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.

The Sidewalk is always Grayer

The view is unintentionally intimidating.  Left: seemingly endless miles of lifeless trees and brownstone buildings separated by a river of vehicles only momentarily dammed by traffic lights.  Right: the same sight.  Except for a skyscraper standing above the rest.  The Chrysler Building?  Too west to be.  The Freedom Tower? Much too north to be.  The curiosity spreads to my feet and, with the unknown structure my compass, I walk south along Central Park West.

 Scarcely another soul populates the wide sidewalk discounting myself.  I almost feel alone in this ghost town of a city walking in the solitude of my sidewalk.  One empty, forlorn bench seems to beg the few passers-by to spend a moment of time.  I give it an excuse (“Maybe another time, I have to be a fláneur today.”) but soon regret that decision.

 

 

Still, myself again excluded, hardly an individual strolls along the boulevard.  Freezing temperatures and the demands of 5:00 on a Friday are likely culprits.  Yet, the rapidly thawing heart of the beast, stretching from 110^th to 59^th streets, miraculously resembles some life.  Children dressed like wandering eskimos and teenagers prematurely welcoming spring with their short sleeved shirts simultaneously play in the park.  One adolescent throws a wayward snowball.  It lands at the surprised feet of another.  The war is on.  With little snow left, the skirmish becomes a bloodbath of icicles, muddy slush, and even an empty soda can.  Parents cringe at their senselessness.  I smile at their innocence.

 

Central Park West offers a fine lookout over the park, like an elevated turret.  One distant historic bridge – it’s old so it must be historic – hides, in its shadows, a couple standing idly.  They’re just talking.  Could be about the mistakes they have made in the past.  Or their plans for the future.  Or Sunday night’s Oscars.  I ultimately resolve something whimsical like the latter and decide to move on, regretting my forced entry into a private moment.

That same skyscraper, the mysterious one which touches the sky, becomes my focus once more.  It seems to be within reach.  Maybe four more blocks, five max.  Then I’ll know its name.  But it keeps growing taller and yet further from my grasp, as if actively evading my southward quest towards it.  I continue this dreamy sequence – it’s just a little further, I tell myself for thirty blocks – without realizing the crowd growing around me.  The sidewalk is much less lonesome, and I begin to hate this, too.  Then, another magnet vigorously seizes my attention: the statue of arguably the most famous “wanderer,” right in the middle of Columbus Circle.

Like locust, a swarm appears around me.  All walks-of-life walk beside me: the Wall Street businessman; the working class hero; the pushcart New Yorker selling signature heroes; the European or Asian tourist snapping pictures from every angle; the hopeful musician; the hopeless beggar; it’s the most complex family gathering in the world and happens at every hour every day here, there, and everywhere in Manhattan. 

I pass a horde of tourists speaking rapid German.  Suddenly, I feel myself become a member of the smaller New York family as I proudly hurry by my cousins from the Berlin family.  I adopt a completely indifferent expression, hasten my step, bump my shoulders with anyone who gets in my way.  I give these people a taste of what it means to call this city a home.  I put on a mask.  In a word, I become a New Yorker.

But I am not one.  I hate the feeling.  But I still do it.  And I go through this monotonous routine each time I hear a foreign tongue.  It is what my years commuting into the city have done to me: make me a face in the crowd.  Now, in the presence of perhaps eight million other faces of the swarm, I feel most alone.

The outermost stragglers of Times Square join me on my sidewalk, as I walk past Columbus Circle and towards the Port Authority.  The lights and neon of midtown New York mark my path.  Now, this time what I believe is the New York Times’ building attracts my eye and I again find myself wandering to that.  That is another building I have always been curious about due to the scaffolding-like exterior which partially surrounds the spire.  However, such a curiosity to see the building would not be satisfied that afternoon.  My empty stomach pleaded with me to end this madness and get home for dinner.  Freezing hands resisted emerging from my pockets.  Even my foot could not continue sharing my battered shoe with a pebble which had been there since 64^th street.  I entered the Port Authority, that ancient sanctuary for New York’s commuters, and waited to board the next bus for home.  Soon, in the midst of the filth and irritation that is the Port Authority, I began to miss New York.  It’s a complicate relationship we have.  The sidewalk is always grayer on this side, I suppose.

Beautiful Day In The NeighborHood

Leave my apartment, take the elevator, exit my building, and go on a random stroll in the Bronx. Those sequences of events, especially the random stroll, did not resonate with me well. I prefer knowing where I am headed, but imitating a digital flaneur requires ease and openness, not responsibility and rigidity. Take a deep breath, look up at the sky, and walk. Walk and Explore.

Strolling near the train station, I spot a path which I have always wanted to walk on in order to find out where it led one to.  Yet, at those times fear and skepticism overwhelmed me. Not this time. Curiosity and intent won this round. I pace myself down the steps.

At the end of the path stood a giant tunnel, a cave almost, with the year “1910” etched above it.

Before entering the tunnel, I notice steps leading to a locked gate. Walking up the steps, I observe the inside through the bars, discerning the several stalls and broken Snapple bottles and soda cans. My discernment led me to believe that this place might have been a public bathroom, similar to a porta-potty. Yet, the locked gate suggested that it might be more than that. Oh well, time to check out the tunnel/cave.

With a big gulp, I tippy-toed into the tunnel and was immediately surrounded by numerous amount of graffiti on the walls. Artwork consisting of vibrant profanity and peculiar images conveyed the idea of an Egyptian Cave.  Out of all of those images, two intrigued the most.

The face of a ghost created using a purple substance with the words “HAHA” sprayed on the mouth of the caricature. In fact, it may not even be a ghost. It could be a ghost, an ogre (Shrek?), a mockery of someone’s face.  Deciphering that piece was difficult among the other puzzling and indecipherable pieces of the cavern. Was it hieroglyphics? No, can’t call it that. More like Bronx slag only the thugs can translate with ease. 

The other image proved much more decipherable or at least to me it did. Four gargantuan baby blue bubble letters crushed together. “GIRL”.  It seemed to be done in a way that suggested patience, imagination, and pure talent in doing graffiti. Seeing that mesmerized me, I look at that for a minute or two, unlike the seconds I spent on the other ones, apart from the ghost-like face. Nonetheless, I walked to the end of the tunnel, and to my disappointment the other side of the tunnel led me to another side of my apartment building. Damn. Need to walk even more aimlessly.  

Strolling on East 208^th, a tall stocky building caught my attention. “Young Israel of Mosholu Parkway”. Nothing spectacular or jaw-dropping about it apart from two closed giant orange doors that conveyed the idea of seclusion. The idea that perhaps this place is meant for certain people, people that can comprehend and grasp the meaning and history of it. Yet, I realized after passing it that perhaps all places in the Bronx hold history and possess some known or unknown significance to the community. Every sidewalk consisting of gravel, dog shit, and piled garbage on the sides had a building that is integral to the Bronx, especially in Mosholu Parkway.

Lastly, my mindless but committed walking led to a park. Oval Park. I saw some young men playing an intense game. The weather seemed comfortable, so seeing that was not too odd, yet there were several patches of snow on the field. That did not seem to stop those guys from belligerent tackling each other onto the ground.

  I continued wandering until my stomach growled profusely, halting me from exploring and causing me to head back home, as I had no money to go and explore some shops. Yet, walking aimlessly, but cleverly in the Bronx is excellent. It was fun. Maybe I should do this again. Late at night. Wait, no, better yet, in the morning.