I left Jen’s
apartment on 172nd street at 7:30 to go for a morning jog in
Washington Heights. I ran along Riverside drive and through Hudson Heights up
and down hills I didn’t know even existed in NYC. Later, I walked across town
on 125th street through Harlem to catch the Metro North train out of
the city to visit a friend that moved to the “country,” just north of the city
along the Hudson.
What struck me
the most about the morning were not the views of parts of the city I hadn’t
seen before, but the smells. As I hit the pavement on 172nd and made
the right onto Fort Washington, I could have closed my eyes and known that
Thursday must be trash pick up day. The heat already reaching 80 degrees at 7
am hitting the piles of trash encased in plastic bags on the sidewalk, warming
up the contents, sending the aroma wafting into the air, as they awaited the
inevitable trip to their final resting place in New Jersey’s finest landfills.
Later, as I
walked east on 125th street through Harlem past the Apollo, past the
group of veterans in full navy attire, I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply.
Smells of sausage sizzling in oil escaped the greasy spoon diner to my left, and
mixed together with the sweetness of Shea butter and Nag Chompa being sold from
the stand on the sidewalk, coupled with the ever present sweet smell of trash
cooking inside their plastic bag homes.
There is
something so interesting about walking in cities. Especially big cities like
NY. Each neighborhood melding into the next. Last night Jen and I met up at 63rd
and Amsterdam at 5:30 in the afternoon after I had spent the day reminiscing
with my childhood and college friends.
It was cloudy, but
still hot, so we decided to walk north on Amsterdam while we figured out what
to do with our afternoon. We strolled passed gazillions of tourists taking
pictures and outdoor cafes, their awnings covering the patrons, chalkboard
signs beckoning us to eat mussels in rosemary tarragon sauce. We stopped at a non
descript sports bar for a beer, and looked on, as the 28 year old hipster
bartender flirted with the young, blonde woman reading a book at the bar, golf,
and tennis football showing on the plethora of tvs around the dimly lit bar.
After one, we
continued on through the Upper West Side, the occasional old black lady pulling
her grocery wagon juxtaposed next to the team of 20 young, white men finishing
their soccer game in the park, all in matching tshirts hungry for their order
of 15 wings at the “Dive Bar” on the corner of 96th and Amsterdam,
nothing divey about it - except the name.
At 106th
and Broadway, as the Upper west side begins to give way to Morningside Heights,
students mix with financial venture capitalists, and markets lure you in with colorful
displays of fresh fruit. Plastic containers neatly packed with organic, fair
trade chocolates for the taking, along side Chobani yogurt of every flavor
imaginable. There our stop was a beer hall, the ABVs listed neatly next to each
variety, the descriptions of porters with deep chocolate overtones or IPAs with
hints of lemon or grapefruit; TVs lining the wall above the bar giving way to
football and baseball, both together indicating that fall had indeed arrived.
Ready to venture
back out to the street, we continued on up into Harlem and for many, many
blocks, there were no more places to stop at 8:00 on a Thursday night. The
stores we did passé had their gates drawn securely down, the only movement the
1 train coming up above ground and rumbling past us, as we meandered through
the dark night.
For more than 30
blocks we walked. Passed Jumbo 99cent stores, passed the Diamond pawn shop, passed
a check cashing place, and some small Latino markets, all closed for the night.
Then out of nowhere, sticking out like a sore thumb, next to the Hookah
Tobacco, “The Draft House.” A light skinned black man with a black knit cap,
black glasses, and a neatly manicured beard asked us for IDs and whisked us
into a world of all European craft beers and a menu filled with $15 appetizers
and eclectic patrons. The sink in the bathroom poured out water from a fountain
like faucet into a deep basin and upon inquiry we discovered that the location
had opened only 3 months earlier. The bouncer, Francisco, or Paco – Paquito –
he later told us grew up on 142nd in this neighborhood after he had
moved here from Mexico. His father a Dominican baseball player, his mother a
waitress from Mexico – they had met in Texas and fallen in love – over 30 years
earlier. He told us he had gone to school in the neighborhood, but that he
hadn’t finished. That school hadn’t been for him. That he wished school was
just more. . . he trailed off and smiled wistfully before adding, that he hoped
it was more for his 7 year old sister. We probed about the opening of the Draft
House, about how he felt about such gentrification, but Paquito just shrugged,
said he liked working at a place so close to his home, and that he didn’t
understand what we were asking him.
We bid our good
byes and wandered back out into the night – just 30 more blocks to go in the
beginnings of a drizzle. We lamented our shoe choice – she in loafers and I in
flip flops, but now we had to make it – we were so very close. We strolled
through Washington Heights, passed the barber shops on Broadway and 160th
– card tables set up outside of them – groups of 6 -10 men – likely Dominican -
playing dominoes on the street, clips of conversation in Spanish floating into
the night. We walked passed a group of teens dancing samba on the sidewalk.
Passed the umpteenth McDonalds serving more than 99 Billions, passed yet
another Dunkin Donuts displaying Boston Creams and Coffee regulars, passed the
Claudia’s Fashion selling this season’s discount summer dresses and el
Pitallito restaurant tempting us with their nachos con chorizo and fruit
stands, mangos, peaches, nectarines and avocados arranged artistically in the
drizzly night.
We arrived at 172nd,
tired but satisfied. But before walking the 5 floors up to call it a night, we
did what any self respecting wanderer of the New York night would do . . .we
grabbed a slice. Dripping with grease and cheese and just the right amount of
tangy sweetness in the sauce.
Our feet on fire and our bellies full, we slept
like the dead, despite the heat, the sound of the fan lulling us into sleep.
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