An entertainment event earlier this year
* had me thinking about New York
. I assumed, because of my longstanding love for the city, that I had
plenty of posts about it on this blog; you may imagine my surprise when I found
that the posts tagged New York number only six—and that includes places in the
state, not just the metropolis. (I think
this particular entry conveys my feelings fairly accurately,
though.) All the same, I reckon I ought to rectify this general oversight
and produce some more content about the
greatest city in the world. Thus, please enjoy various
and sundry comments about Nueva York.
While there are lots of songs about New York, from the
previous to “
NYC” from
Annie to
Ryan Adams’ “
New York, New York”
(whence this post’s title), the following is probably the song I most associate
with the city. If you’re familiar with
Working Girl, you’ll probably understand why; if not, a quick
viewing of the opening credits should provide illumination. The lyrics
never name any particular place, but the connection between song and location
has clearly stuck with me over the years.
On the other hand, the October before last I rolled into the
city on an Amtrak train, eating an apple and listening to Glenn Miller tunes,
including “Pennsylvania 6-5000” (and “Chattanooga Choo-Choo,” which, while not
a New York song, is a railway song). Unlike Metro-North trains, which
stop in the Bronx and descend after 125
th Street to run south
underground until Grand Central, the Acela from Boston and New Haven leaves the
mainland to pass through Queens, below, before arriving at Penn Station. I've flown into JFK, LaGuardia, and Islip, and arrived on buses, and even been a passenger in cars (though you could not pay me enough to drive my own self into the city), but mostly I get on the New Haven Line and in
less than an hour I'm there. And once I'm there, if I can't walk, I'd rather take the subway than the bus—I think that's because I feel less likely to end up going the wrong direction on the subway. In all, despite the fancy, high-speed trains I've been on, rail travel still strikes me as somewhat old-fashioned, and that fits a timeless city.
In the process of working on this post I discovered that I
don’t have as many pictures as I thought I must; I believe many of them are on
discs that are still in California, and it rankles me not to have them all. The best way to rectify this would
probably be for me to win the lottery, make a first stop at B&H, and then
spend some serious time visiting and revisiting sites around town.
Of all the boroughs I’ve spent the most time in the
Bronx. Sure, most people think of Manhattan as New York City, but that’s
unfair to the other boroughs, which have so much to offer. I can’t say I’ve
ever been to Queens, apart from passing through JFK, nor Staten Island, that I
remember—though there are pictures of my family on the Staten Island Ferry
sometime in the late ’80s, so I’ve at least been to the ferry terminal
there. Up in the Bronx are the Zoo and the New York Botanical Garden,
which are definitely worth visiting. I’d also recommend Woodlawn
Cemetery, whose over 400 acres are home to influential people from Rowland H.
Macy and James Cash Penney to Celia Cruz and Edward Kennedy “Duke” Ellington.
Most likely the eeriest thing I ever experienced in New York
was in March 2006. Spring break was just about to start and I took the
day off of work to cross the country for a friend’s wedding. My flight
left Islip mid-morning, but I had to take a bus and a subway train and the Long Island Rail Road
and a taxi to reach the airport, and in order to get there in enough time—my parents
will tell you that I prefer a generous cushion before takeoff—I had to leave my
apartment around three in the morning. I walked to the closest bus stop
and waited in silence so nearly complete that I was startled by the appearance
of someone just walking four lanes opposite me. The quiet was strange,
disconcerting in its unfamiliarity. When the bus came, there was only one other passenger on
it. Of course, by the time I reached Midtown and had to walk a few blocks
to Penn Station, more people were out and getting ready for the day, but still
far fewer than the daytime city streets.
This picture was taken from one of my roommates' rooms. I got first dibs on rooms, so I picked one of the ones that looked out over Southern Boulevard and the zoo, and I swear sometimes I could hear the lions roaring at night. But this view of the Bronx is not at all shabby.
And then this one time I was on my way to campus while
wearing the Rangers t-shirt I’d gotten at the Goodwill in Manhattan. A
police car was nearby, and as I jaywalked I heard the PA crackle on; for a
moment I was sure that I was going to be admonished for crossing Fordham Road
illegally. So you can imagine my relief when what I heard instead was one of the
officers complimenting my “great” shirt.
While you’re in the 718, stop by Ivana’s on Arthur Avenue,
the Bronx’s Little Italy, and have a pepper and egg wedge for me. No one
else makes them quite as good.
The Bronx may be known as the roughest borough, but Brooklyn’s
got the reputation as the coolest. I, however, can suck the cool out of
anything, even
Spot Conlon’s territory. And so the last time I went to
New York I made a point of visiting two sites in Kings County: Central Library
and Green-Wood Cemetery. The former is a formidable building with a
curved façade opposite Grand Army Plaza. The grate at the entrance
features figures from literature;
this chart identifies all of them, though I was fairly certain
that the man second from the bottom in the center column was Walt
Whitman. The interior isn’t as impressive as the exterior, given more to
function than form and seemingly last redecorated in the 1970s, but above the
entrance inside is a carved eagle that once adorned the offices of the
aquiline-named daily newspaper.
I found visiting Green-Wood Cemetery a far more satisfying experience.
Journalist Horace “Go West Young Man” Greeley, Governor DeWitt Clinton, Leonard
Bernstein, Samuel Morse, and Louis Comfort Tiffany are buried there, the last
under a disappointingly unadorned stone; Green-Wood in June is full of blooming
dogwoods and groundhogs. The cemetery is also home to the borough’s
highest point. From there, near a spot where a Revolutionary War battle
was fought, you can see Manhattan’s skyscrapers, and, by shifting a bit to the
your left, the Statue of Liberty. At the Altar of Liberty a statue of
Minerva raises her arm in salute to the lady in the harbor. If you’re
there around noon on an early summer day, you might catch the scent of the
freshest pizza you've ever smelled in the air. So please bury me there,
because I can’t imagine a better place to be planted than that, with that view and that history and that pie, forever.
Or maybe just cremate me and toss me into the East River
*
from the walkway of my favorite bridge
. The next best thing to a Gothic
arch is a neo-Gothic arch, and there’s nothing more strong and graceful than
the stone and wire of the Roeblings’ bridge. For a New World city, it’s
easy enough to find the medieval in New York: there are relocated buildings up at the Cloisters, arms
and armor at the Met, and a Gutenberg Bible at the Public Library; St. Patrick’s
is even more exuberantly neo-Gothic than the bridge. But even if the bridge isn't
real Gothic, it’s real New York. I’ve crossed it on a bright
late-September day, and on an overcast April with one of my oldest friends, and
after watching Nathan’s hot dog-eating contest on Independence Day, and every
time was a dream come true.
Who was to know what should come home to me?
Who knows but I am enjoying this?
Who knows but I am as good as looking at you now, for all you cannot see me?
from “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry”
by Walt Whitman
I know I have nothing groundbreaking to say about New York—why
do you think I’m linking to songs and quoting Whitman?
The things I want to say have mostly already
been said, and more eloquently.
The
place is expensive, dirty, and aromatic; it’s uncomfortable in both winter and summer.
But every time a train or bus or plane takes
me back I end up in Grand Central, head thrown back to see the ceiling, and I hear
Carly Simon sing
the sky is a color of
blue you’ve never even seen in the eyes of your lover and I wouldn’t trade
a minute there for anything.
*It was the movie of the Broadway version of "Newsies," obviously, but I like to pretend to have some dignity. ↩
*Leaving aside a portion to be tossed into the Rimava into Tisovec, too. ↩
