The Commercial and the Residential

As I walk along 84^th street, the buildings block the low evening sun. But when I turn the corner onto 5^th Ave, heading downtown, it suddenly bathes me in warm sunlight. I cannot help but let out a small smile as I stroll down the street on this bright April day.

           I notice a little girl, no older than kindergarten, walking in front of me in a pink dress along with her older brother and her nanny. This little girl, seized, perhaps, by the optimism of spring, reaches out for a rather large grey bike leaning against the building. Her nanny is distracted, and, for a moment, I am forced to pause my fleneur-ing, grabbing hold of the bike before it falls on her. I smile at the little girl, place the bike in its proper position, and say a quiet you’re welcome to the nanny as she thanks me.

            Walking down Fifth Ave, I realize how residential it is. I pass green awning after green awning with a doorman at every building. Few people stroll along the street with me, and embrace the cozy

afternoon sun. To my right at 72^nd street, a few young mothers watch with strollers as their children shout gleefully at one of the many Central Park playgrounds.

            Turning left at 58^th street, I officially enter midtown, watching as the residential turns into the commercial. The green awnings and the doormen disappear, replaced by company names written in large letters and attractive items in the windows. A clothing store named Turnbull & Asser catches my eye. The mannequins in the window advertise sleek suits for the well-dressed man, but the seemingly brazen name makes me chuckle. Eyeing the Union Jack at the front of the store, I surmise that this must be an old British company. The original owners clearly didn’t anticipate one of their surnames becoming synonymous with a person’s backside. I pause a moment to pity any modern person with the name Asser before continuing.

            A few blocks later, I look across the street at the huge white steeple of St. Patrick’s Cathedral along with the scaffolding that currently covers the building. Observing Manhattan’s most-famed church, I turn around and instantly recognize the flags of Rockefeller Center. My dad works at Rockefeller Center, yet somehow I have never realized that St. Patrick’s Cathedral lies directly across the street. Weaving in and out of tourists while inevitably obstructing a few photos, I look down to the location of the skating rink in the winter. To my surprise, I discover that the rink is still there. This seems to me an outright rejection of the changing seasons, the final relic of a winter gone.

            Leaving Rockefeller Center, I encounter a Mister Frosty truck parked along the side of the road. I watch one little girl smile while she leaves with her ice cream, but there’s a group of adults waiting behind her. They seem to occupy too much space on the sidewalk. Children, not young professionals taking their lunch breaks, typically surround the Mister Frosty trucks close to my house. However, I decide to join this unconventional crew at the ice cream truck in recapturing childhood memories, jumping on the back of the line for a vanilla cone with sprinkles.

Too Popular to Be Cool

Is being a hipster too
mainstream, now? 

Let's start at the end of my hour-long journey with Dominic. Touring Union Square and other parts of the Lower East Side is an extremely tiring affair as you maneuver the traffic-like crowds of hipsters, tourists, and hipsters. More than tiring, it is altogether confusing when you stray from the main streets in pursuit of a literary adventure. Fortunately, I am not particularly adventurous, and my own deviations from the familiar tourist-trod pavements were limited to two or three streets.

My flaneur-ish imaginary companion and I found ourselves in a cafe that specializes in Colombian coffee, hoping to catch a few moments of rest before our awful thirty minute commute home. In retrospect perhaps a photograph would have been appropriate, as the shop was almost literally a hole in a wall, a space between two buildings that some cheapskate bought out and converted into a center for people to fake conversation and paper-writing.

The concept of making such a particularly ethnic shop struck both of us as strange, because none of the staff were Colombian. Neither is the owner; I doubt Colette is an often considered name during a child's Baptism. What an awfully hipster thing to do. Why not make a French Cafe, Mr/Mrs Colette? There are enough Colombians (and Colombian Cafes) out there that we would not miss your strange cultural experiments.

"...Now you're all gone.
Get your... back"

My decision to start at the Cafe has nothing to do with my irrational hatred of Colette's Colombian Coffee and more to do with a piece of graffiti I found in their bathroom, a space even narrower than the alleway cafe, pictured to the right. I found the line particularly fitting for my discoveries (and fitting with my prior knowledge of the area). There does seem to be an appeal for rebellion amongst the denizens of the Lower East Side, something different from the fresh mainstream.

The scantily clad or rag-covered person is, in the Upper East Side, a homeless person to be ignored, a harlot to be frowned upon. Here, he is stylish, as "not caring" is always stylish. She is expressive, revealing bits and pieces of skin that men do on a daily basis.

The skateboarders who command the view of crowds in front of the central Union Square subway are artists or artists-to-be, dazzling crowds or learning how to do so. In other neighborhoods they are noisy and unwelcome guests, disturbing the piece. Get them out of here, Mr. Officer, lest my kids get the wrong idea.

Unicorn meat is unfortunately
too high in trans-fat for most
of the health-conscious.

Even the street-art is different. In Bushwick they were hand drawn and handpainted, art in the traditional sense of the word. In Midtown Manhattan all the way up to the border of the Upper East Side we are treated to a largely clean neighborhood. The hooligans' marks are erased and replaced are left with billboards and posters of new shops and concerts and art exhibits. These are supposed to be better. The LES, however, seems to take a different approach. It mixes the peculiarity and personality of Bushwick's street artists with the consumerism and organization of the rest of Manhattan's "art." The result is something in between art and advertisement. "Unicorn Meat" is a warehouse club. The advertisement isn't particularly exciting when assessing the pure aesthetic value. But, add in the peculiarity of the name, the mystery of its lack of information, and the strangeness of its position behind a stoplight, and you have an advertisement that is also somewhat thought provoking. This makes it more tolerable than the mind-numbing, in-your-face posters all across Manhattan. Perhaps even welcome?

The Alamo's fame is also its downfall

What are not welcome, however, are the many tourists in the neighborhood. Indeed, the popularity of the area seems to contradict its rebellious and hipster and bohemian mantras. In some strange epoch, the sons of the over-worked and underpaid proletariat living in Lower East Side tenements may have discovered, in their flight from their home factories, the mystery of The Alamo. Curious they would have stared and told stories, poked and prodded, formed two Ls with their hands and pretended to take pictures. Perhaps they've began to exchange fisticuffs (a practice long-lost at Regis - perhaps we should reintroduce it for Regis Retro Day?) and in the process, a particularly violent shove pushes a boy against the cube. It moves, and the crowd goes wild. Can it be pushed again, or was that a fleeting moment of magic? Rinse and repeat, as a new set of explorers discovers the cube.

Now the piece has become more of an uncomfortable obstruction on the way to work or school. Everyone has heard of the cube and knows that it can be moved. And so the men in suits walks past The Alamo. Rinse and repeat for every other landmark in the Lower East Side.

How many would have died
if this building was made in
Qatar? 

Something that rhymes
with "citi"-bikes

I fear that slowly this place is losing its flavor. When I first discovered the area in my first year or two in the United States, it was one of the strangest, least New York areas I had experienced. This place was not in the travel guides. When I discovered it again as an adventurous slash rebellious high school Freshman, it was the most New York I area I frequented. Everyone is so quirky. Now, things have gone full circle. Not so much because I am a changed person, which explained the difference in my earlier two perceptions, but perhaps because of the changes in the place and attitude of people.

There does not seem so much to be a conscious attempt to be different so much as there is a conscious attempt to conform to the different. The Citi-bikes, for example, seem to be a push in the direction of a green/organic hipster movement. But they are still branded "Citbank." Are these corporations not antithetical to the LES ethos? The construction sheets and walls are gone now, as most of the buildings in recent memory have been finished. Yet they do not strike me or anyone I know as particularly interesting because once more they are conforming to what is different, as opposed to being different. The strange, impractical curves and glasses are frankly stupid, not artistic. Perhaps a century ago they would have been groundbreaking, but when every new building is in that design...

Even St. Mark's is less a cultural experiment for NYU students than a place for desperate teenagers to drink inside karaoke bars. Note again the new and the old. The strange Japanese and Korean eatieries and bars have been replaced by chain food and drink stores that are modestly Japanese or Korean. Good bye to true ethnic foods and say hello to bento boxes.

I am venting, at this point. Perhaps, as I mentioned, it is due to the confusing nature of the Lower East Side - each street is a microcosm of every different and unique nook and cranny of New York, but each street is the same in that way. Perhaps it is because the neighborhood is changing as we speak. A neighborhood I spent my very first years in. Perhaps I am merely resistant in having my New York become somebody else's.

Long Walk to Understanding

It’s too early on a Saturday morning. Baseball practice has just ended, and all I want to do is jump back in bed. Unfortunately, I’ve already promised myself I would make the walk from Regis to Grand Central down Park Avenue. After reading how E.B. White felt about commuters in New York City, I felt motivated to get off my suburban rear end, pick up my head, and take in the wonders of this great city.

            I take a long look down Park, still feeling hesitant about making the walk. I need to do it. I have to show E.B. White that his claim about suburbanites was completely inaccurate. However, I don’t even reach the 70’s yet before I start counting down the streets until Grand Central at 42^nd. Man, White could not have been more right. Over the past four years, I had grown so accustomed to putting my head down and making it to my destination as quickly as humanly possible. This walk was going to take a long time, but it would be good for me.

            Aside from Central Park, it is difficult to find a nice patch of grass on the island of Manhattan. Unless, of course, you are walking down Park Avenue. I had never noticed how beautiful the isle in the middle of the avenue was. It was oddly juxtaposed to all of the speeding, horn-honking, and fumes of the myriad of cars. Then I remembered why that isle existed in the first place. My dad once told me that Metro-North trains used to run above ground right down Park Avenue into Grand Central Terminal. To be honest, I wish the trains still ran that way so I could hop on and be at Grand Central already. My legs, and the rest of my body for that matter, were so tired. But seriously, it must have been such an incredible view of the city, I thought to myself. It certainly beats the dark tunnels of the modern day subway system.

            I eventually stopped counting down the streets and began to really take in the city and enjoy the experience. What I realized was that people who live in the city really are not that different from people who reside in the suburbs. This was made clear to me when I saw this little girl and her father. She was riding a little pink scooter, just like the one my sister used to ride up and down the driveway at my house. This girl didn’t need a fancy driveway to enjoy the experience of riding a scooter. She already had everything she needed. The same was true for the next person I encountered. It was an older Asian fellow who happened to be riding his bicycle as I made my way down Park. With the number of cars packing the streets in Manhattan, I was shocked to see a guy casually riding a bike in the street. “What a badass,” I muttered to myself in awe, half-hoping he would hear me and acknowledge my presence. Overall, the city really is not that different from my hometown in the suburbs. People enjoy the same sorts of activities. In fact, the scenery might even make those activities more fun in such an exciting city.

            I finally looked to see how far away Grand Central was. It was so close I could have hit one of the windows with the toss of a ball. I could not believe how quickly the trip went. I took a final look back up Park Avenue, reflecting on my journey. Although E.B. White may have been correct in his description of commuters, I had this newfound appreciation for the kinds of New Yorkers who live differently than I do. After all, I’m only a small piece of this great city.

First Day of Spring

Perfection.  Utter perfection.  I’m still entranced by the sheer beauty and warmth of the “real” first day of spring by the time I reach the corner of 84^th and Park Avenue.  Budding flowers along street side flowerbeds seem almost alien to my eyes; a winter as harsh as this past one, I suppose, can force the beauty of spring into a realm of near imagination. 

No matter, I think, as I step into pace walking down Park, targeting the MetLife building as my destination.  It used to be the Panam building, which my grandfather constantly reminded me.  He was a proud pilot for Panam through the middle of the twentieth century, and an even prouder father of two daughters.  One daughter, I remember, once begged him for an autograph from the Beatles as they arrived at JFK in February, 1964.  My grandfather, the witty man he was, happily obliged and had his own Fab Four – or four of his fellow pilots – sign respectively for the members of the British band.  To this day, my aunt, his daughter still has—

Suddenly a speeding minivan screeches to a stop as I hurry across the crosswalk on 77^th.  I jump out of the way in time to hear the equally flustered driver shout, “Don’t shake your head, kid,” as he resumes his speeding.  Thoughts run through my head, wishing I could have that moment back to conduct myself better and return fire with a better retort than silence.  In fairness, the walk signal was in my favor and he was definitely speeding.  Pushing the thought aside, I continue my walk down Park past some of the wealthiest apartments building New York has to offer.

Around 72^nd I pass a small construction site.  No workers are around, which I suppose is typical of most construction locations at this time.  There is, however, one of those orange manhole covers which spews steam into the air.  What are they called?  They are like geysers for urbanites.  Except most New Yorkers have never seen a real geyser.  It’s a shame, really, because the geysers of Yellowstone are incredible. Ah, now that is perfection.  Yellowstone: God’s second Eden.  That is where I wish I was more than anywhere else.  Where the waterfalls are skyscrapers, where Yellowstone River is the FDR Highway, and where the bison or wolves or moose are the native-born New Yorkers or commuters or tourists.  What a city Yellowstone is.

Again, I find myself captivated by the beauty of nature, no strange thing on such a spring day.  Perhaps I am being an idealistic April fool, but I hope more days like this are to come.

The Italian embassy, between 68^th and 69^th street, shortly comes into view.  A smile comes across my face.  But why should it?  My family boasts a rich Italian culture and heritage, yet I hardly know anything about the mother nation.  Then again, I am the third generation to have been born here so I’m overwhelmingly more American than Italian.  Is there even an argument to be made that I am Italian?

The famous Christ Church waits for me a few blocks later.  I specifically remember my cousin had her wedding at this location because I had to act as an usher and walk my grandmother down the aisle.  My family jokes that I am that grandmother’s least favorite grandchild.  That doesn’t matter to me anyway, but the running gag forces me to chuckle. 

Suddenly, the rush of midtown hits me.  One block ago, I walked casually and nearly alone.  Here, as the looming MetLife Building seems ever closer, crowds walk with you, forcing you into the same pace.  Thinking becomes mechanical, sauntering becomes hurrying, and soon Grand Central Terminal welcomes me and millions others through its golden doors.  Finally inside again, I miss the fresh air of the first day of spring.  Perfection.

A Stroll Into The Park, A Portal Into The Past

As a runner, walking isn’t something I normally set out to do. In my mind, it’s a cop-out work out, and worst of all, it’s so painstakingly slow. But, a flaneur’s got to do what a flanuer’s got to do, right? So, I step outside and prepare to begin my snail-paced journey. It's a little breezy, but not too bad out. Standing on my front stoop, I consider the possible routes I might take. Bell Boulevard? Peck Park? Little Neck Bay? But then I pause and think. My normal routes will not do. Today, I’m a flanuer, not a runner. I’ll head towards Kissena Park and see where that takes me.

I start by hugging the boundary of the park, passing by a large barren meadow dotted with massive trees that bear patchwork bark running from the roots all the way up to the highest reaches of the branches. Kissena Lake glistens ever so slightly. After this year’s brutal winter, the algae blooms that normally accountant for the lake’s sludgy appearance have met an icy end. At least something has managed to look better in this weather.

Across the way, homes that remind me of mini plantation houses stand facing the park as they have for decades. Who originally built them? Were they the first to pioneer this area? I find the large, covered, brick and stone porches particularly fascinating. Who has sat here and what have they seen? If those homes could talk, what story would they tell? They are the last of their kind, holding out in small pockets of strength all over the area. I turn to face the views the homes were built in mind with. The park lays unexplored before me, and so I keep walking.

Moving along, I reach an open expanse that beckons me to continue in this direction. Dry stalks of reeds and grasses litter the ground, lending an earthy aroma to the area. Even for winter, it’s an unusual amount of felled foliage. Probably cut for some reason. Wildfires. Gotta be wildfires. Don’t want wildfires. No, it can’t be. In Queens? Nah, no way. Well, I mean it could happen, but what are the odds? I realize I’m getting caught up. They’re just dead plants. I continue forward.

The trail comes to an end, and leaves me in a part of the neighborhood I’m not too familiar with. Am I by the LIE? I gotta be by the LIE. How could I miss it? It’s the freakin LIE. I start to head up a few blocks in hopes of finding the linear parking lot that serves as my North Star.

 And then I stumble up it. No, it can’t be. I had heard the rumors, but there was no was it was still around. Yet what lay ahead quickly made me into a believer. It was a horse stable, a tiny slice of the city’s history sitting smack dab in the middle of residential Flushing. I’m almost in awe, and I yearn to stick around, even if the pungent odor of manure invades my nostrils.

But then, a raindrop brings me back to reality. I look up, and the cool gray sky has turned into a brooding black abyss. I’ll catch the horses another time. Time to head home and avoid a downpour.

The Bronx Be Like..

Another day. Another walk? A random walk does not typically fit into my routine, my schedule for the day.  But, unlike the first time of flaneuring, I was ready to explore; I possessed a mindset of vigilance and oddly enough coolness.   Determined to go and spot some obscurities and fascinations, particularly on a rather decent day of weather compared to the days following this day, I exited my building with my camera/phone in hand. This walk may or may not be better than last time. Oh well, we’ll see. Time to start strolling. 

Look left. Look right.The dilemma of choosing a direction. Thank goodness someone created, “ Eeeny meeny miney moe”.  Eeeny meeny miney moe. Alright I guess I’ll go right. 

Wandering on W 205^th, I spy, through a barricade of fences with openings, an intriguing site with trains. Trains that seemed run down, totally out of service, and simply washed up. They rested on the tracks, dead serpents tranquilized by dirt, debris, rust, and all sorts of other substances probably. I scrutinize them, spotting a dim orange circle with the letter D inside in it. Seeing that spurred curiosity and a bunch of questions?  How did these trains get here? Wouldn’t there be a better place for them to be at? The sight of that slightly freaked me out, thinking that the place is merely a dumping site. Especially in the Bronx. As if nobody cares. Then again, the Bronx in general is pretty disadvantaged so I can somewhat understand them. 

A locked entrance stood in front of me beside that spectacle unfortunately.  “City of New York Entrance to Concourse Yard” carved on top of the door. And guess what was on the door and on other sections of the entrance? The appalling, acclaimed art of Graffiti. Yet, the graffiti appeared not as foul, harsh, or exotically designed. I deciphered some words on the narrow and long gray door and on parts of the cement. Free. Revenge. Zero. Deck. Where is the connection? What is the message? An answer only God and the graffiti artists know. I did not want to crack my brain trying to unravel their code, so I kept walking.

I stop in the middle of sidewalk. I need to pee.  Very badly. Crap! I spot a porta potty nearby and rush towards it. I prudently turned the handle and open the door, and entered a world of filth, stench, and obscene dirt. Filled with wet rubber bags, NYC condoms, puddles of water, scattered dirty leaves. Alright, Kwadwo. Just piss quickly and bounce. While I doing that, I notice some more graffiti. Seeing that incite me to realize that graffiti is prevalent everywhere, especially in the Bronx. Any property or place can fall victim to it.

J/EMS and Romans 6:9 stylistically written on the front of the black toilet seat. Once again an obvious connection could not be created. Maybe someone was insulting someone else. Maybe a fervent follower of Jesus Christ yearning to spread the good news anywhere. Or something else. 

On another side of the light blue cubicle were the bubble letters “DFA” styled as if each letter was slowly melting. Seeing that, I thought, “Must be initials for some small gang or something. Or an insult.”

After that observation/ urination, I left the porta potty and recognized that I should promenade elsewhere. The place I was at edged closer and closer to nothing but mundane sights and dullness. I turned around and started walking all the way to Van Cortland Park and 242^nd street. I see something that I have quite never seen before while living in the Bronx.  

Geese. Freaking geese on the patches of grass on the uneven baseball field. Moseying and quacking. Seemed like they were searching for food and enjoying the weather too. Seeing those creatures mesmerized me. I simply did not think that geese would come to Van Cortland Park, let alone the Bronx, and do their thing. It was pretty surprising to see that. So much so that I had to, as a flaneur especially, take a picture.  

It’s getting dark. Oh man I want to explore more but I think I’ve done enough exploring. If only my walk was as action-packed and intense as a Dora the Explorer adventure. Or perhaps Rush-Hour like. Man that would be live as hell. 

Modern Society and Yesterday's Traditions

            I can’t remember the last time I simply went for a walk, I think to myself as I stroll out Regis' 85^th street door into the nippy early spring air. I turn left to go towards Central Park, wondering if there is anything to be learned from being a fleneur anyway. As I enter the park, I watch bubbles the size of beach balls float over my head before vanishing into nothingness ten feet above me. I see their source ahead, the guy I remember from years of going to the park for track practice after school.

            His process is simple. The man merely dips two pieces of string into a bucket of soap before splitting them apart to create bubbles, but it is such a sight to behold. As I pause to watch the man perform, I see fleneurs such as myself take in the bubbles as well. One 30 year-old woman chases it, like a child in the summer. I think about how this man brings spring to an otherwise chilly day in Central Park as I leave a dollar in the tips bucket.

            The park, I decide, is too familiar from my four years of track practice. I push on, eventually finding myself on the Upper West Side. As I walk down 86^th street, an old, dark brick building sandwiched in between two high-rises catches my eye. I wonder about the history of the building. When was it built? How was this neighborhood back then? Perhaps I can venture across the street to take a look, but it is not easy to j-walk across four lanes of cars, city buses, trucks, and bikes. I press on.

            As a digital fleneur, I try to stay active with my camera. It’s easy to take pictures of buildings. People, however, are a different story. I receive a cold stare from a particularly burly man as I raise my phone to snap a photo. Can I pretend that I am attempting to get service? How about faking a selfie? The situation will be awkward no matter how I approach it.

            I wander further down the street. As I’m about to turn and go downtown, an Irish flag, followed by an American and a Scottish one, captures my attention. Upon closer examination, the sign tells me this is a typical Irish pub called The Parlour. Today is March 18. I picture the raucous St. Patrick’s Day celebration of yesterday with the people decked out in green, beers in hand.

            I think I’ve discovered my favorite intersection in New York. At Amsterdam Ave and 81^st street, I look down the street in one direction to see the parked cars facing away from me. Promptly, I turn around to see the parked cars in the other direction facing away from me, too. I look above to see one-way signs pointing in different directions on different sides of the street. To my right, the cars roaring up Amsterdam Ave split in various directions like a coordinated military march. This street design must be so impractical, but it amazes me at the same time.

            Soon, Amsterdam Avenue converges with Broadway. At first, the six-point intersection overwhelms the eye. Stores line the sides of the street, everything from Baby Gap to a local cigar shop. Swarms of people move through the intersection, many of who enter or leave the mini-houses in the median that serve as subway entrances. I look straight down the median at the various people sitting on the benches in relative serenity. Of course there’s a dozen or so street venders in their carts with cars flying through in every direction.

            In the midst of this chaos, I navigate my way from one end of the intersection to the other. It feels like a big game of “The Ground is Lava” as I try to figure out the best path through the various islands of sidewalk to the other side without walking into a crosswalk marked by a big red hand.

            To my right, I spy an Apple Store. With its pristine clear shell and the iconic, glowing Apple logo, it stands as a tribute to the modern man. I look to my left and find a hunched over homeless man reading a paperback book in an old sweatshirt. His sign on cardboard reads, “Broke. Need a good deed.” With the man absorbed in his book, I think, ‘perhaps I can take a picture without his knowledge. There are plenty of homeless in New York.’ But I can’t bring myself to take the picture. It seems the modern man still has more work to do.

            As I arrive at Columbus Circle, I think about how out of place a traffic circle is in Manhattan. Shouldn’t this massive statue in the middle with the surrounding road be plopped down somewhere in London, replaced by another simple street corner? A quick look at my phone, and I realize I’m on borrowed time. As my typically relentless pace replaces my easygoing stroll to catch the subway back to school for evening advisement, I feel as though I’m exiting a daydream and returning to the cold reality of my city.

Turn and Face the Strange

The scene from my doorstep. Halsey Street designers must
have used recreational drugs to conjure such strange colors.

Brooklyn is a neighborhood in transition. At Spike Lee's dismay, rich former Manhattanites migrated to neighborhoods such as Williamsburg, Park Slope, and Dumbo, pricing out the area's traditional denizens. This much is evident as soon as one takes the J train into Brooklyn during the rush hour; the usually multi-cultural cars suddenly become lacking in Caucasian and Asian populations as the train passes the Hipster Havens between Marcy and Myrtle Aves. 

Over summer, my sister purchased a house in Bushwick. Although the neighborhood is not as gentrified as others, many expect that its local family-owned business will too be replaced by the coffee-houses, antique shops, and bodegas owned by David Brooks' Bobo class. In fact, the overeager have already dubbed the neighborhood "East Williamsburg," a trend that has been met by the outcry of passionate Bushwick-ites intent on preserving the area's culture.

But I am not a true Bushwick-ite, as I rarely leave my Halsey Street abode for anything but the corner deli and subway. Thus my undiscovered flaneur, dubbed Dominic to give my flaneuring a more authentic French feel, has pressed an obligation upon me: survey these unexplored streets and avenues, and record their secrets before they are lost forever.

Curt, in my imagination, is a very
promiscuous young man.
Oh Curt, where art thou?, cry his damsels!

Halsey Street, as it does on most days, smells delicious. My neighbors cook their saliva-inducing concoctions brought from their Caribbean homes. Today, though, as I walk a direction opposite my subway station, I am bombarded with an entirely unfamiliar smell: fried fish. Unfortunately I cannot claim the same sense of appreciation at this strange odor, but I imagine that in time I will claim it as my own, too. I did not, after all, welcome the smells of roasting jerk chicken and stewing oxtail curries until months after my move. "Go in," says Dominic, excited to see what is inside. As I swing the door open, the smell becomes overpowering, the sounds of boiling oil popping only adding a repugnant texture. Unfortunately not even my adventurous alter-ego can convince me to suffer more than I have already, and I shut the door and tread on.

This, too, will soon be painted
in a psychedelic color.

There are, as was expected, dozens of abandoned buildings. Most are small houses, already in the process of being torn down and rebuilt as pretty townhouses. A surprising amount are old churches, which becomes less surprising when I realize I've passed at least six in ten blocks. One strikes my attention in particular. A tree, still leafless from winter, stands in front of the former house of God. I ask one of the passer-bys if the Church is undergoing a renovation. No, the woman says. It will be torn down in May, when the construction of a new apartment complex begins. I hope they leave the tree intact. They simply must. It would make for a most poetic moment. 

I don't believe in coincidences.

It only plays in minor key. 

Shortly after, I walk past a large paper windmill, blowing in the rain. Strange. Shortly after, I walk past an ice cream truck parked in someone's driveway. Even stranger. My mind immediately conjures grisly thoughts about new serial killer loose in Bushwick, leaving the detectives of the Nine-Nine befuddled. Star detectives Peralta and Santiago have no choice but to call Dominic, expert flaneur. "It's probably the guy with the creepy ice cream truck." It is. 

"Where kids are our buzzzziness!"

Perhaps he is preparing for the influx of prep school boys and girls that will likely run amok in a few years? A little premature. Though, I spend a lot of time in Queens and the closer-to-the-city parts of Brooklyn and I have never seen ice cream trucks in those areas. In fact, I've only seen them in Manhattan. He can't be driving up there all the way from here, right? To be fair, there is another abandoned building that seems to be primed to become the next neighborhood daycare. I hope they do a good job of fixing up the building - the dust and missing bricks make it look like a very unsafe place for children to stay. I also question the bee mascot. I think they are terrifying. Perhaps a kitten, or a polar bear would be more appropriate. 

The setting for the next
Scooby Doo Movie.

I stop between two fairly interesting landmarks. One is a Freemason building, "The Ridgewood Masonic Temple." It is for sale, and I envy whichever bored millionaire decides to sweep in and purchase the building. Frankly, it looks like a haunted house. From afar it is no different from the many other beige brick buildings in the area. Up close, though, the little details give it an undeniably terrifying aura. Fist sized holes in the windows; the front doors locked by a rusted chain; cobwebs. Above all, the absence of vandalism, an art form present on all other unclaimed properties in Bushwick, makes me imagine that there is something either especially sacred or especially scary about this building. 

Absent the creepy shivers it would send down anyone's spine, though, the masonic temple would make for an absolutely beautiful mansion. 

"You can get a lot more with a kind word and a gun
than a gun alone."

Speaking of which, the other building was the Bushwick version of a mansion. A quick conversation with the police officer stationed across from the house informs me of its history. According to the man, assuming he isn't just pulling my leg, the house is one of many former mansions owned by Brooklyn drug families. He doesn't know who lived in this one in particular, but he's quick to embellish. Real life Kevin Costners and Sean Connerys apparently fought hard to wrest control of the Brooklyn Streets from the hands of real life Robert De Niros. I doubt the story was as captivating as the officer's, but judging from the absence of any Neo-Georgian architecture in the immediate vicinity, I'm sure it belonged to someone important.

Although empty because of the rain, I'm sure this is a
prime location for many kids' after-school activities.

I walk down an avenue and turn home. Unfortunately Broadway isn't as interesting as Bushwick Avenue, but there are a few undiscovered locations. I found a basketball court that looks remarkably well-kept. It reminds me of the public school courts I used to frequent when I lived in 96th Street. Those were far dirtier, with many of the basketball rims rusted or hanging off. I am proud to report that Brooklyn's public schools do a far better job with their maintenance - minus the absent nets, these basketball courts were pristine. Even the hopskotch and other jumping and screaming-related games painted onto the ground were perfect. The ones on the Upper East Side were more often than not made up of half-disappeared paints and non-matching colors.

The best types of graffiti are the ones left to the imagination.

I round off my tour of Bushwick by pausing at a wall full of graffiti. My brother tells me that had I gone past the Masonic Temple and turned onto Broadway then, I would have been privy to an even more impressive set of street art. Unfortunately that means braving the Gates Avenue and Broadway Junction parts of my Bushwick, which are far more dangerous. My sister told me never to stop at those subway stations at night, as they are centers from criminal activity. Perhaps some other day, when I am more attuned to the my environment. Or when I have learned Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.

Not to be confused with the Hewitt School,
which is filled with the Upper East Side's
most sought after young maidens.

I am jealous of these artists who can paint such vivid pictures. They are cartoonish and yet seem so real. Their paints, while obviously quite cheap, seem to be rich, in a way that cannot be explained by mouths but can be understood by eyes. Here a mother listening to a boombox, her child in matching yellow clothes int he background. There a teacher lecturing to his class about the importance of communication in the long road to world peace. Here a woman of an alien race, eyes closed in a wonderful dream as the clock in her head ticks to the stop that she desires not. There an outline of The City, golden from the setting of a summer sun.

This is, Dominic says, indeed a special place. I think I will mourn these places when they are gone, perhaps as early as when I return from my four years of college. I am inclined to support gentrification. How can I honestly say I do not? It will bring to my Bushwick home a population that I frankly have more experience with and am more comfortable around. Yet as I write these words down I feel a tinge of guilt. My New York comes at the exclusion of someone else's, a New York that is just as vibrant and colorful and memorable, if not more so, than my own. I wonder what they feel as they see strangers like my family move in one by one, like days crossed out on a calendar counting the time they have left with their version of 11221.