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.