《日光觀葉前的噩耗、懷錶發條間的無疾而終與紐約上州廚房的無聲陪伴》

一九八八年金秋時節，我們準備去日光觀賞秋葉。在出發的前一晚上，接到了J母親的電話，說J的父親在十一月三日去世了。她在電話那頭很理智很平靜地告訴我們，不用馬上回紐約。由於事發突然，她無法通知散居在異地他鄉的親朋好友在短時間內聚集。骨灰已入土，等到明年暑假再舉行祭奠儀式。真佩服一位八十高齡的老婦人能如此理智，井井有條地處理這種人生大事。

電話裏得知，J的父親去世的時候很快很安詳。白天還開車帶着老伴兒一起出去吃飯。晚上跟往常一樣，他總喜歡搗鼓那幾隻精緻的老懷錶。他有全套像鐘錶匠那樣的工具，一隻眼睛夾着放大鏡，伏在寫字台上，津津有味地擺弄那些小齒輪、細發條。J母親在臥室看電視，晚了還不見他來睡覺，喚了兩聲沒回音，出來一看他已經躺在地上。這種離世的方法，真是瓜熟蒂落，無疾而終。

噩耗傳來，J哭了我也很難過，但不知怎麼去安慰他。他坐在餐桌的一邊，我坐在對面，只是默默地感受着他的悲傷。住在樓梯口的那位G女士，也是美國人，在同一所大學任教，正好過來有事找J。聽到消息後立馬摟住J的肩膀輕輕拍着安慰他。那一刻我感到極度的後悔，我怎麼不知道要摟着他拍拍他就能減輕一點他的悲傷，給他一點安慰。

記得暑假期間在紐約上州他父母家，有一次不知怎麼J讓他父親生氣了。老人一聲不響地坐在廚房裏生悶氣。厨房裏有張长桌靠著東窗和北牆，可坐人的地方是L形的两条边，他做在长边，低著頭對著窗戶，而我則坐在桌子的短邊南侧默默地陪他坐着，雖然一句話也沒說，我的破英語也說不出什麼，但我知道老人感到了我的善意，對他起到一定的安慰作用。J母親那天跟我說了謝謝，說他們父子有些小矛盾。她似乎不站在任何一方，體諒丈夫，又不願意傷了兒子的感情。過後J也對我說了謝謝。他是知道不能讓老人生氣，但又沒主動道歉。

1989年夏

一九八九年盛夏，J的母親舉辦了一個對J父親生命慶典的聚會。不要求賓客着裝太莊嚴，聚會氣氛輕鬆從容。其他州也來了不少親朋好友。他父親葬在紐約州Elmira的Lawnwood墓地。J和他的大姐都在衆人面前講了話，表達了對父親的追思與懷念。美國作家馬克·吐溫的墓也在那裏，我和J過去憑弔。之後，大家來到一個餐館聚餐。

來美國以前對墓地的概念是荒涼陰森，偶爾看到的日本墓地也是那種感覺。而美國的墓地給人的感覺是陽光明媚、濃蔭蔽日、綠草如茵、舒展大氣、寧靜安詳。去世了的人們彷彿只是在那裏歇息，很難令人感覺淒慘、悲涼、壓抑。美國墓地邊上就住着人家，看不出有什麼忌諱，彷彿陰陽無界。

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Of the Sullen Tidings prior to Nikko, the Quiet Demise amidst Watch-Springs, and the Silent Vigil within the Kitchen of Upstate New York

In the golden autumn season of the year nineteen hundred and eighty-eight, we made all readiness to journey unto Nikko for the contemplation of the autumn foliage. Upon the very eve of our departure, there came a telephonic summons from J’s mother, conveying the intelligence that J’s father had departed this life on the third day of November. Across the wire, she imparted these tidings with an admirable reason and serene composure, counseling us that we need not return straightway to New York. By reason of the suddenness of the event, it lay not in her power to assemble, within so brief a compass of time, their kindred and companions dispersed in distant regions. The ashes having already been committed to the earth, the solemn rites of remembrance were deferred until the summer recess of the following year. One could not but marvel at a matron of fourscore years, who, with such collected reason, disposed of so weighty a matter of human mortality with perfect order.

By the vehicle of that discourse we learned that the departure of J’s father was swift and full of peace. During the hours of daylight, he had driven his helpmeet abroad to partake of a repast; in the evening, according to his custom, he occupied himself with sundry antique pocket-watches of exquisite workmanship. He possessed a complete array of implements proper to a horologist, and with a magnifying glass pressed nigh his eye, he sat bent o'er his writing desk, taking a singular delight in ordering those minute wheels and slender mainsprings. J’s mother remained within the bedchamber perusing the television, and the hour growing late without his appearance, she called unto him twice, yet received no answer; upon stepping forth, she discovered him stretched upon the floor. Such a departure from this earthly sphere is truly the falling of ripe fruit, a dissolution without infirmity.

Upon the arrival of these heavy tidings, J wept and my own heart was filled with grief, yet I knew not by what speech to offer him solace. He sat at one side, while I took my station opposite, silently and with a sorrowful heart perceiving the measure of his affliction. Presently, a certain Mistress G, a gentlewoman residing nigh the stairway who likewise held a chair of instruction at the selfsame university, repaired to our chambers upon some private business with J. Beholding his distress, she straightway threw her arm about his shoulder, patting him gently to assuage his grief. At that spectacle, I was seized with a profound regret, marveling why I remained ignorant of so simple a courtesy—that by the mere embracing and gentle patting of his frame, I might have lightened a portion of his sorrow and rendered some small comfort.

I recall during the summer recess at his parents' dwelling in Upstate New York, J upon one occasion provoked his father to anger, by what means I knew not. The elder gentleman sat within the kitchen at the longer side of a table, which was so disposed against the window and the wall that chairs stood only upon the two sides forming an L-shape; his head was bowed low before the window, whilst I took my station upon the shorter side, accompanying him in utter silence; though my meager English sufficed for no discourse, yet I knew well that he perceived my goodwill, which brought a certain solace to his spirit. J’s mother upon that day tendered her gratitude unto me, remarking that some slight contention existed between father and son. She appeared to maintain a strict neutrality, showing a tender consideration for her husband, yet loth to wound the affections of her son. Thereafter, J likewise tendered his gratitude unto me. He was conscious indeed that he ought not to have provoked the elder gentleman to anger, yet he could by no means bring himself to proffer a voluntary apology.

In the high summer of the year nineteen hundred and eighty-nine, J’s mother ordained a gathering for the celebration of his father's life. No solemnity of vestment was demanded of the company, and the atmosphere of the assembly was exceedingly light and easy. Sundry kindred and companions repaired thither from diverse other states. The remains of his father were interred within the Lawnwood Cemetery at Elmira, in the State of New York. J and his eldest sister each stood before the multitude to deliver an address, testifying to their remembrance and affection for their sire. The sepulcher of the American author, Mark Twain, lay likewise within that consecrated ground, whither J and I repaired to render our homage. Thereafter, the company adjourned to a tavern to partake of a repast.

Prior to my arrival in America, the conceit I entertained of a burial-ground was one of desolation and gloomy dread, which quality I had occasionally perceived within the cemeteries of Japan. Yet the resting-places of America present an aspect bathed in bright sunshine, overcanopied with dense shade, carpeted with abundant verdure, expansive, tranquil, and full of peace. The departed souls appear merely to repose there at their ease, nor does the place induce any sense of misery, lamentation, or oppression. Hard by the borders of these cemeteries stand the dwellings of living men, who betray no sign of superstitious aversion, as though the quick and the dead coexisted without division.

特別感謝 Gemini AI 提供充滿活力的翻譯和文本潤色。

Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirited translation and text refinement.

第四百二十九篇

《中央公園旁的旅館小費、大胖子們的煎餅早餐與格林威治村的七把鎖》

紐約初履

告別了J的父母我們去了紐約市。那是我第一次去紐約市。在中央公園邊的一家旅館住了三天，總共三百多美金。這筆費用是J父母給的禮物。入住登記後，年輕的服務生拉了行李車帶着我們上了樓。車上有我們的一隻手提旅行箱和一個放了幾件替換內衣的皮質旅行袋。

找到房間、開門、進屋、把東西拿進來後，J給了他三塊錢小費。不料那服務生看着手中的三塊錢，十分不樂意，嘟囔了一句什麼，很不高興的走了出去。我剛從社會主義社會跨入資本主義社會，不知小費要付多少。J大部分時間在國外，也算是周遊過世界的老旅行家了，不知為何犯了這個錯誤。那一時刻我倆都很尷尬，臉紅到了脖子根。二〇〇九年，時隔二十多年我上網查過，谷歌搜索當時就回答一件行李給一到兩美金，和二〇二四年的AI回答是一樣的。莫非我們當年住的旅館比較高級，要付更多的小費？

2024年12月16日上網查詢

2013年10月23日J家南陽台上的小皮箱

這是那隻小皮箱二〇一三年的樣子，躺在J家南陽台上吹風透氣，看着已經熟透了、累壞了的模樣。箱子還有形，只是箱蓋軟榻榻的了。以前箱子上掛滿了許多不同航空公司的行李標籤根。J喜歡留着那些用鬆緊帶吊着的行李標籤根，這讓他感到驕傲。

1988年尤金·奧尼爾劇院

回頭再說一九八八年在紐約，當晚J帶我去百老匯尤金·奧尼爾劇院看了《蝴蝶君》，將情緒調整了過來。看戲之前我們去了小意大利區的一家餐館。那個餐館環境優雅，一進屋子看到好多人拿着酒杯在門口過道這邊等座位。正猶豫是否離開，服務員就端上來兩大杯葡萄酒遞給我們，弄得我們不好意思再換別家了。那酒還不錯。我們便在門口等。為了美食等一會兒是值得的。

第二天一早去一家餐廳吃早點。食客們的早餐或是早中餐的量大、甜、油、膩。不用盯着看，那些食物就自動擠進視野。有的食客面前的大盤子裏，是摞得高高的流着黃油和楓蜜的藍莓煎餅。有一大盤裝得滿滿的，是兩個太陽煎雞蛋、三四根早餐腸、五六條培根、一大堆油炸土豆碎塊，和幾片加黃油的烤麵包。有的大盤盛的，是幾個夾了雞蛋、煙肉、奶酪的羊角麵包。有的盤子裏放的是大號煎蛋卷。滿盤滿盞。還有各種酸奶、牛奶、果汁等飲料。

食客們有的在喝牛奶、有的在飲果汁，有的在割肉、有的在切水果，有的正往嘴裏送食物、有的還用餐刀往培果上抹厚厚的奶油乳酪，有的邊吃着早餐邊看着晨報、有的邊吃邊交談。

我要了一杯熱牛奶，看到周圍的人吃那麼多東西我反而沒了食欲。J的早點也吃得很少。看到這個食量，就能理解為什麼美國的街上走着那麼多大胖子了。腦海裏立馬就顯現出了八月十六日這次度假的頭一天，也是我第一次踏入美國疆土的那一天，我在夏威夷機場看到的兩位黑胖大嬸。她倆把胖子這兩個字在我頭腦中幾十年形成的概念，徹底否定了。

1988年8月 在紐約街頭請路人給拍的
On the streets of New York, August 1988

下午約好了去J的發小W的住處見面。W是個圖書出版商，住在紐約格林威治村。看時間還早，我們就在格林威治村附近轉轉。在一家門面不大的服裝店裏看到一條我很中意的淺米色、坦領、無袖、全麻質地的長裙，就買了下來。

1989年8月放學回來在日本的家門前過道遇到J端著相機

W的那套公寓，是在一幢典型的聯邦式風格連棟磚房的二樓。窗外緊挨着一間平房的店家，那碩大平整的房頂正好成了W的露台。W是一個有風度、重修養的人，並不聚衆喧嘩，所以樓下店主也很通融。W在露台靠近自家窗子的一角安置了一套室外桌椅和大遮陽傘。

我們端着酒杯拿着食物，跨過窗子來到露台上，邊品嘗着荷蘭奶酪和干紅葡萄酒，邊聊着天。

桌椅近旁還有幾盆花草，纖細的枝葉在微風中輕輕搖曳。環顧四周，牆角邊栽種在大缸裏的幾株一人多高的常青樹郁郁蔥蔥。

露台南側是街面馬路，比較開闊。其他三面都被老舊的長滿了爬牆虎的紅磚樓房圍着。東邊捱着的樓矮，大約有三層。西面是W住的樓的東側山牆。北面隔開一小塊茂密的綠地也是一棟五六層的樓房。

爬牆虎那淺褐色紐帶似的藤蔓牢牢地扒着磚牆縫隙。藤蔓上的綠葉襯托着紅磚舊牆。之字形捱着磚牆架着的、連着各層人家的消防鐵梯子銹跡斑斑。一切在午後陽光裏顯得慵懶，給人以時光倒錯之感。神情恍惚中，忘掉了這是在紐約大都市。

過了新鮮勁兒，才意識到樓房上有許多個窗子，不由得產生了一種在眾目睽睽之下的不安。下意識地往大遮陽傘底下挪了挪椅子，自以為這樣就可以擋住了別人的視線。

這才又端起酒杯，將深紅寶石色的美酒緩緩汲進口中，細細地品味着酒和奶酪交織混合而成的、絲質般的柔滑、濃郁、醇厚，與水果、堅果的馨香。

在繁忙的紐約大都市，此處還真算是一個鬧中取靜的悠閒所在。

太陽轉到了西頭，露台上有了涼意，我們進了屋。W已經預定了晚餐，出門時才注意到他家的門框上一遛安了七把鎖，還有一根金屬頂門棍。看到我們驚愕的目光，幽默、瀟灑、帥氣的W聳了聳肩，攤開一隻手，小幅度地朝上一揚，說了一聲：「Hey! This is New York City！」

晚飯是在曼哈頓的一家私人俱樂部裏吃的。那家俱樂部在外表看起來很低調，一扇黑色帶一個小窺視窗的木門緊關着。通報了姓名後進屋，裏面卻是另外一番景象。露天院子裏和周圍一圈半開放的房間都有餐桌食客，燈光幽暗，樹影婆娑，環境十分幽雅。

吃完飯我們又去了藍調爵士樂俱樂部，欣賞美國著名的爵士小號手邁爾斯·戴維斯的表演。酒吧裏人多擁擠，我要踮起腳來才能一睹大師的風采。實際上是他背部的風采，因為大師的表演时用背對着觀眾吹小號。此後意猶未盡的我們又去了另外一家酒吧。

 

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Of Hostelry Gratuities by Central Park, the Opy-Opulent Pancake Breakfasts of Vast Persons, and the Seven Locks of Greenwich Village

First Impressions of the Metropolis

Having taken our leave of J.’s parents, we departed for New York City, marking my foremost encounter with that grand metropolis. There, by the verdant expanse of Central Park, we lodged for three nights at an inn costing upwards of three hundred dollars in total for our sojourn, a bounty bestowed upon us as a parting gift from his mother and father. Upon our registry, a youthful porter conveyed our effects upstairs on a luggage barrow; our worldly possessions for the journey consisted merely of a solitary suitcase and a leathern valise containing a meager change of linen. Once the chamber was secured, the latch flung open, and our parcels brought within, J. tendered unto him a gratuity of three dollars. To our astonishment, the youth regarded the script in his palm with manifest displeasure, muttered some low grievance, and took his departure in a sullen humor. Having but recently crossed from a socialist society into the capitalist realm, I remained ignorant of the proper measure of such fees. Yet J., who had traversed the globe and might be accounted a veteran traveler, had inexplicably stumbled in this elementary courtesy. For a brief season, we both stood enveloped in a profound mortification, the crimson tide rising to our very throats. In the year two thousand and nine, more than a score of years having elapsed since that day, I straightway queried the matter upon the Google search engine, which then declared a single dollar or two sufficed for each parcel—a testimony identical to the counsel rendered by the modern engines of artificial intelligence in the year two thousand and twenty-four. Perchance the hostelry of our choosing was of an elevated order, demanding a more princely tribute.

This depicts the very aspect of that small leathern valise in the year two thousand and thirteen, reposing upon the southern balcony of J.’s dwelling to catch the ambient air. It bore the semblance of an object thoroughly seasoned and spent with toil, yet it maintained its proper form, save for the lid, which had grown quite soft and yielding. In former days, the valise was thickly hung with the stubs of luggage labels from sundry and diverse airways; J. took a singular pleasure in preserving those tokens, suspended as they were by elastic bands, for they were to him a source of honest pride.

To return, however, to our sojourn in New York in the year nineteen hundred and eighty-eight: that selfsame evening, J. escorted me to the Eugene O'Neill Theatre on Broadway to witness a performance of M. Butterfly, whereby our spirits were restored. Prior to the drama, we repaired to an establishment in Little Italy. The tavern possessed a singular elegance, yet upon our entrance, we discovered a multitude thronging the threshold, wine-cups in hand, awaiting their tables. As we wavered, undecided whether to retreat, a drawer appeared bearing two brimming goblets of vintage, which he pressed into our hands. Bound by this sudden hospitality, we could scarcely depart with any grace; the wine being of commendable quality, we submitted to the delay. Truly, a brief forbearance is a trivial price for the pleasures of the palate.

On the morrow, we sought an ordinary for our morning repast, only to find the portions served to the assembly—be it breakfast or brunch—of such magnitude, sweetness, and oily opulence as to confound the senses. One could not avert the eyes; the dishes obtruded themselves upon the vision unbidden. Before one diner sat a towering pyramid of blueberry pancakes, dripping with butter and the sweet syrup of the maple tree. Another charger was heaped high with a pair of eggs fried sunny-side up, three or four breakfast sausages, a sundry of bacon rashers, a mountain of fried potato fritters, and sundry slices of buttered toast. Others partook of great crescent rolls stuffed with eggs, bacon, and cheese, or expansive omelets folded heavy upon the plate. All was abundance, accompanied by diverse flagons of yogurt, milk, and the pressed juice of fruits.

The company sat variously engaged: some imbibing milk, others partaking of fruit waters; some carving flesh, others paring fruit. One would be conveying a morsel to his lips, while his neighbor, with a common case-knife, smeared an immoderate layer of cream cheese upon a bagel. Sundry gentlemen perused the morning journals amidst their eating, while others maintained an animated discourse.

I contenting myself with a goblet of warm milk, found my appetite quite extinguished by the spectacle of such prodigal consumption. J., too, broke his fast but lightly. Beholding such capacity, it becomes readily apparent why the public ways of America are trodden by so many persons of vast bulk.

Forthwith, my memory reverted to the sixteenth day of August—the inaugural day of our holiday, when my feet first pressed American soil. At the Hawaiian aerodrome, I had observed two black matrons of immense stature, who carried themselves with an easy assurance and serene confidence. The sight of them utterly dissolved the notions of corpulence that had resided in my mind for decades.

In the afternoon, we had an appointment to visit W., a companion of J.’s youth, who followed the trade of a book publisher in Greenwich Village. Finding the hour yet early, we strolled the environs of the Village. In a select and modest boutique, my eye caught a gown of pale beige linen, fashioned with an open collar and devoid of sleeves, which piece of apparel I straightway purchased.

W.’s quarters occupied the second storey of a brick tenement built in the classical Federal style. Without his window lay the flat, expansive roof of an adjacent low shop, which, by private circumstance, served him as a terrace. W., being a gentleman of refined parts and polite breeding, eschewed all riotous assembly, wherefore the shopkeeper below granted him this indulgence. In a corner nigh the casement, W. had disposed a set of garden chairs beneath a great parasol.

Bearing our goblets and sweetmeats, we stepped across the window-frame onto the terrace, there to converse while savoring the cheeses of Holland and a vintage of Cabernet Sauvignon.

Hard by our seats stood sundry vessels of flora, their slender fronds swaying gently in the rising breeze. Casting my eyes about, I observed several evergreen trees, taller than a man, flourishing in great tubs at the angles of the wall.

To the south, the terrace looked upon a wide and open thoroughfare; upon the remaining three sides, it was hemmed in by ancient red-brick structures o'erlaid with ivy. The building adjacent to the east was low, rising some three storeys; to the west rose the gable-end of W.’s own dwelling; while to the north, across a small plot of dense shrubbery, stood a tenement of five or six storeys.

The ivy, with its pale brown, sinewy tendrils resembling ancient cords, gripped the fissures of the masonry with remarkable tenacity, its abundant green foliage contrasting with the weathered red brick. Zigzagging against the walls were the iron fire-escapes that linked the several storeys, now marred by rust. The whole scene, bathed in the golden warmth of the afternoon sun, possessed a quiet, indolent charm, inducing a strange suspension of time. In that dreamy state, one quite forgot the proximity of the bustling New York metropolis.

Yet, when the novelty subsided, I became aware of the multitude of windows looking down upon us, and a sudden unease took possession of me at the thought of being beneath so many watching eyes. Instantly, I drew my chair further beneath the shadow of the great parasol, fondly imagining myself shielded from scrutiny.

Thus comforted, I raised my glass once more, permitting the deep ruby liquor to pass slowly over my palate, lingering upon the silken smooth, rich, and full-bodied marriage of wine and cheese, interspersed with the delicate fragrances of fruit and nut.

In the heart of that tumultuous city, this spot was a haven of tranquility.

As the sun veered toward the west, a coolness descended upon the terrace, and we retreated indoors. W. had already secured a table for our evening meal. Upon our egress, I observed with astonishment a row of seven distinct locks affixed to his door-frame, supplemented by a stout iron bar to brace the portal. Noting our bewildered expressions, W.—who was a man of parts, handsome and full of dry humor—shrugged his shoulders, extended a palm with a slight upward gesture, and exclaimed, “Hey! This is New York City!”

Our supper was taken within a private club in Manhattan. From the highway, the establishment presented a most modest aspect, its black wooden door closed fast and pierced only by a small peephole. Our names having been announced, we entered to find a scene wholly transformed. In an open courtyard and within a circle of semi-enclosed chambers, tables were set with diners; the light was dim, the shadows of the trees flickered in the evening air, and the surroundings were exceedingly polite.

Our repast concluded, we repaired to the Blue Note Jazz Club to witness the extraordinary virtuosity of Miles Davis, the celebrated American trumpeter. The tavern was so densely thronged that I was constrained to stand upon my tiptoes to catch a glimpse of the master; in truth, it was his back that I chiefly beheld, for it was his custom to perform with his back turned upon the assembly. Thereafter, our curiosity being yet unsatisfied, we sought out another tavern before the night was spent.

特別感謝 Gemini AI 提供充滿活力的翻譯和文本潤色。

Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirited translation and text refinement.

第四百二十八篇

《手指湖的小白樓、谷倉紅的老倉房與數學碩士的牛奶棚》

1988年8月，我離開住房擁擠的上海才剛滿一個月。那時我還在為那寬敞的神奈川日本新居而心生竊喜，轉眼就跟著 J 跨過大洋，來到了 J 父母的家——位於紐約上州五指湖區（Finger Lakes）的庫卡湖（Keuka）附近，那裡丘陵起伏，風景宜人。一個月前，我曾接到 J 母親寄來的祝福信，信中說她家的房子雖然有些年頭了，但十分舒適，歡迎我來。

記得1988年8月16日，我第一次踏上美國疆土。在夏威夷機場入境轉機時，我驚恐地發現，兩個黑人中年婦女竟然是那麼的胖！豐滿的胸脯、渾厚的肩膀、粗壯的腰圍與翹盈盈的臀，正袒胸露臂、卻十分從容自信地坐在機場咖啡廳前吃喝交談。她倆的出現，把「胖子」這兩個字在我頭腦中原有形成的概念，徹徹底底地給否定了。心想，跟這兩位胖大嬸兒相比，我過去在國內見過的所有胖子，都不能再被稱為「胖子」了。

當我們飛抵紐約羅切斯特機場時，是 J 的父母親自開車來接的。看到兩位健朗的老人，我當時心裡感到一陣吃驚——他們都已經八十多歲了，怎麼竟然還能自己開車。以往在我的固有概念中，老人都是些行動遲緩、需要被特殊照顧的對象，在家庭中也往往是不再挑大梁、退居二線、甚至容易被小輩忽略的人了。這是我來到美國後受到的第二個驚詫。

J 父母的小白樓有一百多年的歷史了，上下大小一共有十來間屋子。包括後院在內，當時整整佔地3英畝。這裡平時就只住著 J 的父母、一隻叫 Miji 的小貓，和一條叫 Lady 的小狗。這在當時的我眼中，簡直是太奢侈了！僅僅一個多月的時間，我的住房條件就經歷了「三級跳」式的巨大變化，令我一時半會兒愣不過神來。想想一個月前在上海時的居住環境，我當時覺得這個世界簡直太不公平了。

1988年的小白樓

小白樓正面左起第一根白柱子前，種著一棵齊腰高的柏樹。那是我和 J 一起去鄉間的苗圃，花了42塊美金買回來栽種的。原先那個位置長著一棵和右邊第一根白柱子前一模一樣的松樹，不知為什麼，J 非要砍掉左邊的那棵，換上一棵柏樹。不過，柏樹看起來確實比松樹要顯得更豐富一些。西方人沒有什麼忌諱，松樹和柏樹就這麼直接種在自家的院子裡。而在老北京的四合院兒裡，則是非常忌諱栽種松柏的。

1988年小白樓東側

1988年小白樓東側

1989年在東陽台會客

1988年在東陽台抱著狗狗喝咖啡

J 的母親在東側陽台的木柵欄上放了幾個長方形的花盆，裡面種著纖柔的矮牽牛花（Petunia）。這種花的花期很長，一朵朵像小喇叭似的盛開著。每當陽光明媚的晌午，抑或是細雨濛濛的日子，坐在陽台上，手捧一張報紙或一本書，端著一杯熱咖啡或一杯清茶，無論是享受獨處，還是與家人閒聊、與小貓小狗戲耍，日子都過得無比慵懶悠閒。

1988年東陽台上

我1990年畫的東陽台的花
The petunias grown by J’s mother—I painted them in 1990.

1988年東陽台上

後院里拉著晾衣服的繩子。雖然家裡備有烘乾機，但他們依然習慣在室外將衣服直接晾曬在陽光下，透著一種古樸與自在。這裡是自家的後院兒，不必擔心有礙觀瞻。這讓我想起在上海弄堂裏晾曬的衣服，就在川流不息的行人頭頂上掛着。若是新村的樓房，晾曬被子時還要當心樓上會突然將滴水的衣服掛出來。樓房的窗子上下對齊，家家戶戶的窗前都有一個晾衣服架子，幾乎也是上下對齊的。樓上的人家若不體諒下面，樓下的便會遭殃。我們小時候一遇到大晴天，就會早早地去「占位子」，將晾衣服繩子綁在兩棵大樹之間曬被子晾衣服。晚去了還占不到。有的樹就長在人們行走的路邊，若晾衣服的繩子沒辦法只能橫着綁在行人必經的路上，便將衣服被子分開一點掛着，讓人們從晾曬的衣服被子夾縫中穿過去。

1988年在後陽台上，我右手挎著晾衣服的繩子
In 1988, on the back balcony, I had my right arm draped over the clothesline.

在小白樓的左後側，大約相隔十五米遠的地方，是一間兩層樓高的倉房，谷倉紅色，但那種紅是經過歲月磨損後的淡紅，呈現出一種讓人看上去很舒服、飽經風霜的色調。這一前一後、一白一紅兩棟樓房互相陪襯著，共同經歷了百年的滄桑，也默默見證了一個世紀的人間冷暖。

2007年

1992年J在修車

老倉房裡停著一輛看上去很氣派的1960年款黑色捷豹（Jaguar）轎車。為了保持通風，車裡放了一個小風扇，常年累月地開著。車內的皮革椅子等物件都保存得相當完好。四個車輪早已被 J 的父親卸了下來，單獨掛在牆上，整個車身由幾隻千斤頂穩穩地頂著。此外，倉房裡還堆滿了各式各樣的工具：台虎鉗、鐵鍬、鐵鎬、鐵耙、鋤頭、鐮刀、自動噴水器、手扶耕地機，所有能想到的中小型農具，在這裡可謂應有盡有。

2002年5月

2002年7月倉房北側長著核桃樹和楓樹

倉房的東山牆邊長著一大片迎春花叢。早春時節，在那些蓬蓬的褐色枝條上，會率先開出一大片明亮鮮嫩的小黃花，而翠綠的葉子要等將近一個月後才會慢慢長出來。

1984年J的父親在打理菜園子
J's father was tending the vegetable garden in 1984.

2005年小溪流

花叢的東邊有一片由 J 父親親自打理的菜園子，菜園子的東側，還有一條緩緩流淌的小溪。倉房後面的西側有一溜高大的樹木與灌木叢，東側一直到小溪的則是一片開闊的草坪，那溜大樹一直向後延伸，連著草坪後面的一大片林子。

谷歌地圖中的那一長溜當年是屬於他家的

1988年後院的林子

J 的父親平時沒事的時候，就喜歡拿著一把長柄除草刀，在後院裡四處溜達。一旦看見有一種開著紫花的野草（Burdock），他就會立刻揮刀砍掉。因為那種草的花球球上長滿了毛刺，極易黏在人的褲腿上，或者沾在小貓小狗的身上。他還指給我看倉房後面的幾棵高大的核桃樹，地上四處散落著從樹上掉下來的青皮核桃，有的表面都已經發黑了。他說，這裡有些樹是他當年親手栽種的，那兩棵大柳樹則是12年前栽下的。核桃樹的邊上還長著幾棵楓樹，秋天種子隨風飄落時，就像空中有許多精巧的小螺旋槳在旋轉著降落。他還教我辨認小溪邊草叢裡生長的野藍莓。

很多年後我上網查詢才知道，那種被 J 父親嫌棄的 Burdock 野草，在國內原來叫牛蒡，又稱「東洋參」，既是中藥也是蔬菜，營養價值極高。1988年那會兒還沒有互聯網，要是早知道這牛蒡渾身是寶，其根、莖、葉都能食用，我當時一定會採來吃，至少也要嘗嘗味道。不過話說回來，那紫色的花確實挺漂亮的，只是那毛刺刺的球球黏在褲腿和小動物身上時比較麻煩，很難摘掉。

估計西方人過去不太了解這是一種寶貝。據說在太平洋戰爭期間，日本因糧食短缺，曾給英美戰俘吃牛蒡。而戰俘們不知道這是一種食物，以為日本人逼迫他們吃樹根，誤認為自己受到了虐待。這件事後來甚至被他們告到了國際法庭。

再說那野藍莓，也是許多年後我才知道它富含花青素，是個好東西。心裡不免有些後悔，當時以及後來在那兒住了幾年，竟然都沒想著摘點兒來吃。否則的話，如今自己也不會老得這麼快了。

J 的母親對院子裡所有的樹木、花草、飛鳥以及地上跑的小動物，都能順口說出牠們的名稱與種類。有一種鳥的叫聲聽起來像是「chick-a-dee-dee-dee」。後院的小溪邊，經常會有野火雞、野兔、野鴨子、狸貓和鹿等小動物出沒。

那年夏天，J 的姑姑和姑父大老遠地開了5個小時的車，專程從匹茲堡趕過來與我們見面。剛進門時，高大的姑父便張開雙臂，熱情地想要給我一個擁抱。我心裡明明知道這是西方的正常禮節，可我的身體硬是不聽使喚，在關鍵時刻硬是偏過了身子，只伸出一隻手去想跟他握手。老人當場就被我弄蒙了，雙臂尷尬地僵在了半空中。J 見狀笑著向他們解釋道：「東方的習俗不同，芬太害羞了。」隨後，我們六人一起去了塞尼卡（Seneca）湖邊、有一百多年歷史的貝爾赫斯特城堡（Belhurst Castle）用餐。

1994年攝影課作業

那是一座羅馬復興風格的古堡，曾經是私人財產，後來被改建成了餐廳俱樂部。又過了幾天，9月4日，正值姑姑退休，我們還去參加了他們慶賀退休的家庭聚會。

1988年9月4日J的姑姑家的自助餐

後排左起 J 的姑父，J 的父親，我和 J
前排姑姑姑父的女兒，姑姑，和 J 的母親

1988年8月20日，J 帶著我去了他大學時代的好友 T 家。T 當年在威斯康辛大學讀的是數學碩士，如今卻在鄉下當起了一個地地道道的農場主。我當時心裡還十分納悶，一個讀數學的研究生，怎麼就跑來務農了。T 有三個可愛的孩子，大女兒那年8歲，性格很文靜；小男孩和小女兒則相當活潑調皮。

他們一共擁有170英畝的土地，其中100英畝栽種著有機玉米和黃豆，30英畝種著草料，還有40幾英畝是一片茂密的林子。家裡養了十來頭牛、好幾隻貓、一隻狗和一匹馬。他告訴我們，在美國養一頭乳牛，平均需要3到4英畝的草料供應。

T 每天必須給牛擠兩次奶，如果沒有按時去擠或者不小心忘了，牛奶的產量就會減少。為了保證能源源不斷地產出牛奶，母牛就必須處於不斷懷孕的狀態，聽說似乎全都是人工授精的。如此看來，奶牛這一輩子過得也滿辛苦的，幾乎老是無法休息。

T 極其勤勞。犁地、下種、除草、施肥、收割、入倉、打包、銷售、養牛、餵食、擠奶，每天起早摸黑地幹，忙得不亦樂乎。儘管他對這些工作已經熟悉到了他自己說：「閉著眼睛都能幹好」的地步，從不浪費一份力氣，但他家依然算不上富裕。

他們家的小女孩順手就能抓過一隻可愛的貓，一臉燦爛地將貓提溜到我面前，像是在展示她的戰利品一般。她那稚嫩的話語顯得有些不連貫，上氣不接下氣地朝我大聲介紹著那些不同的貓的種類、特徵與習性。而那些貓們，似乎也只能無奈地接受了這個小女孩看似魯莽的愛撫。

牛棚裡剛剛擠出來的熱牛奶，T 順手就倒出了半盆。剎那間，周圍的那些貓全都有感應似的呼呼地竄了過去，擁擠在一起爭先恐後地舔舐著盆裡的鮮奶。

他們一家的生活過得極其儉樸。T 的太太人很溫和，日常十分操勞，她也是他們的大學同學。她一個人既要帶三個孩子，又要打理自家吃菜的菜園子，整天忙忙碌碌的，根本顧不上收拾屋子。所以他們家裡顯得比較凌亂，沙發上、地上四處都堆著一堆一堆的衣服，也分不清到底是洗過的還是沒洗的。

很多年以後，我曾問過 T 有關牛奶的脂肪含量對人體健康的影響。T 對我說：「我們很窮，窮得家裡就只剩下牛奶了。我的孩子們全都是喝這種牛奶長大的，但你看，我們每個人都很健康。」我估計他們當年喝的就是未經加工的全脂鮮奶。但最關鍵的原因是，他們每個人平時都在進行大量的運動。孩子們整天忙著跑動，不需要刻意去鍛煉就很健康；而 T 作為農莊主，每天幹的都是重體力活，所以身體自然很好。

小村鎮裏一共也沒有幾條馬路，街上看不見行人。主街兩側的草坪大樹間，一棟棟有歷史底蘊的洋房別墅，各自風格獨特，不單調也不重複，而又渾然一體融於自然。遠處教堂的尖頂直入雲霄，天極藍，雲極純，透着一派寧靜與祥和。

這其實還僅僅是美國普通中產家庭退休後的住房條件。據說一般的美國人退休之後，都會選擇搬到這種偏遠、清靜、且物價相對便宜一些的地區來安度晚年，這裡確實是個理想的場所。

1992年

村子裡的生活節奏十分緩慢，偶爾會有騎馬的人從家門口慢悠悠地路過。每逢週末，便能看到幾輛門諾派教徒（Mennonite）和阿米希人（Amish）的馬車，顛兒、顛兒地從路上駛過。這一帶居住著大量的門諾派與阿米希人，他們的宗教信仰、單純質樸以及與世無爭的日常生活習性，使得這片地區美麗的原生態風貌被完整地保存了下來。

我當時對 J 說：「這裡估計就像天堂一樣。」

1988年 Keuka 湖

那段日子裡，我們還去湖裡游了幾次泳。這裡的州立公園和公共游泳水域，給那些不直接住在湖邊的人們，提供了平等享受大自然神奇與美麗的機會。湖水裡有戲水的，沙灘上有曬日光浴的，大樹下有燒烤的。

1988年夏

五指湖區有大片大片綿延的葡萄園、高爾夫球場、露宿營地、遊艇俱樂部、風味餐館、環境幽雅的旅店，以及有錢人家的夏季別墅等。這裡還有許多度假房專門出租，供夏季的旅遊者前來使用。

許多前來度假的人們，開著休閒房車（RV），拖家帶口，後面還拉著小車、馱著自行車，成群結隊地來到湖邊的營地度假。

**********************************

The White House of the Finger Lakes, the Barn-Red Shed, and the Mathematician's Milk Barn

In August 1988, it had been barely a month since I departed from the cramped, overcrowded housing conditions of Shanghai. While I was still secretly rejoicing over the spaciousness of my new residence in Kanagawa, Japan, I found myself traveling across the ocean with J to the rolling hills and picturesque landscape of Upstate New York's Finger Lakes region . This was J’s parents’ home near Keuka Lake. A month prior, I had received a welcoming letter from J’s mother, in which she noted that while her house possessed considerable age, it was exceedingly comfortable, and she warmly anticipated my arrival.

I distinctly recall August 16, 1988, the very first time I stepped onto American soil. While passing through immigration and transferring flights at the Hawaii airport, I was astonished to observe two middle-aged Black women who were remarkably heavy. Possessing full busts, thick shoulders, broad waistlines, and prominent hips, they sat at an airport café entrance, completely at ease and filled with self-confidence, dressed in clothing that left their arms and necklines bare as they ate, drank, and conversed. Their presence utterly demolished the preconceived notions of the word "fat" that had long existed in my mind. I reasoned that compared to these two women, none of the heavy individuals I had previously encountered in China could ever be termed "fat" again.

When we arrived at the Rochester airport in New York, J’s parents drove out in person to receive us. Observing the robust elders, I was struck by a wave of surprise—both were already in their eighties, yet they were fully capable of driving an automobile on their own. In my past experience, elderly individuals were invariably slow-moving, dependent figures requiring constant care—individuals who no longer held authority, had retreated to the background, or were easily overlooked by the younger generations. This constituted my second great astonishment upon arriving in America.

The white frame house belonging to J’s parents possessed over a century of history, containing roughly ten rooms upstairs and down. Including the backyard, the property encompassed a full three acres. At the time, the entire estate was occupied solely by J’s parents, a small cat named Miji, and a little dog named Lady. In my eyes back then, this was nothing short of extraordinary luxury. In the span of a single month, my domestic housing conditions had leaped through a dramatic "triple jump," leaving me completely dazed for days. Reflecting on the crowded spaces of Shanghai just a month prior, I felt that the world was remarkably inequitable.

In front of the first white pillar on the left side of the house stood a waist-high cypress tree. J and I had driven out to a rural nursery and purchased it together for 42 dollars. Originally, that spot had been occupied by a pine tree identical to the one standing before the first white pillar on the right; for reasons unknown, J insisted on cutting down the left pine and replacing it with a cypress. However, the cypress did seem to possess a richer texture than the pine. Westerners harbored no superstitions regarding such matters, planting pines and cypresses directly within their residential yards. In contrast, planting pine and cypress trees within traditional courtyard homes of old Beijing was strictly taboo.

On the wooden railing of the eastern balcony, J’s mother had arranged several rectangular flower boxes planted with delicate petunias. These flowers boasted an incredibly long blooming season, opening wide like clusters of miniature trumpets. On bright, sunny noons or during misty, drizzling days, one could sit upon the balcony with a newspaper or a book, a cup of hot coffee or clear tea, enjoying solitude, conversing with family, or playing with the cat and dog as the days drifted by in a lazy, unhurried fashion.

The backyard was outfitted with a traditional clothesline. Though the household was equipped with an electric dryer, they maintained the habit of hanging their laundry outside to dry directly under the open sun, projecting an air of archaic simplicity and freedom. This was their own backyard, so naturally, there’s no need to worry about it being an eyesore. This recalled to my mind the apparel hung out to dry within the narrow alleyways of Shanghai, suspended directly o'er the heads of the ceaseless torrent of wayfarers. In the multi-storeyed tenements of the newer villages, when exposing one's quilts to the sun, a constant vigilance was demanded lest the inhabitants above should abruptly display their own dripping linen. For the casements of these dwellings were aligned precisely one beneath the other, and before every window was fixed a drying frame, likewise in vertical alignment; should the dwellers on the upper storey fail in consideration for those below, the latter straightway suffered the grievance. In the days of our youth, upon the dawning of a fair and cloudless morn, we would repair early to the grounds to secure a station, binding our cords between two great trees whereon to sun our quilts and dry our garments; he who arrived late found no place remaining. Sundry of these trees grew hard by the common paths, and if, by sheer constraint of space, the cord must needs be fastened transversely across the highway trodden by all, we had no remedy but to part the garments and quilts a little space asunder, permitting the folk to pass through the very clefts of the drying array.

Roughly fifteen meters to the rear-left of the main white house stood a two-story barn. It was finished in a classic barn-red hue, though it was a faded red worn thin by decades of weather—a comfortable, weathered tone that rested easy on the eyes. Standing together, one white and one red, these two centuries-old structures complemented one another, enduring a hundred years of changing seasons and bearing silent witness to a century of human life.

Sheltered within the old barn was a remarkably grand 1960 black Jaguar sedan. To maintain ventilation, a small electric fan inside the cabin ran continuously year-round. The leather seating and interior appointments remained in immaculate condition. J’s father had long since removed the four wheels, hanging them separately upon the wall, leaving the chassis securely elevated atop several mechanical jacks. Furthermore, the shed was packed with an array of manual tools: bench vises, iron shovels, pickaxes, rakes, hoes, scythes, automatic sprinklers, and a pedestrian rototiller—virtually every variety of small-scale agricultural implement was present.

Against the eastern wall of the barn grew a massive thicket of winter jasmine. In the early days of spring, amidst the dense, brown branches, a profusion of bright, tender yellow blossoms would burst forth first, while the deep green foliage would tarry for nearly a month before unfolding. To the east of the thicket lay a vegetable garden cultivated by J’s father, flanked on its eastern boundary by a gently murmuring creek. To the rear-west of the barn stood a row of mature trees and wild brambles, bordering a wide lawn that stretches all the way to the stream; that line of ancient trees stretched straight back into a forest.

When J’s father had leisure, he was fond of walking about the backyard carrying a long-handled weed slasher. The moment his eyes caught sight of burdock—a weed that put forth purple blossoms—he would instantly strike it down. The seed heads of the burdock were covered in stiff burrs that clung stubbornly to trouser legs and the fur of the cat and dog. He pointed out several towering walnut trees situated behind the barn, where the ground was littered with green-hulled walnuts dropped from the canopy, some already turning black with decay. He remarked that several of these trees had been planted by his own hands, and the two great willows had been set down twelve years prior. Beside the walnuts stood a few maples; when their seeds drifted down upon the autumn winds, they descended through the air like countless spinning miniature propellers. He also instructed me on how to identify wild blueberries growing among the grasses bordering the creek.

Many years later, when I researched the matter online, I discovered that the troublesome burdock weed was actually known as Niubang in China—also termed "Oriental Ginseng"—a highly nutritious plant utilized both as a herbal medicine and a vegetable. Back in 1988, the Internet did not exist; had I known that the burdock was entirely edible—its roots, stalks, and leaves all serving as sustenance—I would certainly have harvested it to cook, or at least sampled its flavor. Yet, looking back, those purple blossoms were genuinely beautiful, even if the burrs clinging to clothing and animal fur were a tedious nuisance to remove.

It seems Westerners in the past were largely unaware of its value. It is recorded that during the Pacific War, due to severe food shortages, the Japanese military fed burdock roots to British and American prisoners of war. Unaware that it was an edible plant, the prisoners believed they were being forced to consume tree roots and concluded they were being subjected to cruel mistreatment—an incident that they subsequently brought before an international tribunal.

As for the wild blueberries, it was similarly decades later that I learned they were packed with anthocyanins and held great health value. I felt a minor pang of regret that during my years residing there, I had never thought to gather them for food; otherwise, perhaps I would not have aged quite so rapidly now.

J’s mother could identify every tree, flower, wild bird, and animal traversing the grounds by its specific name and genus. There was a particular bird whose call sounded precisely like "chick-a-dee-dee-dee." Along the banks of the backyard creek, wild turkeys, rabbits, ducks, raccoons, and deer frequently emerged from the woods.

That summer, J’s aunt and uncle drove a full five hours from Pittsburgh specifically to meet us. Upon crossing the threshold, the towering uncle opened his arms wide, preparing to offer me a warm, Western-style embrace. Though I fully comprehended that this was standard custom in the West, my body simply refused to comply; at the critical second, I ducked my torso sideways and merely extended a hand to initiate a handshake. The old gentleman was entirely nonplussed, his arms freezing awkwardly in mid-air. Observing the encounter, J laughed and explained, "Eastern customs are different; Fen is simply too bashful." Afterward, the six of us dined at Belhurst Castle along the shore of Seneca Lake—a century-old Romanesque Revival structure that had transitioned from a private estate into a restaurant and club. A few days later, on September 4, to mark the aunt’s retirement, we attended a celebratory family gathering. In this photograph, the four individuals in the back row from the left are J’s uncle, J’s father, myself, and J. In the front row are his uncle and aunt’s daughter, his aunt, and J’s mother.

On August 20, 1988, J took me to visit T, his close companion from his university days. T had earned a Master’s degree in mathematics from the University of Wisconsin, yet he had chosen to settle in the countryside as a common farmer. At the time, I found it highly perplexing that a graduate student of mathematics would devote himself to agriculture. T was blessed with three lovely children: the eldest daughter was eight that year and possessed a serene demeanor, while the young boy and the youngest daughter were remarkably spirited and mischievous.

They owned a total of 170 acres of land, of which 100 acres were cultivated with organic corn and soybeans, 30 acres were set aside for hay, and over 40 acres comprised a dense woodland. Their livestock included a dozen cattle, several cats, a dog, and a single horse. He informed us that in America, maintaining a single dairy cow required an average supply of three to four acres of pastureland.

T was required to milk the herd twice daily without fail; if he delayed or forgot, the milk yield would immediately dwindle. To ensure a continuous supply of milk, the cows had to be kept in a perpetual state of pregnancy, achieved entirely through artificial insemination. Viewed thus, the life of a dairy cow was remarkably arduous, spent in a state of nearly unremitting labor.

T was an exceptionally industrious man. Plowing, sowing, weeding, fertilizing, harvesting, storing, packing, marketing, tending the herd, feeding, and milking—he labored from dawn until dusk, finding immense fulfillment in his toil. Though he was so thoroughly acquainted with these chores that he could execute them "with his eyes closed," never wasting an ounce of energy, his household remained modest rather than wealthy.

Their young daughter could casually scoop up a cat and march over to me with a radiant smile, hoisting the creature like a trophy of war. Her childish speech was breathless and disjointed as she boisterously explained the distinct breeds, traits, and temperaments of the various felines. The cats, for their part, appeared to have resigned themselves to the girl’s rough caresses.

From the fresh milk just drawn in the barn, T would casually pour out half a basin. In an instant, the farm cats would rush over from all quarters, crowding and jostling one another to lap up the warm milk.

The family’s domestic life was exceedingly frugal. T’s wife was a gentle, hardworking woman who had been their university classmate. Managing three children while tending a vegetable garden for the household’s sustenance kept her continuously occupied, leaving her with no leisure to tidy the residence. Consequently, the interior was somewhat disordered, with mounds of laundry scattered across the sofas and floors, making it impossible to discern which garments were clean and which were soiled.

Many years later, I questioned T regarding the impact of milk fat content on human health. T replied, "We are poor—so poor that we have nothing left in the house but milk. My children were raised entirely on this milk, yet as you can see, every one of us is in excellent health." I surmise that the milk they consumed back then was raw, unprocessed whole milk straight from the barn. However, the critical factor was that every member of the family engaged in rigorous physical activity. The children were constantly running about, requiring no conscious exercise to maintain health, while T, as a farmer, performed heavy manual labor daily, ensuring excellent physical conditioning.

Within this small settlement there lay in all but a few highways, and the streets were notably destitute of wayfarers. Between the expansive lawns and great trees bordering the main thoroughfare, sundry villas and dwellings of venerable style arose, each possessing a singular aspect, neither monotonous nor redundant, yet all harmoniously conjoined with the surrounding nature. Afar off, the slender steeple of a church pierced the very heavens; the sky was of a wondrous azure, the clouds of an absolute purity, and the whole scene breathed a spirit of profound tranquility and peace.

This constituted the typical housing standard for an ordinary American middle-class family in retirement. It is said that average Americans, upon retiring, frequently relocate to these remote, quiet, and economically advantageous regions to spend their twilight years; this area was indeed an ideal haven.

The pace of life in the village was remarkably measured; occasionally, someone on horseback would pass leisurely by the front door. On weekends, one could observe several horse-drawn buggies belonging to the Mennonites and Amish trotting along the roadway. This region was home to a large population of Mennonites and Amish, whose religious faith, simplicity, and unpretentious lifestyles ensured that the beautiful, pristine ecosystem of the area remained fully preserved.

I remarked to J at the time, "This place feels precisely like heaven."

During those summer days, we also went swimming in the lake on several occasions. The state parks and public swimming waters granted individuals who did not reside directly along the shoreline an equal opportunity to enjoy the beauty of nature. The waters were filled with people splashing about, sunbathers reclined upon the sand, and families gathered beneath the shade of mature trees to grill food.

Gazing along the expansive shoreline, the eye met vast, sweeping vineyards, golf courses, campgrounds, yacht clubs, local restaurants, elegant inns, and the summer homes of affluent families. Numerous vacation properties were available for rent, catering to the influx of summer tourists.

Many of these seasonal travelers arrived driving massive recreational vehicles (RVs), bringing their entire families along with towed utility trailers and bicycles mounted to the frames, converging upon the lakeside campgrounds to enjoy their summer holidays.

特別感謝 Gemini AI 提供充滿活力的翻譯和文本潤色。

Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirited translation and text refinement.

第四百二十七篇