“You should take a walk down there,” says Bruce, pointing to the lane in back of the old Arlington Hotel, a popular watering hole where a group of us had just wrapped up lunch over beer.
“Let’s see how many you find,” he adds as he and his sister, Sandra start across a deserted street.
“We’ll meet you over at the other end in a few minutes. We’re headed for the Artisan store. See you there.”
So, while the rest of the group went left, I hung a right and traipsed on down the block.
It’s pretty quiet for a Saturday, especially on a holiday weekend. There’s practically no traffic. Pretty much anyone who stayed in town must be at the Arlington.
As I reach the entrance to the lane, I spy a bike tied along the guy wires of a telephone pole, then a line of bikes overhead, pinned to the building wall. Further down, more bikes. Continue reading