​Cinema, Memory, and Whiskey River

I've been to Poughkeepsie, NY, three times now. No, I didn't pick my feet in Poughkeepsie, but I did walk across two bridges and enjoyed it every time.

Some films demand a certain mood. Others transform you regardless—making you laugh, cry, or even break you apart before putting you back together. Those, you never forget. Then there are the ones you only recall in flashes—scenes lingering in your mind like echoes, while the movie itself fades into obscurity.

Take Gladiator II with Denzel Washington. I tried watching it playing for a limited time on Prime Video but never finished. I remember an emperor declaring, “They can eat war.” The line stuck with me, though not the film itself—just like people. Names slip through the cracks of memory unless they matter. If I like someone, I remember their name instantly. Otherwise, I need repetition, ten times at least. So when they greet me--"Hello, Charles!"—I smile and reply, hoping to hear their name spoken by someone else, a moment of relief.

That happened to me the other day at Whiskey River. A guy was at the bar, demolishing one of River’s famous burgers—the kind stacked like mini-sliders, paired with their uniquely cut fries. And thank God, one of my favorite bartenders was working. Nathan. That name, I never forget. Because, well—he’s handsome.

Nathan travels often—from here to Ireland, across the world with his wife. Seeing him always feels like greeting an old friend. I hug him, a genuine embrace, while keeping other thoughts private. The guy at the bar steps outside for a smoke when Nathan casually mentions his name: David. And just like that—relief. David. The man with stories impossible to match. CIA, secret jobs, adventures untold. Whatever you say, he’s done it bigger. No wonder his name slips away—it’s too large to hold.

I’d forgotten him until a random weekday, when I stopped into Whiskey River for something simple. A classic Caesar and a crisp white wine.

Spring’s here, sunshine returning, and suddenly we regret winter indulgences—extra helpings, unchecked cravings. We laugh, knowing that soon enough, we’ll have to work them off.

And Poughkeepsie? What does it have to do with anything? Not a damn thing—except that I once heard it in a film I do remember: The French Connection. Gene Hackman, a force of nature, interrogating suspects with an unsettling phrase: “Picking your feet in Poughkeepsie.”

I still don’t know what it means. But I remember it.

EssencE
WizKid

One of the high bridges you can walk across the Hudson in Poughkeepsie is a trestle originally built for trains.