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.