We entered the Public Library through a small side door, where my bookbag was immediately “searched” (I use this term loosely – she just glanced inside it) by a bored security woman with a voice like chainsaw on gravel. The library itself was magnificent – it reminded me of an ornate temple, carved from solid granite with vaulted ceilings. Our whispers carried far, bouncing around the cavernous rooms. We swept through the cartography room and the scriptorium, then stopped for a while to admire the Rotunda. Here a magnificent depiction of Prometheus graced the ceiling and along the wall Moses condemned the idol-worshippers at the mountain’s foot, his eyes like fire and stone commandments in hand. We peeked into the main reference room, but many people there were actually studying. So we just looked at each other, nodded, and left without a word.
Strangely enough there was a subway right beneath the Library, so we grabbed it and moved speedily underground until we reached Union Square. This time when we emerged from the subway station our noses were greeted by an intoxicating scent: apple cider and cider donuts. We were smack in the middle of a farmer’s market. Honeycrisp apples, various cheeses, local meats, produce, cider, and countless other delicious things. We had to force ourselves to get through it, otherwise we would have lingered too long. Oh well, such is life.
A short walk down the street deposited us at Max Brenner’s, a restaurant built around amazing chocolate dishes. We basically walked in, took in the glorious chocolatey smell, then left. At the end of the block we found Strand’s Bookstore and went in. All three of us – Taylor especially – were suckers for old books. Unfortunately what we found was a city street, with all its crowded craziness and strangeness, packed into this bookstore. The shelves were stacked five high and the ceiling not much higher. I managed to lay hands on a copy of Les Miserables as well as Crime & Punishment, but the suffocating warmth and absurd amount of patrons compelled us to leave.
The sun had set by this time, and we emerged from the bookstore into a lit-up city fully engaged. Another subway ride and we had moved downtown into the Lower Village for dinner, north of Houston Street (pronounced HOW-stun, according to Kris. “A New Yorker will yell at you if you say hewston”). We had read in this tourist book that a certain restaurant called “Comaje” would be a classy and inexpensive place to dine. The place was certainly classy. It was a swanky bistro with no overhead lights, only small candles on the tables. This ambient atmosphere was note-perfect for a romantic date, which was the case for the couple at the table beside us. We felt sort of dressed down and out-of-place in the joint, which apparently showed. We were received very differently by the two waiters that served us (and they were the only staff – this place was about the size of a comfortable bedroom). The one I’ll call Stiffster – he eyed us in a way that made me feel sort of unwelcome, and he just came off as detached and passive. The other I’ll call Mr. Friendly. Like Stiffster he was a young man, but overjoyed that we were able to secure a table (we had traipsed in without a reservation. When we told him this Stiffster looked at us like we had smacked him in the face). Mr. Friendly kept joking around with us and telling us how we were especially cool and that we were “keepers”. My guess is their normal patrons are cold and rude, but this is just conjecture. Friendly even gave us our jasmine tea on the house – which was a good thing, because something went wrong with the making of that tea. Too late to make this long story short, but the food was good and warm and gave us a spring in our step that was much needed. We may be young, but we had already walked a great deal and were exhausted.
And so we embarked on our final subway ride. We sat there and knew we really wanted some Starbucks, but also knew our chances of finding one by the ferry were slim. Just as the subway was stopping Kris suggested we get off then – a few blocks early – and walk the rest of the way to the river in hopes of spotting a Starbucks. This meant we had to make a decision in the two second span that the train doors were open. Our answer was “Yes, let’s get off” but we were too late, for as we stood up from our seats the doors closed on us. We were saddened by this. But then we had a stroke of luck, for some reason the doors opened again for a split second. Kris managed to wedge my bookbag in the door; this caused the door to reopen for one final second. In an impulsive moment we all threw ourselves through the door – Taylor almost getting stuck – as the only other family on the train cheered us on. But we made it through.
After a brief jaunt past Trinity Church, where Taylor was overjoyed to find the actual tomb of Alexander Hamilton, and a short visit to the Wall Street Bull statue, we arrived back at the Staten Island ferry. There we discovered our boat didn’t leave for another half hour. We spent this time wandering the Wall Street area, which was completely deserted. There we stumbled upon a small Vietnam War memorial and a Starbucks which was (predictably) closed.
As we boarded our return ferry and stood on the balcony watching the brilliantly lit New York City skyline retreat into the distance, it seemed a fitting time for reflection, though at the time I could think mostly of a greatly anticipated full night of sleep.
The city is a strange thing. It’s a place of corners, and little nooks begging to be explored; it’s a place where the air is full of smells good and bad – the telltale scent of burgers and fries or the cigarette smoke of a crosswalk-sharer or even just a general “city” smell. There are so many sounds that they all blend into a sort of hum. The voices are many and most have traveled through air or over sea. In some moments you glimpse tragedy – a small girl glumly eating ice cream while her mother sits on the far side of the park bench, smoking her cigarette and staring away with a detached look upon her face; in other places you spy hope and joy, mostly in the children at park playgrounds or a couple leaning on one another in the subway. You see a human people depraved and real and self-focused, but trying to learn even if it’s the wrong way. You find a people of action. Such as those gathered in protest before City Hall, chanting along with voices as one to a woman with a megaphone, their signs and beliefs held aloft; and you find an apathetic generation unwilling to look one another in the eye or cleave to anything beyond their work. And suddenly there you are, returning to your life on the ferry, Lady Liberty glowing in the dark and that giant complex knot of humanity, its glories and struggles, slowly being abstracted into a lite-brite cityscape where there are no people, no problems, only a beautiful vista.
It was a good, long day, all told.
Monday, February 28, 2011
An Urban Excursion. Part One
The Setup: Two friends and I spent a Saturday in New York City. Here follows an account of our experiences.
At 10:30 AM the Staten Island Ferry pulled out onto Hudson Bay. We found ourselves surrounded by languages foreign to our own. Kris could spot the Europeans by their shiny jackets and other clothing – the two standouts were French and German.
Upon landing we made the first trek to South Street Seaport, which lead us under a long overpass. Here’s the thing about New Yorkers, especially the young, trendy ones: they all jog. Tights, iPods, chic sportswear, the works. I stopped counting the runners after fifteen.
At the Seaport itself we encountered a charming and fascinating individual: a nameless woodcutter, early sixties, his hands knobbed and callused from thirty years of honest work, holed up in a ship storage carrier that doubled as his shop. He was very friendly, speaking with a heavy New York accent and earnestly communicating to us his passion. The place was crammed with ornate signs, half-finished ship prows, piles of books and maps and tools. We signed his guestbook, where people from across the world had already put their names. The woodcutter told us he’s encountered many celebrities, and that even Jimmy Carter once paid him a visit. While he spoke to us, an excited Asian tourist who obviously spoke no English ran into the shop, snapped a photo, then dashed out. According to the woodcutter this was a pretty common occurrence.
We climbed the Seaport mall to the promenade that overlooked the Brooklyn Bridge and where once across time Gene Autry and Frank Sinatra sang and danced before a Hollywood camera. The Seaport was a glimpse at the New York City of a simpler past, but it was quickly swallowed by the busy business structures that truly welcomed us to the Big Apple, such as a sleek grey marble Abercrombie & Fitch skyscraper.
St. Paul’s church greeted us next, an old chapel (constructed in the Rococo style according to Kris) oddly situated in the middle of downtown New York City. The small churchyard behind it marked the graves of men and women so ancient the tombstones were illegible. Like so many other parts of the city, St. Paul’s was intimately connected to the 9/11 tragedy and still coping with its strange shadow over the present. In the city’s moment of crisis the church had served as a sanctuary for the rescue workers – and suddenly the small exhibit featuring George Washington’s pew didn’t really matter as much. The murals of old photos, faces of men and women who died, and the written prayers prayed over them gave the old church a greater purpose.
In the place where the Twin Towers once stood is a construction site walled off from the public; not that we necessarily needed to see it, to walk atop the ground itself, but knowing the place is being rebuilt, like the renewed hope of the city’s people, was enough.
A lengthy ride on the Metro spat us out at Central Park East. We bought vendor hot dogs and ate them while sitting on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was then that the beautiful weather really struck us. The sky was blue, air cool and crisp; the city was alive but not thrashing or choked with too many bustlers.
We allowed ourselves to be swallowed into the Met. Through the Medieval/Byzantine section (Taylor thought it torturous that we couldn’t linger there for hours) and round the spiffy new “Guitar Heroes” exhibit, we eventually contented ourselves with wandering around the 19th century European and 20th C. Modern sections. Far be it from me to comment on all we saw there, but some of the highlights: Rembrandt, JMW Turner, Van Gogh, Monet. People move quickly though a museum – everyone except the children who are bored and sit on the benches, leaning sleepily on their father’s shoulder while mother patiently studies an original Singer-Sargent on the wall. It is a place where artistic minds flourish, like the older man who sat furiously sketching Carpeaux’s sculpture Ugolino and His Sons. The drawing was beautifully rendered, but one could see he had done it so many times before it was like breathing.
We took a short detour through Central Park. Here a giant statue of Hans Christian Andersen sadly mourned the orphaned children of 9/11 (as Taylor observed); here a lone man in sweats shadowboxes on the hill. The hipsters share the same tranquil park trail as the middle-aged dog walkers and custodians loudly argue with themselves.
After another blurring, screeching subway ride we mounted the slimy stairs into the open air, only to be hit full on with a delicious aroma: street-side kabobs. Kris had been talking these things up all day, so of course we each bought one. The middle-eastern vendor handed me the chicken kabob, smeared with barbecue sauce and skewered on a stick. But wait, there’s more: the whole kabob was then stuffed in a bun too small to accommodate it. I wasn’t sure how to begin eating it, and unthinkingly I voiced this concern aloud.
“Ah, you must go to school for that,” he said in his thick accent with a cheeky grin.
I took a bite of the succulent meat, and saw that it was very good. I told the vendor this.
“Of course,” he replied. “You think I be out here if it was not good? I’d go home!”
After getting a bit turned around and consulting our magic map a few times, we finally came upon Rockefeller Plaza (which is sort of nestled in a spot off the main drag and not immediately noticeable). 30 Rock was massive, touching the sky high above and making me dizzy. The LEGO store certainly awakened my inner child, but it was especially packed with kids and adults alike.
We followed 7th Ave down to Times Square. Looking back on it, I can summarize my thoughts thus: “Here is our culture. Advertisement and overstimulation.” Everything pops brightly, beautiful people fifty feet high loom over you, and everyone, I mean everyone is trying to sell you something, whether it’s the giant face of P. Diddy plugging some cologne or an obnoxious man on the street hounding you.
“What are you doin’ tonight?” one loud, obtrusive spokesman yelled at us. We basically ignored him, to which he responded, “Now y’all are true New Yorkers. You know what you doin’.”
It felt strangely like a fair or something similar because most of Broadway was blocked off to cars, allowing us to wander freely in the street without fear of the speeding yellow death (taxi cab). We slipped into the Times Square Toys R’ Us, which basically looks and feels like a toy magazine and/or commercial blew up, scattering legos and plush dolls and strange novelties every which way. Here we encountered Spider-Man (who I suspect was just an actor), an enormous T-Rex and Optimus Prime. Kris bought two of these collectible mini LEGO figurines, which accounted for half of our collective purchases of the day.
Next we trekked to Bryant Park, a small square behind the regal, granite-carved Public Library. Here ping-pong tables sat in the open air, people wheeled and careened about on the public ice rink, and preteen boys sold Welch’s fruit snacks out of a box. Kris began to assemble his LEGO figurines on a small open-air café table while I watched two European women try to take a picture of one another in front of the ice rink. I was amazed that people would snap photos of rather mundane things – corner coffee shops and law offices and the like – just as often as the well known landmarks. The foreigners were determined to get the full NYC experience, and so they aimed their cameras not only high aloft to capture the skyward towers but also straight across at other people, New Yorkers, going about their daily business.
At 10:30 AM the Staten Island Ferry pulled out onto Hudson Bay. We found ourselves surrounded by languages foreign to our own. Kris could spot the Europeans by their shiny jackets and other clothing – the two standouts were French and German.
Upon landing we made the first trek to South Street Seaport, which lead us under a long overpass. Here’s the thing about New Yorkers, especially the young, trendy ones: they all jog. Tights, iPods, chic sportswear, the works. I stopped counting the runners after fifteen.
At the Seaport itself we encountered a charming and fascinating individual: a nameless woodcutter, early sixties, his hands knobbed and callused from thirty years of honest work, holed up in a ship storage carrier that doubled as his shop. He was very friendly, speaking with a heavy New York accent and earnestly communicating to us his passion. The place was crammed with ornate signs, half-finished ship prows, piles of books and maps and tools. We signed his guestbook, where people from across the world had already put their names. The woodcutter told us he’s encountered many celebrities, and that even Jimmy Carter once paid him a visit. While he spoke to us, an excited Asian tourist who obviously spoke no English ran into the shop, snapped a photo, then dashed out. According to the woodcutter this was a pretty common occurrence.
We climbed the Seaport mall to the promenade that overlooked the Brooklyn Bridge and where once across time Gene Autry and Frank Sinatra sang and danced before a Hollywood camera. The Seaport was a glimpse at the New York City of a simpler past, but it was quickly swallowed by the busy business structures that truly welcomed us to the Big Apple, such as a sleek grey marble Abercrombie & Fitch skyscraper.
St. Paul’s church greeted us next, an old chapel (constructed in the Rococo style according to Kris) oddly situated in the middle of downtown New York City. The small churchyard behind it marked the graves of men and women so ancient the tombstones were illegible. Like so many other parts of the city, St. Paul’s was intimately connected to the 9/11 tragedy and still coping with its strange shadow over the present. In the city’s moment of crisis the church had served as a sanctuary for the rescue workers – and suddenly the small exhibit featuring George Washington’s pew didn’t really matter as much. The murals of old photos, faces of men and women who died, and the written prayers prayed over them gave the old church a greater purpose.
In the place where the Twin Towers once stood is a construction site walled off from the public; not that we necessarily needed to see it, to walk atop the ground itself, but knowing the place is being rebuilt, like the renewed hope of the city’s people, was enough.
A lengthy ride on the Metro spat us out at Central Park East. We bought vendor hot dogs and ate them while sitting on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was then that the beautiful weather really struck us. The sky was blue, air cool and crisp; the city was alive but not thrashing or choked with too many bustlers.
We allowed ourselves to be swallowed into the Met. Through the Medieval/Byzantine section (Taylor thought it torturous that we couldn’t linger there for hours) and round the spiffy new “Guitar Heroes” exhibit, we eventually contented ourselves with wandering around the 19th century European and 20th C. Modern sections. Far be it from me to comment on all we saw there, but some of the highlights: Rembrandt, JMW Turner, Van Gogh, Monet. People move quickly though a museum – everyone except the children who are bored and sit on the benches, leaning sleepily on their father’s shoulder while mother patiently studies an original Singer-Sargent on the wall. It is a place where artistic minds flourish, like the older man who sat furiously sketching Carpeaux’s sculpture Ugolino and His Sons. The drawing was beautifully rendered, but one could see he had done it so many times before it was like breathing.
We took a short detour through Central Park. Here a giant statue of Hans Christian Andersen sadly mourned the orphaned children of 9/11 (as Taylor observed); here a lone man in sweats shadowboxes on the hill. The hipsters share the same tranquil park trail as the middle-aged dog walkers and custodians loudly argue with themselves.
After another blurring, screeching subway ride we mounted the slimy stairs into the open air, only to be hit full on with a delicious aroma: street-side kabobs. Kris had been talking these things up all day, so of course we each bought one. The middle-eastern vendor handed me the chicken kabob, smeared with barbecue sauce and skewered on a stick. But wait, there’s more: the whole kabob was then stuffed in a bun too small to accommodate it. I wasn’t sure how to begin eating it, and unthinkingly I voiced this concern aloud.
“Ah, you must go to school for that,” he said in his thick accent with a cheeky grin.
I took a bite of the succulent meat, and saw that it was very good. I told the vendor this.
“Of course,” he replied. “You think I be out here if it was not good? I’d go home!”
After getting a bit turned around and consulting our magic map a few times, we finally came upon Rockefeller Plaza (which is sort of nestled in a spot off the main drag and not immediately noticeable). 30 Rock was massive, touching the sky high above and making me dizzy. The LEGO store certainly awakened my inner child, but it was especially packed with kids and adults alike.
We followed 7th Ave down to Times Square. Looking back on it, I can summarize my thoughts thus: “Here is our culture. Advertisement and overstimulation.” Everything pops brightly, beautiful people fifty feet high loom over you, and everyone, I mean everyone is trying to sell you something, whether it’s the giant face of P. Diddy plugging some cologne or an obnoxious man on the street hounding you.
“What are you doin’ tonight?” one loud, obtrusive spokesman yelled at us. We basically ignored him, to which he responded, “Now y’all are true New Yorkers. You know what you doin’.”
It felt strangely like a fair or something similar because most of Broadway was blocked off to cars, allowing us to wander freely in the street without fear of the speeding yellow death (taxi cab). We slipped into the Times Square Toys R’ Us, which basically looks and feels like a toy magazine and/or commercial blew up, scattering legos and plush dolls and strange novelties every which way. Here we encountered Spider-Man (who I suspect was just an actor), an enormous T-Rex and Optimus Prime. Kris bought two of these collectible mini LEGO figurines, which accounted for half of our collective purchases of the day.
Next we trekked to Bryant Park, a small square behind the regal, granite-carved Public Library. Here ping-pong tables sat in the open air, people wheeled and careened about on the public ice rink, and preteen boys sold Welch’s fruit snacks out of a box. Kris began to assemble his LEGO figurines on a small open-air café table while I watched two European women try to take a picture of one another in front of the ice rink. I was amazed that people would snap photos of rather mundane things – corner coffee shops and law offices and the like – just as often as the well known landmarks. The foreigners were determined to get the full NYC experience, and so they aimed their cameras not only high aloft to capture the skyward towers but also straight across at other people, New Yorkers, going about their daily business.
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