidad and East Pasadena came over to say

she was going back to East Pasadena (she didn’t like New York

very much too many people) but she wanted to tell me that I

looked very much like her deceased Aunt May, who was half

Jewish.  Same face said Melba.  Was she happy?  I asked.

She had three kids said Melba.  Does that mean happy?



Esther Cohen
Let me tell you why I'm here, and why I hope you'll join me. I am here to poem, to play with words, to tell stories when I can, and to ask you for yours. Words are what I love, how I see, and what I say. Words are how I know my life, and how I find my friends. I'm here to ask you to join me. Right here. To send me your stories, and your poems. And to read mine when you can.


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