Hanover is bustling. The city is easily three times the size of San Antonio, with much of the growth recent. But I cannot enjoy the city.
I should have refused to come on this journey with the Koehlers. While Mr. K appears the kindest, most generous gentleman to you, the gentleman part rapidly dissipates with drink. And, with no business demands to distract him during the crossing, drink he did. He was outrageously inebriated by the end of dinner each night. So much so that, when I would come to their table to check, Mrs. K was eager to be wheeled away to her cabin. Of course, she never once spoke of it.
Emmy was right. She loves San Antonio. The temperature might be 98 degrees, even this late in the day, but the heat rising off the streets in New York City is more oppressive. And the people there always press in closer and closer, no matter how hot.
She longs to break into a joyous skip as she turns onto Hunstock Street. Her street.
Herr Cordt tips his hat to her as he hurries the opposite way. Her street. Her neighbor. Her neighbor who has lived here for 20 years, yet still speaks only German.
The fireworks were unbelievably spectacular last night, but the throngs of spectators pushing and shoving against me in the heat were unbearable. While the Statue of Liberty is welcoming, New York City is more a holding pen for the “huddled masses” than a place one can actually “breathe free.”
Forty-eight stars now fly on the American flag; yet I have only experienced one state, more accurately only one city. Your invitation to join you will change that tomorrow. The government’s announcement that the goddess of liberty, who has long reigned over the nickel coin, is to be replaced by a buffalo and an Indian head seems symbolic of my impending journey.