The Road to Greenwich

I brought my old bike to Larchmont, and when casting about for a destination, I found that Greenwich was a mere 12 miles away. And so I headed out along US1, the Boston Post Road in these parts, for the capital of the Gold Coast.

Mamaroneck. Up hill. Rye. Mercedeses. BMWs. 1 crosses 95. Big Box trucks.

Port Chester. Finally something interesting. I knew Port Chester was largely hispanic, but going through on bike let me check out the variety. Peruvian, Columbian, Brazilian, Salvadoran restaurants collectively outnumber the Mexican, and there's good looking Indian and a "Middle-Eastern" grocery to boot. Much promise for dining.

On to Greenwich, up and down hill and dale, past (what's this?) the Ferrari-Maserati dealership, where I considered stopping to browse. Thankfully, I didn't, for after sailing past the Porsche, BMW, Mercedes, and Jaguar/Land Rover vendors, I arrived at the much more distinguished Lamborghini guy, who had probably just popped over to Port Chester for arroz con frijoles.

Undeterred by the allure of fresh steel, I soldiered on to Greenwich, savoring the deliciousness of arriving stinky and sweaty in the capital of hedgefunddom on a mountain bike which was handed down to me almost 20 years ago by my now stepmom.

Stopped in to Whole Foods for a sports drink. Of which they had none chilled, pathetically, but there was a bevy of high-end trophy wives putting perfectly coiffed kids into high-end SUVs. But I guess that's just America today.

Went down the main street, looking for something interesting, something unique. Very little to be found. Just traffic and super-high end retail. The most interesting thing was that there were traffic cops instead of lights. That's a good way to spend tax dollars. Personalize the most anonymous transaction. It's probably meant to deter traffic from auslander like me.

We'll probably go back to Port Chester soon for something grilled and garlicky. As for now, I have no business in Greenwich, a town of no chilled Gatorade.