Spontaneous Portrait on Randall's Island

"Take my picture!" Yelled some kids that had decided to spend their Saturday afternoon patrolling Randall's Island, which lies between Manhattan's Upper East Side and Astoria, Queens. Nicole and I were taking photos when they decided to race to the foundation of the Hell Gate Bridge's western tower.

How did they get there? When Robert Moses connected Randall's Island with neighboring Manhattan, Queens, and the Bronx with the Triborough Bridge in 1936, he added a recreational complex of athletic fields and pedestrian walkways that he perceived would be immensely popular. However, without subway access, not many Gothamists bother to make the trip out there. Those who do enjoy a lack of congestion enviable elsewhere in the city.

Fun Fact: Without human intervention, the Hell Gate Bridge would last for approximately 1,000 years, far longer than any other bridge in New York City. The Brooklyn, Manhattan, and Queensboro bridges would likely "only" last about 300 years.

As we walked around the corner, leaving the kids to their own fun, we saw the mesmerizing support arches for the Hell's Gate bridge up close and personal.

Kevin loves to sing tenor underneath the operatic echoes that these arches provide!

Hell Gate Bridge Links to an inverted bow-string bridge between Ward's and Randall's Island.

I-278 runs parallel. It is interesting to note the difference in esthetics between a bridge built around 1959 and one built just under 50 years prior in 1912.

Peace From the Tourists?

With tourist season winding down, certain parts of the city are much less congested. That's good, especially when I visit the Botanical Gardens I can get peace and tranquility in a city of over eight million.

Now if I only I could figure out what to do with my husband . . .

Kevin wonders if  "Elephant Ears" are in improvement over his current visage.

Wild Deer in New York City!!

For real. No joke. Here's the story:

Nicole and I both recently finished reading The Last Algonquin, a true story about an American Indian named Joe Two Trees. Joe lived most of his life on Hunter's Island, which is now part of Pelham Bay Park. His story, recounted by Theodore Kazimiroff, is simply amazing. We decided to take a bike trip from our apartment and search the island, hoping to find some kind of inspiration. Aside from the book, we didn't know much more about the island. It was with this very open-ended mindset that Nicole and I decided to conduct our own field expedition.

Just another day in the largest city in North America . . .

After a quick swim to cool off after the ride, we set out across the field that connects Hunter's Island to the Bronx and commenced our search. As you can see in the video, it's not hard to tell man's artificial land ends and where New York's nature begins.

We enjoyed walking around the "island" (it is 3/4ths surrounded by water), but except for an interesting insect, we didn't see much in the way of wild nature. Granted, the tall trees were quite majestic, and the island's natural, rocky shores were more reminiscent of the rural Maine coastline than that of New York City, but we didn't see anything that was startling and unbelievable. After about half an hour of walking, the dirt path turned to pavement. Our search was almost over.

As we were walking back towards the beach, however, I spotted a friend who was looking at me. He had several other friends. Four of them to be precise. They each walked on four legs and had beautiful antlers atop their heads. My jaw dropped. Nicole and I couldn't believe it: Wild Deer in New York City of all places!!

Does the spirit of Two Trees live on? After this day, we were convinced. It had to have been a sign. Your thoughts? Watch the videos and judge for yourself.

A Pleasant Evening

 Look around: 
The sky is blue

The grass is green

the Bronx is nice

Because the hipsters are nowhere

To be seen

Da Bronx: More parks than any other borough and the fewest hipsters. Score!

Bikeshare Art Drama

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.

They even got some media coverage in the New York Post and Daily News.

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.

Cantonese Blues

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.

Truly, a small world.

The Tigers of 187th Street.

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?