A Step Away from It

I debate: catch up on some work or step outside? So much to catch up on. No need for guilty pleasures. But just that morning, I read an article on our bulletin board on the necessity of exercise, even in the winter months. The author quotes the great flaneur Dickens: "The best way to lengthen out our days is to walk steadily and with a purpose." I take this as motivation enough : if there is anything I feel like I need in these busy winter months, it's a lengthening of days.

So I decide to, as Frank O'Hara said, "step away from them" for a moment and experience a neighborhood that, despite coming to day after day, I really didn't know very well, especially north of 86th. It's a brisk afternoon -- the more stubborn pieces of ice still clung to curbs and gutters.



I decide to head north on Madison Avenue, pioneering (for myself at least) the upper 80s and 90s. Manhattan is a rather flat island; compared to the rolling hills of San Francisco, this city is just about level with the sea in which it swims.  But still, there is something about that little crest past 84th Street that has always remained, for me, a good reason not to travel north. As if the effort wouldn't be worth the 'view.'

It's rather odd to think that, after almost three years of working in this little neighborhood, I had never before encountered "Armani Junior," on 88th, catering to the high fashion needs of your wee one. Going to Miami? Make sure you pick up little Mason his delicately ripped jeans. In fact, if there is one niche market these four or five blocks contain, it's haute couture children's clothing. I kid you not. Sure, New York has its Diamond District, its garment district, its Soho boutiques. Well, Yorkville must be known as the kids' fashion center of the world. Every third store is children's clothing boutique. I imagine a local mother's disappointment when a three-year-old spills ketchup on a $75 Jacadi blouse. Downtown consignment shops must be raking it in off of these labels.


It's so easy to get mesmerized by these Madison Avenue storefront windows -- what with their shopkeepers fixing a lapel or sharing a laugh with a customer -- that you might forget to look up. Indeed, this seems to be an issue no matter where you are in New York. Too often, we refuse to be impressed by the pomposity of a skyscraper (for tourists, we tell ourselves) or the elegance of a balcony's garden (wouldn't want to live on this block anyway). So I have to remind myself to look up at the ziggurat apartment building, with its neat slices of shadow and its staircase of balconies, brilliant in the stark February sun.

I duck into a coffee shop to grab a cup. Hold the door open for a lady who looked like she must live in the neighborhood. At first, I think she's going to go in without even acknowledging me. I practically prepare my scowl, but then she smiles politely, looks right at me, and says thank you and all is right with the world. The shop is elegant, with marble counters and exhausted looking workers. I ask for a coffee and a man appears out of nowhere asking how I take it. Milk, no sugar.

Hook a left onto 92nd Street. See the flag for Nightingale-Bamford, the girls school. For a second, I imagine my own daughters going through these beautiful blue doors. Imagine them spilling out onto a sun-dappled sidewalk, laughing and looking at friends while I read a folded newspaper. How much I wonder? $30,000? $40?

Heading now straight for the Park. The morning's dusting of snow means it's still a winter scene, and the light veil of flakes has partly covered up all the dirty snow. As I near Fifth, I realize I'm separated by the great stone wall of the park, insurmountable, a reminder of older times. Head south to "Engineer's Gate," where I notice a dedication to a New York mayor I've never heard of before. The bridal path is still dangerously icy, with former runners' footprints frozen now for weeks' on end. Up above me, hardy runners press on around the reservoir, which is now frozen solid.

I want to strap on some skates and score the ice, making the only tracks over the light layer of snow. Look! someone would say. A skater! Who would stop me? Is there an ice-skating police unit?

I notice on my way out a man in a tiny information hut. He's got a checkered scarf on and looks grandfatherly. Business must be slow these days. What does he do in there as winter passes by? I imagine a small radio playing. NPR? 1010 WINS? Perhaps a few newspapers. A sudoku book to keep him company. At one o'clock every day, a friend brings him a cup of hot tea. It steams as he steeps it.

I exit the park; church steeples compete with the glass of apartment buildings. Catholic church? No, Episcopal. Same thing, almost. I notice the sign out front. Indeed, it's an encouragement for this walk. Live fully. I will try.

It's time to head back. The amusement-ride of Guggenheim bounces into view. Looking at it from the north, it actually resembles those architectural sketches or mock-ups you see that look profoundly unreal. Couples strolling. Man checking watch. Cab picking up people. Life imitating art.

It's time to get back. PM advisement. I see the Neue Gallerine, where I have been meaning to go to for three years for a healthy dose of Viennese coffee and culture.  Maybe tomorrow. Maybe on another walk.