After parking at the University of
Bridgeport where we teach, my wife Amy and I hoisted our light bookbags on
eager shoulders and began to walk.
Striding up Lafayette Street, we passed the old Warner Brothers factory,
manufacturer of corsets and baseballs. I told Amy the story of when the First
Lady, Francis Cleveland, came to dedicate the Seaside Institute for single
working women.
A short fifteen-minute
walk later, we reached the ferry slip, sitting at a picnic table to await the
“Grand Republic” ferry.
At last it slid
into Bridgeport Harbor, down the channel dredged so many years before, a
far-sighted move which increased the harbor’s importance tenfold and allowed
huge ferries and ships to carry passengers like us.
On board Amy bought tickets and we
sat by the window, remarking on the clarity of sky and sea.
It was the perfect day to take this
fascinating transport, and for an overnight getaway across the Sound at the
ancient seafaring village of Port Jefferson.
We had taken the ferry before to explore the vineyards of Long Island,
but this time we were foot travelers only.
The ship pulled away, past the Buglight and Pleasure Beach. We sat port
so that I could tell Amy about the events that had led to the amusement park’s
decay. Emerald Seaside Park spread out to the west, and I stepped onto the deck
to watch the city recede in our wake.
Soon the green shore of the Island
approached.
Sailboats lazed in the calm
sea and the arms of the small bay enfolded us into the marina.
After disembarking, Amy and I walked up Main
Street, window-shopping.
We passed
Barnum Avenue, named for the time Bridgeport’s entrepreneur bought land here
across the pond.
We turned onto Liberty
Avenue and found the Golden Pineapple Bed and Breakfast.
A charming Victorian house, packed with
clocks and birdhouses, Chinese prints and 19
th Century American
paintings.
An enormous fish tank
separated the living and breakfast rooms.
Trunks, curio cabinets, floral pillows, and plush chairs made us feel
instantly relaxed.
Jennifer, the hostess, greeted us
and showed us our room with its king bed and antique furniture.
A spring breeze coasted through the windows,
and far-off I heard the hoot of the ferry leaving the dock.
After a short rest in this marvelous room, we
walked back downtown, taking East Main Street past the Free Library and a dozen
charming shops.
Reaching Broadway, we
turned left to the Fifth Season.
At this
fine restaurant an artisanal cheese plate of Vermont cheddar, blue, and
Camembert delightfully set off our red and white local Long Island wines.
The arctic char and halibut followed, framed
on luscious beds of rice and couscous.
For dessert we tried the toasted almond crème brulee and a molten
chocolate cake with hazelnut gelato.
The brisk May air echoed with laughter and conversation.
Some people walked the streets with ice cream
cones, while others sat and chatted on comfortable benches.
As Amy and I wound up the long hill of Main
Street again, I held her close and she remarked on the perfection of the
evening.
I agreed.
After a long, comfortable sleep, we woke in time for breakfast on the porch of
the Pineapple.
The host Tom served us a
fresh fruit cup, coffee, tea, and French toast on multigrain bread.
We discussed his diesel engine, which he
filled with vegetable oil to save money.
We left this oasis with regret and headed down the hill to shop.
At Tumi, the Peruvian store, we bought a
handmade belt, and at Tabu we bought a Buddhist temple bell for our porch.
We stopped at the Pindar/Duck Walk tasting
room and sampled some Sauvignon Blanc, Cabernet Franc, and lovely Meritage
blends.
After noting the British telephone
booths that the city had installed, we decided on lunch at the Tiger Lily
Café.
Hot from the sun, we eagerly drank
healthy fruit smoothies, munched on green salad, and ate a warm brie and pear
Ciabatta sandwich.
It was nearly time
for the ferry, and we took a quick look around at this charming seaside town,
so close to Bridgeport.
We would be back
for sure.
On the ferry back, Amy and I laid
on the benches of the upper deck to drink in the sun.
As we slipped towards the breakwaters of
Bridgeport Harbor, I could almost see the far-off statue of P.T. Barnum
watching us.
Bridgeport was ahead, and
home.
