In the Catskill Mountains, in a tiny valley between two steep hills, there is a small café on a flat spot next to the road. I refer to it as The Lonely Café. In the morning Maureen and Clara serve sourdough pancakes to hard working men who grub out a living in the hardscrabble area. But not all are local. Some others have their breakfast there from time to time.
The Lonely Cafe is only a couple of hours from New York City and people come up to visit the famous health spa and fat farm in the town, or to fish, or to spend time at their second homes in the country. Every morning I start my day there reading the paper at a corner table and listening to conversations.