Quiet Shoes
New Yorkers may talk loud and wear their perfume at full volume but they walk around on cat's feet.
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| New York Public Library: a marble oasis. |
In the New York Public Library and in Grand Central Terminal, where you'd think you'd hear footfalls in the thousands, everyone was in soft-soled shoes. There was no din of marching feet anywhere.
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| Eddie, Kate and Bruce look up in Grand Central Terminal. |
Smelly Trees and Bleach
It was late Saturday afternoon in Manhattan and we were on our way to Terminal 5 to see Dawes, walking along a typical residential street with brownstones rising on our left and, at regular intervals, trees growing out of four-by-six foot rectangles of earth along the curb to our right. A middle-aged man was standing in front of what I assumed was his home. We were just in front of him when he asked, "Can you smell my tree?" Surprised, we slowed our step and turned back to look at him. He explained that people were always asking him about it. I sniffed, and, sure enough, above the ambient New York summertime aroma of garbage, hot asphalt and construction dust, there was a tree-ish tang, not unlike the whiff that comes off of Bradford Pear trees (very common in New York) or Tree of Heaven (very common in Toronto). I'm not sure why he engaged us on the topic, or why he seemed to want to keep talking about it, but Eddie played along, even as we walked away. Eddie closed the conversation with "I thought it was your cologne."
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| A sign at the Brooklyn Botanical Garden. According to the Internet, Stinking Hellebore doesn't. |
Terminal 5 was the first big music venue I think I've ever been in. I thought it was well-designed. Lots of room to stand, lots of washrooms and a bar on every one of its three levels. My biggest impression: the strong smell of bleach as I entered after a nice twenty-something tried to card me (I didn't have any photo ID on me, but, c'mon).
The day before we'd stopped for lunch at a place called Figaro on West 44th street between 6th and 5th avenues and the first thing that struck me about that place was the pungent presence of bleach. Not very appetizing, but we ate there anyway.
When Kate and I stopped in for a first-thing-in-the-morning mani-pedi at a little nail shop in Brooklyn, you guessed it, the air inside was heavy with the smell of bleach.
And the one day that we returned to the place we were staying and met the nice lady who cleaned for our host, I noted that bleach played a major role in her approach to keeping the place spic and span for visitors.
Along the paths we walked in Brooklyn, I saw giant displays of bleach in front of convenience stores.
It seems so old-fashioned.
Touched By An Angel
The angels in the photo above - taken on our last day as we waited for the cab to take us to the airport - adorned the steps of the house next door to the one we stayed in. Kate and I were curious about them, especially about what they were made of. So one morning before we walked over to the little bagel place where we always had our breakfast, we touched them, briefly, lightly and then we went on our way. If I was going to guess, I'd say they were made of some kind of resin and were probably not all that well suited to being out of doors.
Fast forward to a day or two later, and I was talking with our host as I prepared to step out for the day's adventure. He seemed a little on edge about something. Then he explained that there had been some drama between him and his neighbours. Watchful eyes had seen Kate and I touch the angel. And then the same angel, so said my host, turned up broken. I'm listening to all this very carefully, trying to assess, exactly, what the point was. The angels, at the time of my conversation with my host, were in exactly the same shape as when Kate and I had examined them, and, even granting that some misfortune may have befallen them in the interim, we were not the cause.
Our host then got to the point: to make peace with his neighbour for the alleged damage to her angels, he had paid her a sum of money. How much money, I asked. A hundred dollars he said.
That's a lot of cash for no damage to a pair of Carlton Card shop resin angels. I wondered if his neighbour shook him down every time he had a guest in his house. I wondered if any of his guests had ever paid him all or a portion of the shakedown.
By this time, Kate and Ed and Bruce were all joined in the conversation. We reasserted our innocence, expressed regret that we had caused this kerfuffle (there was no denying that we had in fact touched the angels), and went on our way. We didn't hear another word about it and thereafter kept a safe distance between us and the angels.
Rules and Regulations
We've heard that New Yorkers and New York have a different air about them since the 9/11 attacks. People are friendlier, more inclined to be helpful. That may be the case. Everyone we interacted with seemed nice and ready to help - with the exception of the guy in Brooklyn who just stared at Eddie when he asked him for directions. What I've noticed more than once is how rule-conscious New Yorkers seem to be now.
I found these rules for Zuccotti Park, famous as the temporary home of the Occupy Wall Street phenomenon.
The Brooklyn Museum similarly imposed an impressive set of rules that appeared, while we were there, to be 100% followed.
If it weren't for that cute little kid playing in the fountain (see last post), I'd think that New York, and not Toronto, is New York run by the Swiss.
Thanks for reading! Have a great week!
Karen
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