Autumn in [my] New York

Each time I’m in a large city—and to be fair, I extend this to San Francisco, Paris, New York, London, etc.—I find that there is a generalized desire in the population to appropriate the city. I hear words tossed around like “You haven’t seen the real [New York/San Francisco]”, implying that the speaker somehow does know the real [New York/San Francisco], and has therefore excitingly (for him or her) one-upped me. Or perhaps I am quizzed: “have you seen [union square/oberkampf/the mission] yet? No?! Oh, well, then you haven’t seen the city!” This last part is always added triumphantly, making me feel like the person doing the quizzing feels satisfied at owning the city in question more than me. Knowing this or that city, and being able to rattle off the street names and subway stops has in some circles (at least the ones I find myself in!) become a mark of sophistication. I find this to be a very interesting social behavior and wonder if I do the same.

Thus far it seems to me that New York is no exception to this desire for appropriation. If anything, I would say it is more rampant here than in other places I have been, in part because there is such a large spectrum of what can be appropriated and in part because it is arguably the world’s epicenter of the culture of ownership and possession.

American Express has been running a series of advertisements over the course of the last year involving different celebrities who list a number of tangible and intangible things that they own. Robert DeNiro’s ends with something like “My New York. My Card: American Express.” I might be blurring the details, but the theme came through clearly: a city can be owned and carried around in your pocket just like a credit card. American Express didn’t invent this turn of phrase (My New York)—they merely capitalized on an already used expression. As we were passing through China Town in a cab, a friend of mine who has lived in the city for several years once said, “This part of New York is so strange to me. I don’t ever think of it—don’t ever consider it part of my New York.”

“What do you mean, your New York? How is it yours? You were born and raised in the Midwest!” He wasn’t able to answer that, but it seemed natural to him that part of the city, certain aspects of it, should belong to him regardless of where he originally came from.

I’m curious to know--is this a mainly American behavior, this need to own even intangibles? Is this born of a deep-rooted feeling of cultural insecurity? A need to own some portion of ‘The Cosmopolitan’ in order to prove worldliness? Or is it just human nature?

In any event, I don’t feel that I own any part of New York whatsoever. I am distinctly aware of my transient status, and happy with it. But if there were to be any part of the city that I would ever incorporate into a definition of “My New York” I would certainly have the Brooklyn Botanic Garden at the very very top of my list. Each time I go to a city or town (of any size) visiting gardens and parks, or any other form of public green space, is first on my agenda. Having said that, and having visited Turkey, Azerbaijan, Morocco, Mexico, Spain, France, Germany, and other western European countries, I can say with absolute certainty that the Brooklyn Botanic Garden is the most perfect of any that I've seen. It is the most perfectly planned, well-maintained, restful and interesting garden I have ever visited. Truly. If you haven’t seen it, you simply must. And go during the growing season, to be sure. I’m told that they have a cherry blossom festival in the spring, which must be enchanting.

Though not a garden, there was another place I went today that might eventually be added to “My New York” if I ever develop one. I walked down Waverly Place, the entire length of it, and found it to be the first built space I have visited within Manhattan that made me feel happy and at peace. Waverly Place made me want to linger, to slow my step, to examine the wisteria vines climbing the sides of the human scaled houses. There were shutters on the windows for once (many of which were veiled from the inside with lace and voile), no more than three or four stories on most of the buildings, and a real character apparent in each of the houses. Some of them were cranberry red, some white, some goldenrod yellow; some had pots of mums on the front steps, others had jack-o-lanterns. ‘This is the New York of Edith Wharton,’ I thought, as the autumn sunlight poured down like Lyle’s Syrup on the street, so thick and golden, and so sweet, it was almost too much. It was a warm fall day, the sky was the deep crystalline blue of glacial lakes, and the air in Waverly Place smelled of falling leaves, not of exhaust and waste. Finally I found a place in this city where I can breathe easy and forget the apocalyptic wheezing and screeching of the subway trains. Yes; as I strolled down the street the only sound in my head was Billie Holiday, sending the notes of “Autumn in New York” up through me like the curls of steam rising from a cup of hot cider. No matter whether I’m in Ann Arbor, Paris or New York, and regardless of the season, I always know I am having a moment worth remembering when an experience is so full of emotion that Billie Holiday’s voice comes to me on its own.

Saralocks and the three chairs

The first morning I was here I decided I would have coffee outside in a park. So I bought a coffee before 8 am and headed toward Union Square, very near where I was staying. Soon my romantic notions of sipping at my coffee on a park bench in view of flowers fell to pieces. Firstly, the benches were actually all occupied. This wasn't immediately apparent from the street as most of them were occupied by sleeping/lounging homeless people. Or maybe they just were very into the "lived in" look and were, additionally, hygiene deficient. Either way, the benches were occupied. Secondly, other than a patch of scraggly impatiens, there were no flowers.

I eventually discovered a cluster of French park style tables and chairs around a statue on the other side of the park. A middle-aged, respectable looking (read--clean and coiffed) woman was sitting at one of these tables, reading the morning paper. I joined her. The first table I sat down at wasn't suitable because, well, it was filthy. It had something sort of thick, brown and sticky dried onto it. The second one I moved to was also unsuitable because of the unpleasant urine odor coming from the joint between the retaining wall and the sidewalk immediately behind it. Finally (sigh) the third was just perfect.

And so I began sipping happily at my coffee, making notes in my "cahier" about the passers-by, the sound of the leaves, the sound of...a picture being taken?? Over to my left, at quite a distance, and partially obscured by the undergrowth around a tree was a young man photographer, taking pictures in my direction.

I was disturbed. With my ankles still crossed I quickly pivoted to the right, so that my back would be turned toward him. Perhaps he was taking pictures of something else. And I returned to my morning musings and coffee.

Then the snapping started again. He had gotten closer and had come around to the front--his monster lens aimed directly at me--so that I could know make him out quite plainly. Film student type. Yes, you know the kind: dark jeans and white t-shirt and an odd and no doubt very symbolic tattoo visible on his forearm. With ear-rings.

Frustrated, and thoroughly uncomfortable, I began rifling in my bag with my head down, thinking about whether I would let this drive me from my carefully selected perch. When I heard the camera click for the third time, this time so close I could have snatched it from him, I decided quite instantly that yes, it would drive me from my precious table. I got up, with a little "hmph!" of deep annoyance, and Mister Tattooed Image Stealer came nearer to me to say, "oh, I'm so sorry if I disturbed you! I hope I didn't freak you out or anything."

I looked down at the ground, tossed my bag on my left shoulder and whisked past him, uttering only an ambiguous "yeah..."

On the train to Brooklyn I thought about it--how was a photograph more invasive than a simple memory? Was this man's taking pictures of me really so different from him staring and remembering me? Or just looking and remembering? Why did I feel so robbed? What would he *do* with the picture?

Just then a Muslim woman walked in, entirely cloaked in black from head to toe, everything covered in yards of fabric but a slim slot for her eyes. I could see that she was about 5'4, a bit rotund, and that at least the skin on the bridge of her nose was not unlike the color of olive oil. But mainly all I could see was the fabric on her. It was plain. There were no markings, embroidery, beading or patterns. And it seemed to me that she moved like a ghost through the world, seeing without being seen, absent from the memory of the world. After all, who can remember fabric alone?

Exhibit A: New York

Riding in the taxi from Laguardia to the city, the sight of the Manhattan skyline emerged, looking to me like a cluster of distant tombstones. We raced along the East River, slicing through the beams of autumn sun at razor speeds. Each apartment building, overpass, basketball hoop and bench appeared like a single frame in a movie, flashed in front of my eyes. It didn't seem real...something inside of me hoped that the taxi would never stop; that I would never step down into those cemented streets, that I could continue observing the scene, in my museum way, from behind the window forever.

But the taxi did stop. And with sun in my eyes, a tightness in my throat and my two suitcases in hand, I stepped up to my first stop: Amy's apartment.

I've now since moved to my second stop, as I search for a more permanent living situation. And soon I will be moving to my third stop, still having no place of my own to live!

There must have been something to that feeling in me as we drove into Manhattan, that feeling that seemed to say "keep moving. don't stop."

Effectivement...I haven't stopped since I arrived.