After much delay, most people were grateful to see that BikeShare had finally launched in New York City.
Well, most people.
I work near Petrosino Square. For generations, this little spot between Lafayette and Kenmare streetst was known simply as the "the triangle." The children of Little Italy used it to play stickball. Before gentrification, automobile traffic was a rarity in this neighborhood.
Wait a minute, if you are protesting a lack of art space, wouldn't you--oh never mind.
Then came skyrocketing rents, celebrities, and stores that sell $4,000 handbags. With no more kids to play stickball, the triangle was virtually abandoned until 1996, when the city planted some trees, laid down some tile and benches, and called it "Petrosino Square," in honor of a prominent Italian-American police Lietenuent who was killed in the line of duty.
Protesting in Air-Conditioned Comfort.
Due to Petrosino Square's proximity to the 6 train stop on Spring Street, and it's large (by Manhattan standards) area of unused space, it made sense for most people that it would be a good place for a bike share station.
Well, most people. A group of artists decided to protest that the bike share docking station had cut into their art space. Yep. Their space, public property be damned. And to show it, they decided they were going to get out of their art studios and in into their art space.
Now that air conditioning season is upon us, the protesters have left as quickly as they came. Occasionally, someone will tie a sign to the one of the fences or tape a piece paper to one of the CitiBikes in protest, but for the most part, the party is over. The docking station is here to stay.
Even though I think the bike share program is a good idea, I couldn't help but find the protestors endearing. I also thought is was funny that nobody bothered to investigate what that space was actually being used for in the time immediately preceding the launch of CitiBike. As you can see, it may not have been conventional visual art, but it was entertaining nevertheless.
Well, I thought it was interesting. But at the end of the day, it's just another unique New York story.
Chinatown: One of the last true immigrant neighborhoods on Manhattan island. I was walking towards the financial district this afternoon and I really needed a breath of fresh air. During my trek, I stumbled on Columbus Park, which is a border between Chinatown and the Financial District. Lucky for me, I got more than I bargained for.
I heard one man playing a stringed instrument very eloquently. It was soft and strong, piercing and delicate. I walked towards the sound of the music. As I walked through the park, the human structure of glass and concrete gave way to tall trees and soft ground. The further I walked, I heard more music as well. Another stringed instrument joined in, followed quickly by another.
The doggie and I concur: what a good show!
I walked around a bend and I saw three middle-aged Chinese men. What started as one man simply playing whatever melody suited his fancy quickly morphed into something more structured and organized. Another man sat down with them and started playing a flute. The quartet was complete.
Not long after the band started playing together, I found myself mesmerized. Could I really restrict what I was hearing to simply be "Chinese" music? Sometimes I couldn't help but wonder if I was in the western hills of Ireland during the 18th century. Or if I was on horse farm in Kentucky. Perhaps I was in a stately court in Paris, listening to chamber music for the aristocrats. It touched off so much thought and emotion that I had to start recording.
The players played for another minute and half. When they completed their little ditty, another spectator asked all the same questions that were on my mind.
"Was that" he asked the mandolin player, "meant to be anything other than Chinese music? It sounded like could have been other things."
"No," said the mandolin player. "South China--Canton. Cantonse."
The spectator was still incredulous. "Because it sounded so much like it could have been bluegrass, or Western folk."
"Cantonese," the Mandolin player repeated. "Only Cantonese."
So modest. Yes, it was unique unto itself. And yet I could hear it all: touches of European chamber music, celtic melodies, and a touch of down-South American bluegrass. But Cantonese. In lower Manhattan.
Last fall, Nicole was beaming with a new, exciting joy--and not just because we had just gotten married. No, she had something more important to bring to my attention.
"There are baby tigers at the Zoo!" She said, elatedly.
Ah, the Bronx Zoo. The flagship of all New York City Zoos. Perhaps the flagship of the world zoos. One of the oldest and largest facilities of its kind. A zoo where animals were once held captive in cages, and now are cared for in environments specifically designed to recreate the natural habitats. Whenever Nicole says "zoo trip," no further explanation is ever necessary.
We couldn't wait to see their precious, pretty little faces!
Getting to the zoo is a short, 15 minute bike ride away. Sometimes, before I go to sleep at night, I marvel at how some of the world's largest and most exotic animals are just two miles away from me. What a world we live in. We consider ourselves fortunate to have such a place to visit regularly.
And boy, the baby tigers certainly put on a show--not that they felt the need to be entertaining. Three little tiger cubs had a large portion of the tiger den to themselves, with the accompaniment and supervision of their mother. The little tiger cubs did what little tiger cubs do best: run, jump, and and tumble all over each other. Their every movement brought joy and excitement to the crowd--which ironically was mostly small children. What a sight indeed!
What is it with you kids being listless and lounging around!
Fast forward a few months. Those adorable little baby tiger cubs are now brooding teenagers. The playful world of king of the mountain and let's jump on mommy has been replaced by sullen staring contests as the teenage tigers gaze out in to an interminable distance. Sound familiar?
In the adjacent tiger den, some adult male Bengal tigers were taking advantage of their new living quarters. Booted out of one area to make room for the cubs, these 450 pound cats decided to let people know that this time, they were staying put. To do so, the big guys put on a very illustrative display that left little to the imagination. Hey, anything to let people know that you are top dog--or in this case, cat!
Top o' the morning to you, Mr. Alpha Male Bengal Tiger!
Idyllic childhood. Detached teenagers. Alpha Male Adults. And we are better than our animal friends how?
When Nicole and I moved to New York, one of our primary causes of concern was potential bike theft. And our concerns were not unfounded: bike theft increased by 25 percent in the city last year. But we still have our bikes, we still ride them, and we still lock them up in public. How is it that we have avoided becoming a statistic in a city already notorious for being the stolen bike capital of the world?
Let's take a lock on the wild side!
Well, for starters, I am very lucky to study under the wisdom of Hal Ruzal, who really has made a name for himself as the king of bike security in the five boroughs. Learning from the master, and honing this skill after nearly two years of practice through experience has yielded a great peace of mind when Nicole and I sit down at a restaurant or go to the zoo or the Botanical Gardens. When we go out, we feel safe and secure knowing full well that our bikes will be there when we return.
Well, at least I feel secure. Nicole often says she's nervous, but I think the results speak for themselves. Any questions?
How can you describe the physicality of natural perfection? Finding the right words can be overwhelming, even when you encounter something so beautiful every day, such as when I wake up every morning next to Nicole. Yet I try to find the words as best I can. She says I manage--sometimes.
And sometimes, when we manage to get away from the city we call home, we get to enjoy some of nature's top-tier beauties. A recent trip to Rennselaerville, New York is one such privilege.
Where the landscape is as pretty as the people.
Rennsearville, a small town of Dutch origin where the Catskills end and Albany county begins, is an important piece in a tiny package. Nicole and I were fortunate enough to stumble upon this village gem merely by chance. We had visited Nicole's Nana at her house in nearby Middleburgh, and on our way back, our GPS routed us through the town's only thoroughfare. We were impressed with town's stately homes and historic grist mill, but the Huyck Natural Preserve truly took our breath away. Hiking trails, waterfalls, and exquisite greenery. Pretty puts it mildly.
In the time since, every time we visit Nana, we have made Rennselaerville a regular stop. Like the everyday beauty of living with the love of your life, it's fresh experience that never grows old.
And even with that said, this visit was different--and not merely because I finally acknowledged surrender in my own private war against coffee. No, this time I decided to let Nana's little doggies, Angie and Rosie, have their way with me. For some reason, I didn't much share their enthusiasm when they would jump up and down on their internal pogo sticks as they tried to lick my hands, face, and basically climb over me like Edmund Hillary on Mount Everest. Okay, I guess they aren't that bad. And wouldn't you know it? Some of Nana's other four-legged friends saw my newfound magnanimity and decided to be a little more outgoing and little less bashful than normal.
After we said goodbye to Nana, we headed back towards the Rennselaerville Huyck Preserve. Once there, we were relieved to discover that Huyck Preserve had rebuilt one of the bridges that was wiped out by Tropical Storm Irene in 2011. Nicole took some photos of me posing with the landscape. As usual, she took some very good shots, but I couldn't help but mention that the only way to make them look better would be to place the photographer in with the rest of the subject matter.
After hiking, we stopped by in the town's only restaurant: The Palmer House. Unlike most restaurants, all the food is locally sourced, and everything on the menu is actually made in the kitchen. As you can imagine, the menu changes constantly, and never disappoints. How unexpected that one could find a plate of oven-roasted chicken quesadillas and pesto portobello sandwich with fresh salad greens in such a remote locale as this.
A nice respite from the big city . . .
Afterwards, we shared a strawberry rhubarb cobbler, and yes, I admitted that I had finally succumbed to drinking coffee.
"It's not all bad!" Said Nicole. "And besides, I like being able to drink coffee with you." Then she pointed at me as her face broke into a grin. "You see, you're just like Larry David! Just because the tea is hot doesn't make it a shared experience."
"Hmm." I said. Nicole noticed I wasn't exactly clued in to what I was saying. Apparently, I haven't been watching enough of Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee. I suppose coffe isn't all bad. In fact, it is actually quite good, when it is fresh coffee with a plate of cobbler. And when one is about to drive three hours into New York City. Then it is also good. That's what Hemingway would say.
We had a good time, but as always, we were happy and grateful for the one person who helped us discover this slice of heaven in the first place. And as usual, we can't wait to make the trip up again soon . . .
