![]() At any given moment, someone in theīack seat of the Torino would be forgiven for thinking that his next word would always be dude. Pat’s grin never left his face as he turned to his passenger and nodded gamely and enthusiastically, his salt and pepper mop of hair nodding right along. Without ever saying a word, simply listen to my 7th and you will know that it is!” ![]() Grazing pastures high in the Alps, a verdant Teutonic forest, the redolent décolletage of a beautiful young lady, and the indomitable spirit of an entire people in the span of a mere few minutes, If you want to know if it’s possible to distill the “Pat,” begins Ludwig, waving his hand with a flourish over the water, out the car’s window, “my music speaks to people on a grand scale. The food is way better, and the people nicer - and healthier. Whatever and wherever this “New” England is, Ludwig has polished off his second New England lobster roll this morning, succulent, buttery and rife with flavors and textures he’s never known. The fresh salt air and the not-yet-warm Cape Cod sunshine splash over both of them, and Pat’s silver sunglasses glint East Harbor’s hopeful, blinding reflection. The windows are open and Pat drives, of course. Pat and Ludwig glide down the Massachusetts coastline in a dark blue ’73 Torino, with Highway 6A and Mayflower Heights in the rear view.
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