In the golden era there was

And others whose names we took and replaced with monikers more apt. We prefer the solo joints, holding out against the machine of uniformity, universality. Little café's and sit down restaurants tucked into small neighborhoods.

Well, I almost went for a bike ride. The morning was untypically bright and sunny. Warm. Warmer than usual, it beckoned. So it was I stood before the window in capilene, biking shorts, parka, gloves, and helmet, looking out at a black wall already obscuring distant ridgelines. I thought I could beat it, should just go out in it and free myself from clean, dry living. But I chickened out, looking at the bed, ever-promising cozy rest, and said next weekend. The hail scratched at the window before I could get changed, light the candles, and start the music.

It is a day for calm solitude anyway. Dave left this morning for Philadelphia, where he will be living when we leave Korea at the end of March. I had three days with him; his company gets five. We wanted to spend a day skiing but we were both too tired -- he from the trip, me from the anticipation -- so we spent three lazy days doing what repatriates love to do at home: moviegoing, eating often and much, and shopping.

Next time we are together, we will be packing and preparing for final disconnection from Korea. Three weeks hence.

The whole world can change in a short nap's time. Sun shiny late afternoon, my eyes puffy with sleep, scratchy with residue. But, I see you, smiley young man in the house, bringing your gun for us to guard while you're away. What kind is it? Are you a rifle man... a pistol man? Oh, a rifleman, eh? Well, that's humble enough. A twenty-two your dad gave you. I know you'll travel well. I'm off for a bike ride. On for an hour or so down from here to the water. Tail wind pushing and pushing me. I'm flying man - flying! Oh it feels so good, these legs turning and turning. Freshest air from offshore storms filling the bottomest corners of my little pink lungs. Bike tight and light; riding smooth and perfect by the hands of the man in the bike shop at the bottom of the hill. He said my wheels are round now. I can tell. Braking's tight, shifting smooth and reliable. In the dangerous dusk of late winter day, climbing the hill toward the sunshine house. Good to be alive - and young and strong and knowing.