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Central Park as a Galápagos Island
Part of Urban Confessions Week
Like it or not, some New Yorkers treat Central Park like a Galápagos Island. It’s either a free pet store or an orphanage. We’ve racked up a dog, iguana and parakeet from its forests, all with the thrill of catching them with our own hands. How many of you will fess up to taking your Woolworth’s goldfish to a local pond to either to spare it the spin down the toilet bowl, or because you imagined that it would have a better life there? Keep it up and we’ll spawn some new weird urban species.
A dollhouse in Murray Hill
This building in Murray Hill, Manhattan, caught my eye as a work of art. The black windows climb haphazardly along the walls and look almost like you can slide them from here to there with your finger. Still, it has a harmony pleasing to the eye. The building has a clean, earthen color, contrasted by the almost toy-like colorful newsstands and signs out front.
The Phone Booth
There was a phone booth at the corner of an Inwood block, right beside a mailbox, trash can and a few newspaper receptacles that flash passersby morning news. The phone booth was the first thing I noticed when I walked up that block for the very first time. It immediately became a marker of home, and contributed to why I moved there. It felt right. The phone booth was a cozy fixture, its location seemed so perfect, so residential, so reminiscent of pre-cell phone days. I imagined its use- a lover calling to see if their object of desire was home, a phone in a surrounding apartment being answered as a face peeked through curtains, looking for the caller who is hunched in the phone booth to escape the rain. Surely this phone booth would do some good, and I smiled every time I passed it.
Its phone had a yellow handle that blended so nicely with the fallen autumn leaves.
I suppose the phone might have had other, more diabolical uses. I suppose the logical question is also, had I ever seen anyone use it, outside my romantic fantasy? Perhaps once, but even that is not something I can say with certainty.
So the other week I heard horrible machine noises, buzz saws munching into metal and concrete. I didn’t peek through a curtain to see what was happening- (though that would flow nicely with the story)- I happened to be walking outside and saw Verizon chopping down the booth like a tree. It took something like two vans, a fire hydrant spilling out crystal cold water, and a whole lot of men to down the little phone booth. It seemed an expensive operation.
Why do I find the loss of the phone booth so sad, like I lost a good neighbor? Despite my admiration of it, I never offered it a hello. All that remains of it is a fresh patch of grey cement and a warning bar not to step there, like a tombstone.
Havana Days: The 5 Senses
Note: The Havana entries are evolving reflections of Cuban odysseys. They should not be taken singularly… meaning they should not be taken as a generalized finality of experience. They should be viewed as a part of a continuum of experience, which includes reaction and ongoing reflection.
Arrival.
Sight
Rain. Shit and slime covered cobblestones. Oily green and brown pools of fetid water. Cracked crumbling roads, decaying buildings. Urban murals that are shrines to the orishas.
Sounds
Voices, singers, ping pong ball hit back and forth. Man coughing up his morning phlegm. Kids going to school. Motors. First edition ever 1980s home printer sound (prints with the sound of a laser gun on the paper with perforated sides). Rustling plants in wind by barred windows. Rain drops, metal clang of window chain knocking against the wood door shutters. I keep getting up to answer a wind ghost that isn’t there. The soft banal voice of the colleague, overridden by the cowbell, cantante, and piano… he’s been here for years but still his voice is overwhelmed by the music.
Smells
Raw sewage,vapors seeping from the stones of road into my room. Mildew walls and streets, dog shit. Never the smell of food.
Trapped with a group who speak a language of science, while all I do is dream the symbols of language. I care more about the movement of the potted plant behind my colleague than his instructions, more about the irony of the music drowning away his voice, and I cheer for it to overwhelm him.
Taste
Canned string beans, spam ham, morro, yucca… Eating is a means to satiate, not pleasure. One of the first food things to import if the embargo is lifted is Goya seasoning (or some simple pepper). Eating is enjoyable in someone’s home.
Touch
The least used sense for me in this trip. My memories of touch are only of hand sanitizers, to erase the memory of touch. Cuba, will you crumble if I touch you? Cuba answers: No, new arrival. I am stronger than the facade of my infrastructure. Touch me and learn.
Space Odyssey in Washington Heights
This installment sits in the secluded woods of Fort Tryon Park by the dog run. I think it is a cleverly disguised black monolith from the movie: 2001: A Space Odyssey. Instead of apes jumping up and down to its presence and hum, you have dogs barking around it, perhaps triggering some evolutionary spark in them so that dogs evolve into their anagram: gods. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, visit the black monolith link.
If it’s not a disguised black monolith, then it is an ode to the types of radiators we have in Washington Heights.
Your thoughts?
Scorched Earth Policy here at home
Last month, urban odyssey blogger C-mixto wrote an entry on the elusive white tiger of Inwood: a white cat that hunts pigeons in the grasslands of an abandoned lot on Broadway near Academy. Last week I passed by and saw a man with a chemical tank on his back hosing down the entire field. Didn’t look good. No chance of that being environmentally gentle liquid in that ghostbusters backpack.
So… how sad was it to walk by the lot today and see…. THIS!
Yes we have a scorched earth policy in Inwood, it seems. At first glance my heart glowed with a romantic hope that this vision was autumn’s hand painting the landscape a crisp gold. I told myself that it was a field of wheat swaying in the winds, not the corpses of a variety of plant life. Who would notice this, if you didn’t see that the field was green just a few days ago? Perhaps there is no relation between the man with the tank and the sudden death of every growing thing in that spacious lot, but chances are… It’s worth writing about.
Man-made apocalypse in an Inwood lot! Was it weeds he wanted to get rid of? The rats (as the sign advertises)? Sigh… should we now question every single natural beauty we see in our urban landscapes as being a man-made invention, a pot of contamination? Where will the white tiger hunt now?
The sidewalks of Buenos Aires
A trip to Buenos Aires is what threw me to the Urban Odyssey side. The city’s sidewalks were the most impressionable character that I left with. Besides wondrous Street Cookie, the most memorable part of strolling down the sidewalks of Buenos Aires was the dog shit. It’s everywhere; brown little shrines left here and there. Their shapes were varied, from perfectly round droppings that made you think of spilled chocolate gumballs, and (even grosser, get ready), when it was smeared it reminded me of the dulce de leche found in almost every BA dessert. The sidewalks of Buenos Aires – continue reading …
Miami knows what’s up
This Miami sign was submitted by JPLogan, passed along from others… More smart urban planning.
the loneliest taxi stand…
When in a cab migrating north or south on the Henry Hudson during evening hours, if I’m not scanning the Hudson river sparkling with city lights, then my head is often turned towards that interesting territory adjacent to the highway where the city starts. One thing that always captures my attention but never the lens of my camera is the lonely taxi stand outside of Hustler. That’s a strip club, for those not in the know. Taxi stands are not a familiar sight, at least in the parts of the city I find myself in. Usually every where you step is a taxi stand, created by your very own self when you peak outside the sidewalk with a raised hand. Voila. Taxi stand. But right off the highway is a canopied (glass?) stand with a large sign, “Taxi” around the corner (but out of sight of) Hustler’s doors. I’ve never seen someone standing in it, and I’m always looking whenever I pass. And I just have to think that it is the loneliest taxi stand, without a person and more so if someone’s in there. There is no hiding your nocturnal activities if you’re standing in this glass box with a glaring sign,-Hey, I’ve just been enjoying some gyrating, pole happy tits, fantasy is over and now I need to go home… if you are trying to be discreet. And if you weren’t in Hustler and just need a cab, people will probably never believe it. I’m waiting for the day I see someone waiting in it, to imagine all the stories that accompanies standing in the taxi stand in front of Hustler on the West Side Highway. What probably bothers me is that it is a scene set for a character who hasn’t walked onto the pages yet.
Have any other lonely taxi stands, or thoughts on this one?
More smart urban planning
Bike Rental Station in parking lot, Syracuse, Sicily
Another example of good urban planning. In the city of Syracuse, Sicily, there are bike rental stations in places like parking lots and town squares near the cafes. No attendant needed, just use it like a vending machine. That way, when you’re done sitting on your butt for 3 hours driving to Syracuse you can pedal to the café for a pistachio gelato with brioche, espresso, cannoli, eclair (insert additional foodie obsessions here to add to list) and then pedal back, burning off your meal. Really smart, guys.
