Letter from Princeton

Princeton is a small, leafy town that clusters around the famous university. Bevan lives and works in the heart of it. With his partner, a Princeton resident, he trades steel for a living. The tools of his trade are his Blackberry and his computer. His apartment is in the same house as his office, which is very convenient.

BEVAN

It takes him about five seconds to get to work – out of one door, down a passage and into another. The interior of the house reminded me of the Victorian house we used to occupy in London. Narrow stairs lead up to the first floor (the Americans would say the second floor) which he occupies. His one-bedroom apartment, which snuggles into the roof, is newly carpeted and furnished in (seriously) minimalist style. Behind the house is a small car park where he has private parking. The location and the arrangement would be hard to beat.

To accommodate us, Bevan surrendered his wonderfully comfortable double bed (a tempurpedic mattress on a hand-made base) for his sofa in the living room. These two items are just about all the furniture he possesses although he assured us that he was planning to obtain a chair and a lamp. He took us the first evening to his favourite eatery, The Point Blue fish restaurant just down the road, where we were joined by his neighbours, Chris and Monica. The menu was extensive and the fish was excellent.

En route to the restaurant, we stopped off at a bar. I was interested in trying the local beers but found these not to my taste, something in-between lager and ale. Ironically, most students are not permitted to drink alcohol as the legal age for its consumption in New Jersey is 21. This is a situation unthinkable in Europe but the Americans seem to tolerate it well enough – or at least to drink elsewhere.

It was a university reunion weekend, an occasion that each year's graduates celebrate every five years. This coincided with Memorial Day, when Americans honour their armed forces. In the morning, the wail of a pipe band drew us to the window. Jonesy rushed downstairs to get some pictures. Behind the pipers came a great parade of bands, marchers, majorettes, emergency services, scouts, Christians and you name it, all clutching their banners and waving their flags.

After the parade Jones and I went exploring while Bevan settled down to work. My wife discovered an upmarket consignment (second hand clothes) store while I found an Ecco shoe outlet and we both returned home pleased with our purchases. Our suitcases were less impressed. We're travelling with relatively small cases, which don't take kindly to having a pair of shoes thrust into them.

That afternoon Bevan drove us to Philadelphia for a performance by the city's famous orchestra. We arrived a few minutes late and had time to explore the stunning vestibule while waiting for the end of the introductory piece, a Mozart symphony.

The second piece, by a Chinese -American composer, featured a Wagnerian soprano, who tried to outshriek the discordant cacophony from a demented orchestra. It was just awful. Afterwards the composer appeared on stage where he and the soprano fell into each other's arms.

Jones gave them a good clap for effort. I don't believe in applauding the dismal and didn't. Happily, the final piece, Rachmaninov's 3rd piano concerto, was superb and the Russian soloist took several bows. That evening – and the following one – we dined in style. Most restaurants are unlicensed and the custom is for diners to take their own bottle/s to the restaurant. It's a great idea.

On the Saturday Bevan took us to a sculpture park, several acres of lawns, lakes and dozens of sculptures. It was a great place for kids to run around while the adults enjoyed a good lunch and some undemanding art.

Sunday morning – and thanks once again to our nephew – Bevan ran us to Newark Airport for our flight to Quebec City via Toronto. At his suggestion we had booked with a small airline called Porter Air that operates only smallish turbo props. What a delightful airline. It offered passengers excellent wine in real glasses as well as free wifi, drinks and eats in the airport lounge. A glimpse of the Niagara falls on our approach to Toronto was a real bonus.

We landed, not at Pearson international airport, but at the tiny Billy Bishop airport on an island in the bay, a few minutes from down-town Toronto. The short runway left the pilot with precious little to spare. It was the easiest connection we've made. Bureaucracy was minimal, the service was wonderful and the planes were small and personal. It was like going back 20 years and we loved it. If you ever get the chance, fly Porter Air.