My final day in New York starts like so many of the others - a breakfast bagel. Since I really don't eat breakfast anymore unless I'm in New York, it crosses my mind that this could be my last breakfast ever. Highly unlikely, I admit, but still worth a passing thought.
After breakfast, our group of five splinters for reasons including Easter and birthdays. After exchanging goodbyes, a friend and I start down toward Union Square to kill some time before his bus back to Boston.
We reach our first stop, The Strand Bookstore, in Union Square. I've been looking forward to going here for some time. Plus, given that I know about it, this place must be a famous bookstore - I'm not the sort who knows about the hidden gems around here, after all.
I walk in and I'm immediately impressed. The Strand has the look of a cool bookstore (though I've yet to take the time to define exactly what constitutes a 'cool' bookstore, I know it when I see it). More importantly, it is also literally a cool bookstore, which I appreciate, as the mercury is climbing quickly toward an unseasonable ninety degrees outside. We split up and walk through the store separately.
Perhaps it's my heavy backpack, the effects of a long Saturday out catching up to me, or just my approaching old age - I'll be almost thirty in a few weeks - but for whatever reason, I'm tiring quickly. I walk slowly from section to section, scanning the shelves up and down, but nothing captures my interest. These days, nothing does. I eventually find myself downstairs in the business section.
My favorite aspect of the business section is always the cheap morale boost. Whenever I look at some of what's been published, I convince myself that I, too, might someday get a book or two onto a shelf buried a three minute's walk from the entrance of a famous bookstore. Today, I browse the shelves and think up names for these unborn books - Master Of None Of Your Business, maybe, could be today's winner. And does anyone know if the title Too Underpaid To Fire has been claimed yet?
The business book formula appears simple enough - come up with a sort of counter intuitive idea, have a good anecdote or two ready to go, and don't try to prove anything. The last step is the most important. The genre reminds me a lot of Chinese fast food in one way - from my outside perspective the bar appears pretty low. All that ever seems to be on offer are quick-hitting morsels of filler rather than any longer-term food for thought...
My friend interrupts my thoughts about synergies and crab rangoons and future book titles. We extract ourselves from the basement and return to the now officially 'hot' New York afternoon. The next stop is a few blocks away, a record store. We again split up. The size of the record store is about the same as a one-bedroom Manhattan apartment, though, so 'splitting up' still keeps us in each other's view. This place could also be famous but I wouldn't know - I've never been one to keep records.
Records, however - unlike books - do capture my interest. Browsing this store brings to mind a borrowed thought I read long-ago: if books were invented after computers, would they be regarded as an incredible technological advance? After all, wouldn't a book solve all the problems of the e-reader? I wonder if record players are part of this same category - an unrecognized solution to every streaming problem.
By the time we decide to leave the record store, it's approaching time to start heading over toward the bus stop. Since the bus stop is a couple of blocks over from my favorite pizza place, NY Pizza Suprema, we decide to stop there for a slice before parting ways.
Along the way, we get distracted by a street festival of some kind. It's a perfect diversion for two overheated tourists. We pool our knowledge of the city - in our case, 'pooling knowledge' means quickly recalling details from as many syndicated Seinfeld reruns as possible. The best we can do is the Puerto Rican Day parade, a satisfying but obviously incorrect guess. The giveaway is the stationary aspect of the festival - though I'm sure many other clues went unnoticed past my sun-baked eyes.
In fact, the sole downside of marching through the mystery festival is its position directly underneath the searing mid-April sun. We are exposed to its full heat thanks to our decision to walk down the center of the blocked-off street - though to be fair, this is the only walking space available. We make a left turn and pick out the side of the street with shade cover.
This reminds me of a trip last summer to Providence, an August day with a similar temperature situation. As I strolled those streets with a couple of friends, we cooked up the idea of 'the shade app' - a GPS-type tool that plans a walking path for you using the shadiest possible route. We dismissed it that day - finding the shade is only a matter of noticing - but given how many New Yorkers are bustling past in the full blast of the sun, it occurs to me that perhaps there is a market for my idea. Everyone is already looking into their phones, after all, so 'a matter of noticing' in Providence is perhaps a business opportunity in New York.
We finally arrive at our destination - and it is closed! No NY Pizza Suprema today. There is no sign on the door, just a padlock and an empty store. This implies Easter is the sole reason for the closure (though I suppose nothing explicitly rules birthdays out). We are dazed, briefly, due either to this setback or a possible case of heatstroke. Somehow, we collect our wits and make it across the street to another pizza place. I'm amazed another pizza place exists so close by - I guess business opportunities are a matter of not noticing, sometimes.
I walk over to the bus with my friend after we eat our barely tolerable consolation slices. He has work tomorrow so he needs to get going. 'Work tomorrow' is one of those peculiar expressions if you think about it - in some ways, work tomorrow isn't very different from having work right now since it only ever impacts decisions made about today. I don't have work tomorrow which means I don't have work right now. Lacking anything better to do, I stay. You don't need a reason to stay around here, I suppose. The only thing you need is a reason to leave.
My friend boards the bus and I resume wandering. I notice a walking path of some kind, winding in a gradual, promising arc out towards the water before turning back toward where I started, midtown. I join the crowds and walk down the path into this new idea. I'm reminded again of a borrowed thought from an old read - a hawk finds its way out of a canyon by following the strongest wind current. A walk through the big city with a similar approach in mind should lead to good results, I think - just find the biggest crowd, let its current take over, and go with the flow. The challenge is to find the right current, I suppose.
The walkway, which I soon learn is known as the High Line, is a mile and a half long walking park built along a former elevated train line. There is all kinds of stuff going on here, the type of thing I only see in this city. The path is lined with little sections of bleacher seats that are full or empty depending on their exposure to the sun. As I walk past a person selling 'I love NY' trinkets from a blanket, I come upon a man in the midst of a small crowd. He maintains a steady rhythm on a couple of drums while chatting with anyone who passes by.
'Come on, man,' the street drummer says, pointing his chin at an idly watching spectator. 'Join me - if you are African, you can drum!' His chin swivels in my direction. I can't drum, a fact obvious to those who subscribe to the drummer's theory. It's a good enough reason. People laugh as I move on.
I enjoy the walk despite fighting the crowds moving in the opposite direction. No one seems to mind the heat on the High Line. The park, which started at 34th Street, soars above Chelsea and winds its way south toward its eventual destination in the Meatpacking District. This is all new to me - everything I know is east of here, toward Chinatown, toward Brooklyn, and beyond.
It's slow going but I maintain my relative position in the crowd. Everyone here is my speed and the ambition to pass has been left behind on the street-level. The traffic is definitely two-way, another contrast to the paved grid below. Maybe my hawk analogy wasn't so appropriate. If the strongest currents oppose each other, where does one start and the other end? What is everyone on my side hoping to see that these people walking past me have given up on? What is the point of going out just to come back, or going up just to eventually come back down?
The walkway leads into a covered area and the shade provides a respite from the heat. There are tables to my right and all the seats are filled. To my left is a row of vendors selling drinks and snacks. Everyone belongs here. This must mean someone looking at me would think I also belong here, which means surely some of these people do not belong here. How many of these people are simply on break from wandering aimlessly? It can't be just me but it's hard to see how I would find the answer here.
I continue walking forward, toward the end. The path eventually ends in a space only marginally wider than the main walkway. Some folks are relaxing against the railings and others are seated on benches arranged alongside the stairs. A couple people seem to have given up completely and are using the stairs as benches. What kind of life that is, I don't know. I go down to the street and point myself in the direction I suspect is Chinatown.
The sidewalk ahead of me is crowded. When I take a closer look, I realize it isn't a crowd, it's just a queue. It takes me a moment to identify the stationary line among the many moving pedestrians but it's obvious once I've seen it. This is a slow current, no doubt, but maybe the right way for me to get off the street for a short while.
The sign above the line announces the Ample Hills Creamery. There is the smell of cooking food but it seems like ice cream is the main attraction. I look around. The line is long and waiting might take up some of my valuable remaining time. But what else is there to do? When I'm at home, I never wait in line. I use the information I've worked hard to acquire to know just when to arrive before things get crowded. I'm not home, though, at the moment. Home is a place to go when there is nowhere else to be. And what better sign is there of having nowhere else to go than waiting?
I take a place at the back of the line. Perception can change so quickly - once I stop moving, I realize how a line coming out of a building is suddenly a line going in. Hopefully, a good thing comes from all this waiting. Ice cream is usually a safe bet, even if it might melt first. After that, it'll be time to go home.
