An UWS Stroll
She picked up her keys that hung from a small metal hook on the beam next to the front door with its three locks. She checked the back pocket of her light blue Levi’s jeans to confirm she had indeed placed her cell phone there just moments before. She pondered on the common occurrence of how quickly people can forget actions taken or words just spoken within seconds of delivering them. She wondered if that was a sign of neurons short circuiting due to the abundance of irrelevant information consumed these days?
She opened the door and stepped into the foyer of the top floor of the fourth floor walk up they lived in. One day, she thought, we’ll live in a brownstone. For now, they lived in a studio apartment in the Upper West Side in a pre-war building that had been renovated with a modern staircase that didn’t carry the stories as far back as she had hoped.
As she descended down the stairs, she saw their neighbors, a husband and wife from Chile and their two small daughters, tumble from their apartment with all the trappings parents seem to tirelessly carry. She smiled and called out hello.
She skipped down the stairs and passed the doors belonging to the four apartments on each floor. She reached the ground floor and scanned the multitude of boxes left in the hallway. Chewy, Banana Republic, Hello Fresh, Target, and Amazon, lots of Amazon. They adorned the floor below the bright lights and blinking camera that protected the parcels from would-be thieves who were buzzed into buildings by tenants who disobeyed the rules. In her three years in the apartment, she had only had one package go astray, a book, and she was almost certain it was due to a mis-delivery.
She wondered what it would be like to live in an apartment with a doorman who observed the comings and goings of visitors, keeping people’s deliveries safe. While part of her wanted to believe she would be comfortable having a familiar face to welcome and farewell her whenever she passed through, she also wasn’t fond of the idea that someone else could account for her movements.
She stepped through the first door into the vestibule, past the wall of buzzers that had a mix of printed and handwritten names stuck below the buttons, and pulled open the second door into the warm spring air. While it was a nice 65 degrees, she was glad she had chosen to wear her light cotton scarf, as there was still a bite to the breeze she felt greet her on this fine Saturday morning. The scarf resembled the patterns of the Azulejo tiles you admire on the Portuguese architecture and she had paid little more than a few dollars for this fanciful item when they had visited Lisbon over the summer the previous year.
Stepping off the stoop from their building on 80th Street, she turned right and walked the short 450 foot, two minute walk to Zabars. Her husband had taken the initiative to leave a few minutes before her, so as to minimize any wait time as it was always busy on any weekend morning. Locals and tourists alike flocked to this iconic cafe that in actual fact, could have been any other deli, on any other street corner, were it not for the bright orange name emblazoned above its door, and its neighboring grocery store that had stood there since 1934.
She saw her husband, holding a coffee in each hand, exit through the door that was being held open by a kind stranger. He was wearing his pink Brklyn Bloke shorts that they had bought from a market stand in Downtown Brooklyn during the time the founder was hustling hard and before he had opened his first retail store in Grand Central. Plus his $10 Nintendo shirt from Target. This was a staple item in his closet and he had worn it everywhere from quick trips to the local Duane Reade to a pop in dinner at an upscale Italian. She delighted in how many people commented on their love of his shirt, while others didn’t know whether to assume he did or didn’t belong in whichever venue they encountered him in. That’s the thing about New York City, you can never tell! So it’s best not to assume anything.
The light crossing was red, but there was a break in the traffic and with a skip and a jump, and a side step to avoid an oncoming yellow taxi on the southbound side of Broadway, she greeted him on the sidewalk with a kiss.
He handed her the cup he held in his left hand, and took her other hand in his. They strolled towards 79th street and then paused while they waited for the signal to change, or a break in the traffic. Broadway ran north-south and there were park benches that broke up the lanes. They also served as retreat seats that the locals would sit at, either alone or with friends. Every kind of guest took advantage of the space that to others outside of New York City might seem chaotic and uncomfortable. But there was something soothing about sitting in between cars whizzing by, the sound of sirens, and the bustling passers-by as you stopped in that moment in time to simply look around and just be.
She felt her husband pull her right hand and she realized he had stepped off the sidewalk, heading East toward the building that used to be DSW. She wondered what retail store would be next? There had been a lot of changes in the neighborhood throughout the pandemic, but what she had been noticing of late was the many retail stores that had become vacant during that tumultuous first year none of them would ever forget, were quickly snapped up by independent retailers and restaurateurs. It made for a nice change to the chain stores that commonly invaded neighborhoods making them feel less of a community and more of a capitalist cult.
They passed by the huge two story empty store and they stopped steps before The Dublin House. Another institution in the neighborhood that had been standing since the 1920s. It had originally opened during the Prohibition era and officially opened as a pub in 1933.
They stood looking at the brick wall painted a light beige, and at the graffiti that had been painted in tandem with the red fire hydrant. When they found themselves with time on their hands to waste, and a need to affix their eyes on anything other than a streaming service on their TV bolted to the red brick wall in their apartment, this had become their ritual. It was never lost on them; they lived in a neighborhood, in Manhattan, that had a real-life Banksy spray-painted on the side of a building. Better Out Than In, or otherwise known as Hammer Boy, was sprayed upon the wall in October 2013. They would watch as tourists came to photograph themselves next to the artwork protected by strong plexiglass, sponsored by none other than Zabars. They loved art and whether you agreed with this style of artwork or not, one could not help but appreciate the value of such a possession belonging to the community and its visitors on the Upper West Side. She smiled every time she saw it and that, to her, was priceless.
They continued along 79th Street, crossing over Amsterdam Avenue, then Columbus Avenue before coming upon the local markets lined around the Museum of Natural History. Chalk marks indicating to stall holders where to display their wares of fresh fruit and vegetables from upstate farms, raw honey from local beekeepers, free range and guilt free eggs, and flora and fauna begging to be rehomed with you. They turned right as they kept their feet on the asphalt of the street to bypass the swathes of people who oohed and aahed over local offerings, filling their reusable bags with produce and promises of keeping this plant alive.
A quick left at 77th and a few minutes later they were entering Central Park. They pulled the lids from their coffee cups, and utilized two of the three trash cans accepting paper, plastic, and trash.
The sidewalk sloped gently into the park and within minutes they were at the pedestrian crossing of a small but mighty thoroughfare that rose to meet the thin wheels of expensive bikes being cycled along its path. It was peppered with runners who glided by joggers and like a silent disco, they moved together but with their own rhythm.
While the bright white stripes indicated a notion to give way to pedestrians, they hurried their pace so as not to disturb a runner who must have been easily in his 70s but appeared to have the physique of his much younger self. They walked along the sidewalk purpose built for casual strolls to enjoy the park and headed south, passing park bench after park bench, each with a gold plaque in dedication or memoriam to a loved one. She wondered if someone, one day, might want to engrave her name on a piece of metal and screw it to a seat for strangers to read, making up their own stories about her. As this is what she did when she read the names that adorned the seats throughout not just Central Park, but the city itself.
Moments later they arrived at the Western Shore Boat Landing. She loved this part of the park, which was not dissimilar to other ponds and lakes that were built throughout the landscape. But here, it had become a familiar retreat given its proximity to their home. Throughout the pandemic they had made many memories sitting by this same spot, either together or alone, depending on the day or the breaking news.
The wooden gazebo that perched on the side of The Lake had enough seats to fit around eight adults if you didn’t mind encroaching on each other's space. Pre-pandemic, personal space wasn’t a factor in New York City, and while they had returned to a lot of what they had taken for granted before 2020, New Yorkers were not quite ready to rub shoulders with strangers again.
They saw an opportunity to snag a seat as a married couple rose. She locked eyes with one of the men, and as if by an unspoken language, he understood her question and they waited for them to approach before handing over the gift of their seats. Smiles, thank yous, and your welcomes were exchanged. The gentleman walked away hand in hand, and she felt her own husband's hand rest upon her leg. They shifted their bodies to look behind them, to the rocks sitting along the shoreline where the light green water lapped at their sides. And there, basking in the sunlight, they saw another one of their favorite sights in Manhattan… Three green turtles lounging in their natural habitat, sounded by a concrete jungle.
The end.
