I had a whirlwind week from June 1 till the 9th, until I jetted home on a happily turbulence free flight from New York City. It all began at a wedding in Plymouth, Massachusetts and until my hour or so sojourn in a small corner of the 2 1/2 mile stretch of bucolic oasis that is Central Park in the middle of a wildly busy Manhattan, I had been going non-stop. Nothing wrong with that; I enjoyed it all enormously. But after a late breakfast with my last remaining aunt on either side of my immediate family, at her favorite diner (The Flame) on Columbus Avenue near Lincoln Center, and a couple of hours before my cousin, Carol, was to meet us for a late afternoon visit, I needed to take in something of my environs alone. So much had happened in the preceding days. I hadn't digested most of it. I wanted to take a moment for quiet gratefulness. What better than a respite, as the sun tried hard to peek out, and a slight warming trend (from the 50s and low 60s) began, than in the Conservancy improved Central Park? I entered off 59th Street. I didn't need to go in far to find my spot, one of many benches with memorial plaques for city dwellers of the past.
When I left New York for the milder clime of California in 1981, the Central Park Conservancy was in its infancy and its task was herculean--to restore and preserve the Park which by then was a den for thieves and drug dealing, and brutality to those who would attempt to enter its manicured woods. I had probably gone through one of its gates maybe a handful of times, as a child with my father or some relative to the Children's Zoo, and a ride through on a horse drawn carriage, a requirement for after prom back in high school. Oh there was one time in 1987, by the lake, with a friend, when I was visiting after four years away from the city. I did notice then that there seemed an improvement in the surroundings, a little less fearsome, but I didn't much consider that there was intention behind it.
I didn't actually do much cogitating about my trip up to that moment as I sat on my bench, fat sparrows whisking by me lighting on iron fences or into the trees. A man in a suit accelerated on his skate board. A woman in jogging shorts stretched deliberately across from me. I could not help but note the depth of her bends which brought her ample rump into full view not only of me, but of those who skirted by her. The horse drawn carriages are still doing their tours. I have never been quite comfortable with seeing the horses and their variously decorated carriages along Central Park West, lonely sentinels awaiting a tourist or two. At least these days they look healthier than I remember. There was a brief time, I seem to recall, when there was talk of getting rid of that New York attraction, because there was some rumor that the horses were ill-treated. I would prefer that they be free to roam in some truly rural atmosphere, but I admit that the park would not be the PARK, without them standing and clacking about. I was surprised, given the $52.00 price tag for a tour, that there were as many takers as passed me, having various landmarks within, and without the park pointed out to them. With Trump International vaulting into the sky directly behind me, I noted that every tour guide pointed out that particular edifice. Added to the tours are bicycle carriages, that must not be as regulated in price, for some offered rides for $3.95 a minute, while others, I suspect the very unsuccessful entrepreneurs offered a similar ride, in a less commodious cart, for one cent a minute.
A set of tourists, speaking French I think, as I picked out a few words, consulted a map regarding their next destination.
"Yes," I thought to myself, "if I still lived in New York, and worked in Manhattan, I'd spend time in here." I probably wouldn't. I never actually visited, for example, the Statue of Liberty--though I passed it by a few times on the Circle Line.
I felt myself in full relaxation, breathing deeply, the New York air cleaner than it was when I was a child. A good place to meditate. A good place to say, as I did, the Rosary--imperfect pray-er that I am this place made it feel easy. Every once in a while, you have those experiences, sedate, peaceful, as I was in the Park that seem to presage what one hopes Heaven will be. I didn't want to leave, but it was time to move on. I saw a kiosk where I could get a souvenir of the Park, so I could contribute, ever so slightly to the continued maintenance of the space. I bought a T-Shirt, and also a book about the park, since I have never known a thing about it. Until that moment I am ashamed to say I never much cared. Better late than never to honor those forward thinking men--in this case they were men--who late in the 19th Century orchestrated the creation of what they thought of as "public art", carefully placed trees, buildings, rock and water, that allows the weary New Yorker fuel for the soul and body.
I wasn't quite ready to return to Lincoln Plaza where my aunt lives, it still being slightly shy of the time to meet up with my cousin, so I got a Strawberry Acai Refresher at one of the ubiquitous (even more than in Los Angeles, if that is possible) Starbucks and sat on a bench in a garden mall on the median on 61st and Broadway, perusing my newly acquired book about Central Park. It was this absurd postage stamp spot smack in the middle of northbound and southbound cross traffic, maintained by the donations of the businesses surrounding the area. The birds were flying into the various spaces of light and other poles. I took in the cacophony. And enjoyed it. A bird landed on the edge of the bench. It was glorious.
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