The Commercial and the Residential

As I walk along 84^th street, the buildings block the low evening sun. But when I turn the corner onto 5^th Ave, heading downtown, it suddenly bathes me in warm sunlight. I cannot help but let out a small smile as I stroll down the street on this bright April day.

           I notice a little girl, no older than kindergarten, walking in front of me in a pink dress along with her older brother and her nanny. This little girl, seized, perhaps, by the optimism of spring, reaches out for a rather large grey bike leaning against the building. Her nanny is distracted, and, for a moment, I am forced to pause my fleneur-ing, grabbing hold of the bike before it falls on her. I smile at the little girl, place the bike in its proper position, and say a quiet you’re welcome to the nanny as she thanks me.

            Walking down Fifth Ave, I realize how residential it is. I pass green awning after green awning with a doorman at every building. Few people stroll along the street with me, and embrace the cozy

afternoon sun. To my right at 72^nd street, a few young mothers watch with strollers as their children shout gleefully at one of the many Central Park playgrounds.

            Turning left at 58^th street, I officially enter midtown, watching as the residential turns into the commercial. The green awnings and the doormen disappear, replaced by company names written in large letters and attractive items in the windows. A clothing store named Turnbull & Asser catches my eye. The mannequins in the window advertise sleek suits for the well-dressed man, but the seemingly brazen name makes me chuckle. Eyeing the Union Jack at the front of the store, I surmise that this must be an old British company. The original owners clearly didn’t anticipate one of their surnames becoming synonymous with a person’s backside. I pause a moment to pity any modern person with the name Asser before continuing.

            A few blocks later, I look across the street at the huge white steeple of St. Patrick’s Cathedral along with the scaffolding that currently covers the building. Observing Manhattan’s most-famed church, I turn around and instantly recognize the flags of Rockefeller Center. My dad works at Rockefeller Center, yet somehow I have never realized that St. Patrick’s Cathedral lies directly across the street. Weaving in and out of tourists while inevitably obstructing a few photos, I look down to the location of the skating rink in the winter. To my surprise, I discover that the rink is still there. This seems to me an outright rejection of the changing seasons, the final relic of a winter gone.

            Leaving Rockefeller Center, I encounter a Mister Frosty truck parked along the side of the road. I watch one little girl smile while she leaves with her ice cream, but there’s a group of adults waiting behind her. They seem to occupy too much space on the sidewalk. Children, not young professionals taking their lunch breaks, typically surround the Mister Frosty trucks close to my house. However, I decide to join this unconventional crew at the ice cream truck in recapturing childhood memories, jumping on the back of the line for a vanilla cone with sprinkles.