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.