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I didn’t start getting excited until the plane touched down at Laguardia. Thirty years since I had last spent time in the city. Some people can get married, raise children and divorce in that amount of time. Thirty years since I spent a year living in Brooklyn Heights with my soon to be ex-wife and my best friend from childhood who lived just a few blocks from my Henry Street basement digs. It had been a while.
Outside the terminal I was greeted by a cacophony of noise. Some things never change. A political big-wig’s limo accompanied by four screaming police cars tried to force its way through a motionless line of traffic outside the baggage area. I caught a cab for Harlem. My driver was an elderly Haitian man of few words. When we hit a toll bridge he snaked a dark hand towards me through a small window and said, “The toll is $5.50”. I ponied up and we continued on to 153rd and Amsterdam. Harlem.
One day in 1980 I took the ‘A’ train into Manhattan and missed my stop while engrossed in a ‘Times’ article. Before I knew it I was near 125th Street. I
looked up to find myself the object of unwanted attention. During those days Harlem was a place studiously avoided by those of my ilk. I jumped off at the next stop and spent ten agonizing minutes waiting for a southbound train half praying that Bernie Goetz would put in a guest appearance. I never forgot that day. It was with not a little trepidation that I took an offer of lodging on the north side of Manhattan. Emerging from the taxi I found a small group of smiling people perched on the stoop of the building where I was to stay. They all said hello and cleared a path to the door. Things have changed. I do not know if it started with Bill Clinton’s move to the neighborhood or if it is the result of inevitable social evolution but during the two days I spent in Harlem I was never treated with disrespect and I never had reason to feel uncomfortable. People were helpful when I needed it and kind at every turn. The area has experienced a Renaissance of sorts. Vacant lots have been turned into beautiful community gardens and parks populated by Moms and Dads and kids.
Everywhere I went in New York I saw groups of community volunteers gardening and cleaning. It’s all good.
My hostess was not home when I arrived as her 20-year-old daughter had suffered a minor medical emergency and was killing time at the Lennox Hill emergency room. After stashing my gear I made my way to the Lower East Side to check in with her. Heading back it was a slow ride home. Some of the passengers slept stretched out across the seats. Their personal worlds secured in large garbage bags at their feet. I finally made it to bed at 2 AM.
The next day I rode solo to Brooklyn Heights to visit the old neighborhood. I emerged from the Borough Hall subway station completely disoriented. A pizza vendor set me right and off I went to the Brooklyn Promenade overlooking lower Manhattan. I hadn’t thought of the World Trade Center until I gazed upon the city skyline and noted the towers’ absence. I had to adjust my visual memories. What a sight it must have been when those two towering behemoths came to ground. My favorite bar, Capulets’ on Montague was gone, replaced by a Thai restaurant serving Chinese food. Most of the Lebanese coffee shops on Atlantic Avenue were nowhere to be found. The old neighborhood looked born again. Buildings neat and tidy. Marc’s old place wore a fresh coat of stucco and looked better than I had remembered. The old Cobble Hill Park, once the home of juvenile thugs, had been transformed into a beautiful rose garden with a new playground to its side. Nannies on benches sat conversing with each other in a Babel of tongues while their small charges played enthusiastically nearby. I walked up Clinton Street and grabbed a slice of pizza before catching the train to Columbus Circle. It was a gorgeous day and I spent a good part of it exploring Central Park and the John Lennon Memorial, which consists of a circular mosaic with the word ‘Imagine’ surrounded by a platoon of photo snapping tourists. After a walk around the reservoir I found a shady spot on the Great Lawn and caught 40 winks and a tan. I saw a couple of film crews at work as well as a well-dressed model being photographed with a huge white horse. People walked by with scarcely a glance at the goings on. Every court at the tennis center was clogged with people hitting balls with varying degrees of accuracy but enjoying every moment. What a careless day.
I strolled to a Spanish Harlem cafe where I grabbed a large coffee and a magazine before camping out at a small table to kill a couple of hours. Being too greedy to exchange the sunny day for a dark subway I walked north along 7th Avenue back to the apartment. There I was able to spend some time with Helen and her daughter and a Rwandan apartment-mate. We dined on Cuban Sloppy Jose’s in their tiny kitchen. We spoke of New York and old times and futures to be spent travelling around the world. We gabbed until 2 AM and would have gone the distance if it had not been for my sleepiness.
The next morning at 7 Helen dragged me out for her personal tour of Harlem. We visited a wonderful old cemetery near the East River just below the George Washington Bridge. Audubon is buried there. This part of Harlem is occupied predominately by folks from the Dominican Republic. Helen invited me to join her at a local restaurant to enjoy a Dominican breakfast before I left. This consisted of a large plate piled high with scrambled eggs, hash brown wedges and thick slices of some unknown sausage floating on a sea of mashed plantain. All of it fried in and covered with huge quantities of lard. I stuck with a café’ con leche and watched aghast as Helen attempted, unsuccessfully, to consume the hill of food before her. Yummy.
At 10 AM I took the ‘A’ train to JFK for my Jet Blue flight to Portland, Maine. It took me two hours to get to the airport at a total cost of $7.25. All subway rides in New York cost $2.25 regardless of the number of transfers you need to make. The token system is long gone having been replaced with a Metro card system. In the old days menacing panhandlers frequently interrupted rides on the underground. Today they are more passive. The odd singing guitar player or a doo-wop trio or a man spouting righteous sounding sermons. The word according to Leroy. The JFK ‘Airtrain’ departs near the Aqueduct racetrack and costs $5. I estimated that a taxi would have run around $50 from Harlem. Luckily I had oodles of time. Jet Blue is situated in terminal 5 of JFK. A new building with all the bells and whistles one could want. My first trip with Jet Blue proved to be a good one. The staff was cordial, security was dealt with in half an hour and the gate area offers free wireless and a plethora of high priced bars and restaurants. $18 for an enchilada? I don’t think so. I killed time on my computer while happily munching Twizzlers from the 2-pound bag I never travel without.
New York is better for the thirty years I spent away. It is cleaner, safer and more law abiding. I look forward to coming back with Karen to see a show, take a subway ride and catch another nap on the Great Lawn.
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kj
non-member comment
This morning, before my labs I might have tried the Dominican breakfast however, I think it wise that you passed. Another excellent rendering-I can feel myself lying on the big lawn.