Butterfly!

Last week on Ft. Washington Ave. I was nearly run down by a four year old squealing with joy: Butterfly! Butterfly! Butterfly! she said.  Her stubby legs pumped at top speed, making her pig tails jump up and down on either side of her head.  The lilacs were blooming.  The sky was crystal clear.  And there was no reason not  to be overjoyed by the prospect of butterflies.  Her parents followed behind, smiling and indulgent.  Such displays of exuberance are unfairly reserved for the very young.  I wanted to throw my arms in the air and run alongside the girl, rejoicing over earth's power to renew itself each spring. 

Several days later, I passed the same girl and her mother.  The girl had used string to attach two floppy paper plates to her back.  They were decorated with wavy crayon lines and cut on one side to make a straight edge next to her shoulder blades.  The mother reached for the girl's hand and said gently, Come on Butterfly.  The girl skipped along, her wings fluttering behind her.

Spring Eaves Dropping

"You know what I want," she said, "I want beer and dinner."  She was white-haired and alone.  She sat at the table directly across from me.  The waiter had placed his hand on her shoulder and listened to her like he would to his grandmother.  He knew her.  He brought the beer in a lady-like wine glass.  She took a sip, then looked at me and said, "I'm Joan.  What's your name?" Veronica, I replied.  "Where you from?"  she asked.  Los Angeles, I said.  "I went to Glendale College.  I wrote for the college paper.  I worked at Webb department store.  Do you know it?  Probably before your time." I shook my head no, I didn't know it, it was indeed before my time.  She continued, "I had a friend from that Norwegian town up north.  What was the name?"  Solvang, I said.  "Yes, Solvang!" She grew excited and dropped her fork.  The waiter swooped down to pick it up.  Just then thunder exploded outside the restaurant.  A few people got to their feet to take a look.  She said, "I hope you don't have far to go.  I'm just one building away."  Not far, I replied, I will run if I need to. 

But I needn't have run.  The thunder was nature reminding us of her power.  The day had been beautiful, the first real day of spring when one still needs a light coat despite the blue sky gracing us with her presence.   Poochini and I had spent the afternoon in Central Park, where all of Manhattan had turned out.  Especially the French part (Manhattan being an outpost of Europe, as we know).  The language of luuuuuv was everywhere.  People were saying s'il vous plait at the Bethesda Fountain, French kissing at the Boat House Cafe (where I fed Pooch French fries), and smoking in a very Frenchie way at the new food court in Tavern on the Green's former garden, whose exclusivity has been superceded by food on wheels:  Pera (a Turkish food truck), The Chinese Dumpling Truck, a soup truck, and an Italian gelato truck (the economic downturn has done wonders for democratizing food in Central Park).  The wall of people had over-stimulated poor Pooch, who walked across Sheep's Meadow in paroxysms of nervous coughing.  Despite the seizure-like quality of his affliction, I think the outing was good for him.  His nose forgot to run.  Now, after five hours of wandering, he is lying nearly comatose on his little dog bed, the corners of his mouth upturned in a smile of contentment.

But I needed more of an outing.  Maybe it was the sun, but something in me was missing California tonight.  When I miss California, I eat Mexican food.  So I headed to the Mexican restaurant down the street, which is where I met Beer and Dinner Joan.  There are many women like her in my area.  Unlike the Central Park crowd, not many speak French.  In my neighborhood, they speak Spanish, Russian, Yiddish, and Hebrew.  The woman who runs the neighborhood drug store is from Riverside, not far from where I grew up.  She came to be on Broadway, and stayed when that didn't work out.  There are others.  For instance, my neighbor Mrs. Katz, who has Alzheimer's and is obsessed with the layout of my apartment (yours is bigger than mine).  There is the old German Jewish woman one floor down from me, who always has her hair done just so, still wears make up, and is completely (snap snap) Put-Together.  When she says hi, I do a double take.  Her accent reminds me of Dad.  Then there was the old Russian lady who lived above me, and whose bumps in the night disappeared a few months ago.  She has been replaced by a young woman whose bumps carry on throughout the day.  I can't say that I like the replacement.  The older neighbors have better stories.  Their bumps are less vindictive.  As if, after so many years of life's ups and downs, they've learned to go easy on their neighbors.

Twilight Walk

This blog is staying in The Heights.  For three months I've been having an affair with Brooklyn, attempting to  leave The Heights for a coop on the other side of the tracks.  For three months I've been trying to convince myself that it's the right thing to do.  But sometimes the right thing falls through, and you pick up the pieces and move on. And sometimes the right thing turns out to be dead wrong.  Suffice it to say that the deal fell through, and I'm nursing bruised feelings toward a coop board that wasted $1000 of my hard earned cash.  It seemed like the place held the key to lower housing costs, more financial security, and freedom to write.  Even though I met all the requirements, the coop board turned me down without explanation in a curt "sorry for the inconvenience" rejection letter.

So tonight, Poochini and I walked at twilight through the Heather Garden.  Despite the lingering chill, spring is trying valiantly to arrive.  The daffodils have reached their zenith, though tonight they stood muted in evening's faded light.  My favorite tree has burst into white, frothy blossoms overnight.  The hyacinths have scented the evening air with sweet honey.  And the forsythia blazed fluorescent yellow in the twilight.  The evening was warm enough to sit on the Linden Terrace, and so we did.  Poochini lay in my lap like a baby.  I rubbed his belly and tried to let my disappointment flow into the night air.  It almost worked.  After all, it's hard to leave Ft. Tryon Park during spring.  Tomorrow, we start our search again with the trusty neighborhood real estate broker Louis (who knows my name and greets me on the street).  Besides, who would want to read about Brooklyn?  That's been done.  And anway, that's where all the wannabe writers live.    

Super Heros!

Recently I have noticed an inordinate number of super heros on the streets of Washington Heights.  Blame it on the snowy weather (super heros come out in full force when their powers are needed), but there are capes and masks everwhere.  Just this morning I passed the Lone Ranger:  a little boy dressed from head to toe in royal blue (blue poofy snow jacket, blue cowboy boots, blue cowboy hat decorated squarely in the front with a red star).  Where was Tonto in this urban winter wonderland?  At the pharmacy after work today, I passed a more sinister super hero:  an older boy staring solemnly from behind a Darth Vader mask (there were heavy breathing and sinus problems involved I'm sure of it-- his mother was buying decongestant). 

Walking Poochini past the mine field of yellow and brown mysteriosos that dot the glaciers near the sidewalk, I passed two less obvious super heros:  a father and his pre-teen son throwing snow balls (well, now iceballs since temperatures have plummeted, turning slush to ice).  You'll never get me, the boy yelled. Hah, you'll see, the father called back as he threw an iceball far and above the boy's head.  The boy ran away laughing, knowing that he would soon best his father in other things. 

There are inconspicous super heros:  the man who helped me dig my car out from more than a foot of snow.  The superintendents who chip away at the ice that encrust fire hydrants, and who clear the sidewalks for the rest of us.  All of New York is awaiting the garbage collector super heros, whose services have been interrupted due to winter storms.  Hopefully they will soon come:  the garbage has piled to higher than waist level.

Then there is my personal super hero, Poochini, who leaps for joy when I open the door upon returning from a long work day.  He is the 20 lb bundle of energy with the Napoleonic complex, who doesn't realize his size and chases after the 150 pound Cane Corso (Caesar Augustus, Augie to friends), in the dog park.  Augie leaps in fright, surprised by Poochini's audacity.  Poochini is the super hero who sometimes won't let me write, squirming on the couch for my attention, reminding me to take a break.

We all need super heros now and then.  Sometimes, we forget where to look for them.

Bakery Tango

On Tuesday, Tango appeared unexpectedly. The sky had drizzled all day, I needed to be in a better mood, and so I headed for Gideon's, the neighborhood bakery where pastries are half price after 4:30.  From the 1950's sign, to the round formica tables, and the types of pastries (cherry danishes, chocolate rugelach, rainbow sprinkle sugar cookies), Gideon's is old-fashioned. Which suits the elderly neighborhood socialites. That day, there were two long-time girlfriends flirting with a tall white-haired man smartly dressed in a wool jacket and navy trousers. You keep getting better looking all the time, one of the women said. The man looked embarrassed, but pleased.  He smiled, absorbing the compliment. In a corner opposite them sat Tango, looking nonchalant and dipping a French cruller in his afternoon pick-me-up coffee. I stopped dead and blurted, Tango, what are you doing here?! Nice to see you, too, Tango replied. It's been awhile, I said dumbly, trying to disguise the truth: Tango was a sight for sore eyes. From the low tech sound system (the boom box behind the counter) played a fancied-up Julio Iglesias version of an old Carlos Gardel tango: El Dia Que Me Quieras (The Day When You Will Love Me). Tango and I looked at each other with unspoken understanding, that song weaving our thoughts together. Are we back on? Tango asked.  I nodded.

I carried that song with me for more than a day.  I found the lyrics on the Argentine Ministry of Education website. Written in the future tense, the lyrics are tinged with sadness and longing, but ultimately full of hope: the day when you will love me, the roses will dress up in celebration (will that day ever arrive?), the day when you will love me, there will only be harmony (yes, I'm sure that day will come), the day when you will love me there will be no more pain (I have hope, that day will arrive sometime soon...) However others might complicate matters by saying that tango is life, love, relationship, art, Argentine national identity, whatever, I read those lyrics and thought it was something easier. Some say that tango is also (and simply) a language, a dialogue, a conversation of connection between two people.  Though I am still a tango novice, I tend to agree with this view, and venture to add that tango is also poetry (dear to my heart). Below is a link to the song and the lyrics in Spanish (without accents, as I can't figure out how to insert them in this dag-blasted blogger program), with my own English translation (hopefully not too terribly flawed):

El Dia Que Me Quieras-- Tango by Carlos Gardel

El Dia Que Me Quieras (1935)             The Day When You Will Love Me

Musica Carlos Gardel                           Music Carlos Gardel

Letra Alfredo Le Pera                           Lyrics Alfredo Le Pera



Acaricia me ensueno                             The soft murmur of your breath

el suave murmullo                                  Caresses my dreams.

de tu suspirar.                                        How life is full of laughter

Como rie la vida                                    When your black eyes
                                                                       desire to look on me.
si tus ojos negros                                   When it is mine
                                                                       the shelter of your laughter
me quieren mirar.                                   lifts me up like a song.

Y si es mio el amparo                            It heals my wounds,
    de tu risa leve
que es como un cantar,                            Everything, everything
                                                                    is forgotten.
ella aquieta mi herida,

todo, todo se olvida.



El dia que me quieras                                The day when you
                                                                        will love me
la rosa que engalana                                  The rose that beautifies all

se vestira de fiesta                                     will dress in its finest
                                                                        for the celebration.
con su mejor color.                                   And the church bells will ring

Y al viento las campanas                           Saying that you
                                                                     are already mine
diran que ya eres mia                                And the fountains will
                                                                     sing madly about our love.
y locas las fontanas                             

se contaran su amor.



La noche que me quieras                      The night when you
                                                                   will love me
desde el azul del cielo,                          The jealous stars

las estrellas celosas                                From the blue sky above

nos miraran pasar.                                  Will watch us pass by.

Y un rayo mysterioso                              And a mysterious moonbeam

hara nido en tu pelo,                               Will nest in your hair,

luciernaga curiosa que veras                    Like a curious glow-worm
                                                                      who will see
que eres mi consuelo                              That you console me.



El dia que me quieras                              The day when you
                                                                     will love me
no habra mas                                          There will be
    que armonia                                             nothing but harmony               
sera clara la aurora                                   The dawn will be clear

y alegre el manantial.                                And the spring will
                                                                       bubble happily.
Traera quieta la brisa                               The quiet breeze will

rumor de melodia.                                     murmur with melody.

Y nos daran las fuentes                             And the fountains
                                                                      will sing for us
su canto de crystal                                    in their crystalline voices.



El dia que me quieras                                The day when you
                                                                        will love me
endulzaran sus cuerdas                              The singing birds

el pajaro cantor.                                        Will sweeten their chords.

Florecera la vida,                                      Life will bloom,

no existira el dolor.                                    Pain will not exist.



La noche que me quieras                          The night when you
                                                                          will love me
desde el azul del cielo,                               The jealous stars

las estrellas celosas                                    From the blue sky above

nos miraran pasar.                                     Will watch us pass by.

Y un rayo mysterioso                                And a mysterious moonbeam

hara nido en tu pelo.                                  will nest in your hair.

Luciernaga curiosa que veras                     Like a curious glow-worm
                                                                          who will see
que eres mi consuelo.                                That you console me.

Mother Cabrini

A saint lives half a block away from me in a Catholic church that holds a shrine to St. Francis Cabrini, the patron saint of immigrants.  She is America's first saint, and she hersel f immigrated from Italy at the turn of the century.  She earned her sainthood by establishing hospitals and performing miracles all around the world.  In the Italian tradition of preserving important dead people, who lie embalmed in glass cases in churches scattered throughout the Motherland, St. Francis lies surrounded by artificial flowers in a glass case behind the church's altar.  Apparently the head in the case is a replica.  Her real head was sent long ago to Rome as a relic.  The church is surrounded by a high, gray stone wall.  On the wall, beside the entrance to the walkway leading up to the church, is a plaque announcing the shrine.  Floating on the plaque, St. Francis' disembodied head smiles at you.  The smile is gentle, the eyes weary.  The picture is black and white, ghostly.

The Admiral

The Admiral has recently appeared in my neighborhood.  He wears navy blue spats and black boots laced to just below his knees.  Two rows of shiny brass buttons gallop up and down his short, tightly fitted military jacket.  A navy blue visored cap, made comical by three inches extra height, sits angled above his brow.  He walks slowly and deliberately, swinging a walking stick by his side.  With his head pointed regally ahead, he walks as if he were the chief of police keeping the neighborhood safe from ruffians.  Or people who might spoil his freedom to remain The Admiral.

Overheard Dinner Conversation

The other night I went to dinner at Bleu Evolution.  The evening was warm, the sky clear blue.  The restaurant's back garden had just opened for the season.  The grape vines had just begun to unfurl new leaves on the overhead trellis.  Halfway through my meal, three men sat down at the table next to me.  They were a German, a Mexican, and an American.  Within minutes, the American began a right-wing political tirade. He said that American culture is superior to Mexican culture, that illegal immigrants are disrespecting US laws and taking our jobs, that all Mexican immigrants should have a green card before being allowed in the country.  I wondered, did the American know nothing about immigration quotas, how hard it is to get a visa let alone a green card, how most people need enough money for lawyers in order to get the paper work together, that many Mexicans who enter the country illegaly work exploitative jobs for less than minimum wage, jobs that most Americans wouldn't deign to work.  Did the man not know that just a few blocks away in this neighborhood live Dominican families ten to fifteen to a room because that's all they can afford.  The man knew nothing of immigrant life, yet he was saying Americans are superior.  The German remained mute.  The Mexican tried  to talk some sense into the man, who hurtled personal insults at the Mexican.  Then American had the gall to wink at me.  He was fat and ugly, with two double chins.  I shook my head and tried to ignore him.  But my dinner had been ruined.  I broke into their conversation and told the man that he needed to stop blaming others and take a good hard look at himself.  Like most abusive narcissists faced with the truth about themselves, he next attacked me, calling me emotional.  I asked for the check and left.  On the way out, I asked one of the waiters, a small, shy man from Ecuador who is always friendly to me, how he could stand such talk. He said with a knowing smile which proved him to be the bigger man, we don't listen to it.  Good advice, with racist biggots as well as with other unsavory people.   

Curbside Book Store

At W181st street the road curves down a steep hill toward the Hudson.  Midway down the hill and across from Cabrini Wines, a Dominican man sells books every day except Sundays and when it rains.  His books always flank the sidewalk in orderly columns, tantalizing me with stories of far off places.  Curbside books stores dot Manhattan, but this one's my favorite.  It's different from the others.  For one, the books are $1 each.  Hard to find a better bargain.  For another, the man sells quality:  Shakespeare, Ibsen, Charlotte Bronte, Gore Vidal, Joseph Conrad.  Most of the other sidewalk booksellers have sold out to mass market NY Times best sellers, the same weepy story packaged under eye catching covers.  But the man peddling Shakespeare on W181st St is my hero of the day.  I can't say what accounts for the difference in inventory-- maybe the population up here feels less pressure to keep up with the Joneses?  Today, the Pooch and I had finished our run (we are geting back into shape-- he laid down and refused to go any farther.  He had put in a good effort so I gave in).  We trudged up 181st.  I had a few dollars in my pocket destined for the bookseller.  While Pooch panted for dear life, I bought two books by Graham Greene, "Songlines" by Bruce Chatwin, and "The Year of Living Dangerously" by Christopher Koch.  Now we will go into the Heather Garden, find a shady tree, and read until sunset.  I can't think of a better way to spend a Saturday. 

Homeless Man on the Stairs

Returning at 2AM last night from celebrating a friend's birthday in the West Village and walking bleary-eyed down the stairs with my dog to give him a late night pee, I was surprised by a homeless man camped out on the stairs inside my buildling.  He was thin and old.  He wore a soiled and tattered jacket and clutched a  single plastic bag filled with his belongings.  An uncombed, white beard and mustache obscured the bottom half of his face.  What are you doing here, I asked.  He replied in garbled English, his eyes clouded with dementia, not alcohol or drugs.  I tried Spanish, but that got us no further.  He said, I know someone who lives here.  I am waiting for her, she will let me in.  I said, do you need help?  He did not understand and refused my offer.  A glimmer of anger emerged at the suggestion of needing help.  He said, I know someone here.  See, I have keys.  And he showed me two shiny keys attached to his waste band.  I repeated, do you need help?  More anger.  Pride.  And finally, shame.  He said, I'll be back.  I'll come back shaved.  You'll see.  I'll come back shaved.  And he descended the stairway, off into the night.  In my apartment I closed the windows and double bolted the door.  This was senseless on my part.  So old and frail, this man was perhaps more afraid of my dog and I, than I of him.  Where did that man go last night?  I often wonder about solitary elderly people:  why are they alone?  Why does no one care for them?  The condition is especially dire for men.  More than women, whose physical strength may inspire less fear of violence, few help men in trouble.  Adrift alone in this world, they often refuse help, responding with anger and pride.  Still, I wonder... did this man survive the night?  What could I have done differently?     

Grandmother

Upstairs from me lives an Indian family:  a father, a mother, their son, and the grandmother.  For the past two years I have been watching the little boy grow from infancy to toddlerhood.  I often see the boy and his grandmother in the foyer, the grandmother calmly keeping him company while the boy explores the hallways.  They greet everyone who enters with gentle eyes and shy smiles.  The little boy's face lights up when he sees The Pooch.  When he was smaller, and would squirm to touch The Pooch, the grandmother, not trusting an unknown dog, would disallow it.  Now that the boy is older, the grandmother has grown more lenient and he squeals with delight to feel The Pooch's soft fur. Once, in the beginning, the grandmother said to me. "It's not good for a little boy to sit inside by himself in the apartment all day."  So, in order to have the company of others, they hang out in the foyer.  I used to imagine that, being from India, they must be used to constantly having people around.  But on further thought, I now think that it makes sense in any culture.  Being alone in one's apartment can't be good for one's soul, no matter how old, how young, or what country one calls home.

McDonald's and Sweaters

When I want a break from office politics I have lunch at the McDonald's on W171st & Broadway.  I like to people watch there, and on the way I can do some shopping.  All kinds of things are sold off tables on the streets of Washington Heights (Lancome moisturizer, lipstick, gloves, books, shoes, you name it).   Today I stopped by the $2 sweater guy.  He sometimes shows up on the corner of W170th and Broadway selling fresh from the factory (still in the cellophane!) sweaters for two dollars.  Since you can't open the packages, it can be a hit or miss affair.  But you can't beat the price, the guy is always friendly, and once I hit the jackpot with a green cashmere blend cardigan.  That was when a woman in my office berated me, not because I'd taken a lunch break but because she assumed the sweaters were stolen.  My take is this: if the guy is selling sweaters for $2 on the street (especially if he's standing in partially melted snow drifts like he was today) he probably needs the money.  There's stronger stuff that he could be selling on the street, and I'd rather give my business to him than to companies who over charge for sweaters made in the sweatshops of the Developing World.  So, with my $2 sweaters in hand, I walked into a music-less McDonald's.  Usually there's bachata playing at the walk-up window (in Manhattan the McDonald's are better for your health-- you don't drive up, you walk up), and soul playing inside.  Today conversations compensated for the music. I sat in a high traffic area, watching and listening (in this McDonald's you're more likely to hear Spanish than English).  A little boy scurried back and forth to the serve-yourself soda fountain.  His eyes lit up with a devious gleam over breaking the rules (you're only supposed to fill up once, but everyone looks the other way here).  Gradually I became aware of the conversation behind me.  A man boasted to a woman how he had been paid $4 an hour to do apartment repairs.  "Off the books," he said, "But sometimes the owners would give me big tips to make up for it.  Once I got $1500 at Christmas.  The boss got nada."  But the boss must have found out, because he started sending the man to different buildings where the tips dried up.  He was back to $4 an hour.  Now, his voice darkened, he had nothing, not even $4 an hour.  That's when the sound system blasted into action with, "She gives me love, love, love, love, crazy love!"  That drew my attention to the red heart-shaped balloons decorating the cash registers and the Valentine's streamers hanging from the ceiling.  Suddenly the place felt like a party.  I half expected Cookie Monster to appear with a basket of free Valentine's Day chocolates.  But there ain't no free lunch in life, and that didn't happen.  After I finished my Big Mac, I walked out the door and  past the walk-up window.  It was playing bachata again and everything was back to normal.

Chess

I have a new route to work, which takes me through a park popular with neighborhood kids and their supervisors. In the afternoons, Dominican men sit playing chess at cement tables with playing boards built into their tops. There are six tables, all made comfortable by the shade of a nearby tree. The men form a crowd that sometimes occupies all the tables, especially on sunny days. They socialize, smoke cigars, and while away the afternoon. Elsewhere, children ride bikes and play soccer in a patch of grass made bald by hours of play. One afternoon, I sat eating my lunch on a bench next to an elderly Dominican man. He was watching two young boys who sped past on bicycles. Grandchildren? One boy, the chubby one, rode carefully and slowly on a bike too small for him. The other boy, thin and full of nervous energy, whizzed past the chubby one, turning to taunt him as he did so. The elderly man called out repeatedly to the little speed demon, "Suave, suave!" He took no notice. I wondered, was this a character trait that would persist for life? Would the speed demon remain a risk taker? Would the chubby boy remain slow and deliberate? Or would life circumstances force them to switch roles?

New Year's Eve

New Year's Eve and the snow is falling fast. The windows in the employees' lunch room look onto a Hudson obscured by dense white clouds. Snowflakes stick to the window panes and threaten to form a crust. The Greek man who runs the lunch room, and who usually pretends not to know me, wishes me a Happy New Year as he rings up my soup. People smile (genuinely) in the hallways. After the enforced joviality of the holidays, New Year's Eve is a welcome rebirth, a renewal of hope.

Native American in Washington Heights

Today, as I waited at the Starbucks outside NY Presbyterian's ER, the man ordering in front of me looked Native American. He had a great mass of straight black hair that stretched in an uninterrupted cascade to his mid-back. He wore a beige leather jacket and leather pants with fringes. Around his neck hung a broad necklace made of white stones (bone?), and his profile resembled Geronimo. He reached into a leather paunch slung around his waist, pulled out a five, and paid for his double latte with soy. Was he the real thing? I once worked on a Navajo reservation, where I would not have doubted (oh the turquoise boulders that the old people wore!). But here in Manhattan, you have to wonder.

Moon over George Washington Bridge

Tonight as I walked through the heather garden a sliver of a moon hung like a fingernail, or a scythe depending on your political persuasion, over the loops of light of the George Washington Bridge. Two bright stars (planets) twinkled to the bottom right of the moon. I wondered: was it Jupiter? Or Saturn? I hoped at least one of them was Venus. I could use a little love in my life right now. The night was warm for December, though a cool breeze swept off the Hudson. I sucked in my breath, overwhelmed by beauty.

Winter

The first snowfall is trying to arrive. The temperature has been waiting for it all week. Too cold to walk to work anymore, and the Rose Man wasn't on his corner this Friday. The wind whips off the Hudson and swirls around Fort Tryon Park where I went running this morning. My dog and I maneuvered up and down ice-covered paths, concentrating hard, trying not to slip. We made it to the river, where my dog looked up at me with eyes made tearful by the wind. Why are you doing this to me, his eyes questioned. I had the same question for myself. Three hours later I am still trying to coax the chill out of my bones.

RIP

It is sad to write this. Friday, as I was walking down W170th St., I found an impromptu shrine to a young man. It stood in front of one of those behemoths of apartment buildings common to Washington Heights. The wall to the left of the entryway was plastered with photos of the young man, smiling with arms draped around friends. On the ground spluttered veladoras (religious candles) next to a combination of plastic and quickly wilting fresh flowers. Propped against the building was a silver car bumper, every inch covered in signatures with the accompanying inscription: "RIP, bro".

Winter for Real

Winter has taken up shop in NYC. People have become introverted and reclusive, locking themselves away from the cold and each other. It was a few minutes past five, but already pitch black when I went running tonight. I dressed up in those special high-tech clothes that are supposed to wick away cold, but really just cost a lot of money and make you smell funny. Most of the leaves have fallen off the trees now. I swished my feet through thick puddles of them and felt like a kid. Standing on the Linden Terrace, the view of the Hudson opened up more widely in front of me. Most of the trees have turned into skeletons. But the George Washington Bridge has come alive. It winked at me with its outline of twinkling lights. I was alone and it could have been midnight.

Flowers on Fridays

Yesterday (Friday) I walked home from work for the first time in many weeks. Lately the weather has been cold, and my feet need a break from pounding the pavement. But yesterday the clouds hung low and gray, like a blanket holding in the city's warmth. As I neared George Washington Bridge my steps quickened. I wondered if the Rose Man would be on his corner. There he stood, remembering me after all these weeks. I asked him in Spanish, does he sell roses even during the winter? He said yes, but for fewer hours when it's really cold. Good for me, bad for him, I thought. Now I can buy roses all winter long, but he would freeze. This week, I chose five orange roses and he added a sixth with a flourish. I've become a regular customer.