Saturday on 125th Street in Spring

A Saturday on 125th Street in the spring is like a carnival. Let's start with the ice cream trucks, either parked at the curb or cruising along with their darling music box chimes. Add sellers of pineapple on a stick, carmelized nuts, fresh fruit, shaved ice, bottled water. Then, throw in some church ladies with a few tables of yard-sale items and home-baked goods for sale: fat slices of cake and sweet potato pies. The backdrop is a swathe of shops both old and new, ranging from soul food dives to American Apparel ridiculousness. The sun is shining and everyone is in a good mood. An old guy is busting out some dancing moves for a guy selling cds of old-time R&B. Ladies selling big colorful wooden earrings laugh at him. Other people are selling corsages, Mother's Day cards, sunglasses, plastic kewpie-doll heads with tootsie-rolls for hair. Then there are the Obama calendars, Obama wallets, t-shirts with Obama's face in sequins. Still other vendors hawk original paintings, Egyptian knick-knacks, and books on every subject from romance to Freemasonry. Don't forget the people with the African shea butter, bath crystals, and incense. The sidewalks are full of strollers, shoppers, romancers, people-watchers, sun-lovers, flirters, and all kinds of people from tourists to old ladies in their curlers to young studs strutting their coolest rhinestone belt-buckles and bling. At street-corners, people are handing out flyers for nail salons alongside Jehovah's Witness ladies in flowery dresses, who stand aback demurely, as gypsy cabdrivers honk, trolling for business. On my way to run an errand I walked down this carnival street, this bustling main street, and soaked in the joie de vivre of the whole scene, regretting that I'd left my camera behind.

The colorful festival atmosphere stood in stark contrast to the scene I encountered in the Harlem Branch Library, located on quiet 124th Street. I stopped there to reserve a book, and felt like I'd stepped back in time. Dusty beams of sunlight shone through the large windows of the old brownstone library building. Beyond a wooden staircase, one large room bordered with bookshelves was peppered with men and women reading newspapers quietly. Circulating air lazily around the warm room, a large fan was attached to the antique wooden desk of a harried librarian, in intense conversation with a handsome young man whose white linen shirt and khaki trousers gave him the look of an expatriate journalist in war-time France. A woman in West African dress sat by the door, fanning her napping child. If not for the laptop users and the librarian's computer (which might have been a card-catalog for all the good it was doing her), it could have been a scene from any day between now and 1925. Some things don't ever change much. For that, I'm grateful.

I checked out my book, smiled at the handsome man, and headed back out into the sunny flower-scented street-carnival day.

The Bottle District

New York has a Garment District, a Theater District, a Financial District, but did you know it has a Bottle District? Well, at least Harlem does. There are probably others elsewhere in the city. But you see, the Pathmark grocery store at 145th Street has a bottle recycling station on the side of it, where you can take your recyclables, be they plastic, glass, or tin, and get the 5 or 10-cent deposit for recycling them. Naturally, this is where all those people go that you see with the shopping carts full of bottles and cans. Saturday morning seems to be the day when they all go cash in their bottles and cans for the big bucks. A long line of people stretches down the block, each with their bulging sacks of plastic and metal recyclables.

What I discovered today is that, just a few blocks away from the Pathmark, a burgeoning business of bottle sorting takes place every Saturday morning. On my way to Pathmark this morning, I happened upon it. At the intersection of 142nd and Bradhurst, there were dozens of people sorting bottles on the sidewalks surrounding a tiny park. Children, old folks, men and women. Stacks and stacks of bottles. Nearby, what used to be a school-bus, now painted bright green, was parked in the middle of the street, advertising a bottle-buying business. People were lined up at the bus doorway to cash in their bottles and cans. It was a festive scene on an especially fine and sunny Spring morning. These people no doubt see each other every week as they congregate to sort, trade, and sell their bottles and cans, as well as socialize.

I had five empty Diet Coke bottles in my bag that I had intended to drop in the recycling machine at Pathmark in exchange for 25 cents, but when I saw the long line of people, I decided to give up. There was no way I could ever compete with these big-time recyclers and their trash-bags full of bottles. They would have laughed to see me join their line with my meager little collection, the result of at least four months of saving up (I don't really drink a lot of soda). So, if you can't beat 'em... I just donated my bottles to a lady waiting in the line, and hurried on in to Pathmark to do my shopping.

Palm Sunday

The past two days I've spent luxuriously lounging around at home, listening to General Conference, a twice yearly event that, thanks to modern technology, I can enjoy in my pajamas. It is when the leaders of the church broadcast four sessions of talks to LDS people the world over. It's always wonderful--it renews my faith, energizes me, and gives me a greater peace and understanding of life. And perhaps I ought to go watch it at the church, where they show it on the big screen in the chapel, but it's streamed live online, and it is so nice to be able to curl in a sunbeam with a blanket and my current crochet project, and just listen peacefully alone.

In between the sessions of conference I ventured outside to take pictures of Harlem. On Saturday it was gray, extremely windy, and chilly. I walked the length of 116th Street, from west to east and took pictures of huge once-decadent churches that are now crumbling from poverty-induced neglect. My pictures didn't turn out very well, but I had a wonderful time. East 116th Street is right in the middle of El Barrio, or Spanish Harlem, and on Saturday it was a festive, vibrant mixture of people. There were women selling woven palm fronds with little pictures of the Virgin Mary attached to them. Lots of Latin-American food peddlers. And there is a big African influence, too--in fact there is an African market, aimed at tourists, with stalls of jewelry, clothing (Dutch wax print cotton!), drums, masks, etc. I saw so many captivating things. And so many friendly old guys kept telling me I needed a coat! And actually, I was kind of frozen by the time I got home.

But today it was bright and sunny, so I went back, again in between conference sessions. My friend Peter joined me, and we roamed Harlem, hitting 116th Street again, as well as some other side streets and back alleys. He was obsessed with old red brick buildings, crumbling cornices, and elaborate ironwork. I was fixated on the churches, graffiti, and one building with the most amazing Greek-revival columns covered in graying, peeling paint. Spring has definitely arrived! Marcus Garvey Park was full of daffodils, hyacinths, narcissi, and forsythia. Even green grass! The sky was blue, and the air was warm--a perfect backdrop for the old ladies in big sparkly hats coming out the Baptist churches, and the beautiful Hispanic boys and girls streaming out of the Catholic churches, their hands clutching folded palm fronds.

Fat and Happy

There is no better way to end a hectic work week than by going out on Friday night to hang with friends and have a delicious dinner. Besides the utter craziness that happened on Tuesday, we've suddenly transitioned to an entirely new computer system, so everything is different. Some of us had a little bit of training in it, but for the most part it has been trial by fire. And not all of my coworkers handle change well! Needless to say, we were all ready for the weekend. Dali had us all over to her place after work for an unveiling of her new over-the-sofa art.

Back in the 70s, Dali led a free-spirited, uninhibited life. She was a groupie for a popular Spanish singer, and scored a gig modelling on a float in the Easter Parade one year. She won a contest and got a free trip to Europe. Once, she and a friend rented a hotel room, dressed up, and covered themselves entirely in gold paint. Then they hit the town, like golden Grecian goddesses. A professional photographer happened to see them strolling down the street, and snapped their picture from behind. The image is black and white, but captures Dali's purposeful sway, her braids jangling, her low-cut dress revealing two alluring dimples on her back. Miraculously, the photographer happened to run into Dali some time later, and gave her a copy of the photograph. She stashed it away, over the years changing her focus from partying to raising a family. Thirty years and three kids later, Dali found the picture at the back of her closet, and was overwhelmed with the good memories that resurfaced. She had the image enlarged and printed on a stretched canvas, and hung it in her living room. "When my kids and my grandkids see it, I want them to say, 'My mom really did something! She really was someone!'" says Dali.

After drinks (me=coke and lime, they=margaritas) and reminiscing at Dali's house, we all decided to go to Ricardo's. When my dad was here last weekend and I was trying to think of places to go eat, I forgot about Ricardo's! It is the best steak restaurant I've ever been to. The food is divine. Located in East Harlem, it's able to stay small enough to feel exclusive but cozy. But it's not a dive--in fact, it's really classy, and this is coming from a person who tends to hate fancy restaurants because they always try to hard. Ricardo's doesn't try too hard, they just do a good job and keep it real. The food is exquisitely presented but not snobby, expertly prepared but not exotic, and so delicious. I ate a big juicy steak!

Walking to the subway afterwards, I found myself enchanted with the warm wet night. Spring is here: it rained all day, giving way eventually to a warm windy night. People were out enjoying it, strolling arm in arm, walking their dogs, savoring the freshness of the city after a good rain. The warm wind wreaked havoc with litter, forming small whirlwinds. A discarded wooden door that someone had propped against a street-lamp crashed down onto the pavement as I passed by. My hair flew around like a witch's, and broken umbrellas lay like crumpled flowers in the gutters. Though I had intended to take a subway, before I knew it I had walked across town, and from there it was just a few streets till I was home. Now I'm too stuffed to sleep, but too tired to do anything but lay here and write...

Why Brooklyn Is Creepy and Harlem is Home

By Brooklyn, I mean Williamsburg. Where all the hipsters live. In fact, no one but hipsters lives there. As a result, all the shops are impossibly cute and quirky, because they are aimed at the hipsters who are rich. The rich hipsters patronize the shops and fuel the economy of this small pocket of New York, while the poor hipsters patronize the myriad, also impossibly picturesque, bars, cafes and corner stores. So maybe the streets aren't quite as picturesque as an imaginary Disneyworld village, but when you walk around Williamsburg you feel as if you are on the set of a movie or something. Everything is so retro-lovely and shabby-glam. You get the feeling that you should be skipping down the sidewalk, or playing jumprope. I don't know how else to describe it. But that's not the creepy part. The creepy part is that everyone is young. Everyone is in their 20s or early 30s. Take a walk down one of the popular streets and look around: young people eating in the cafe, young people in line at the store, working at the store, young people at the bar, in the cars, hanging out--everywhere! There are no old people, no middle aged people, no children. And I know it sounds crazy, but it gives me the creeps! And I say this in a loving way, because I do like Brooklyn. I admire the hipsters, and secretly wish I were cool enough to be one. I'm sure it would be so fun to live in a place that is constantly full of young people. Maybe it would be like Never Never Land, or being at a really cool college. The world would seem ever young and ever alive... but you have to admit a little creepy, too, right? Like a reality TV show or something.

In Williamsburg on Wednesday night, after going to the show and eating my free hipster pizza, I emerged from The Charleston and looked around. The bright streetlights illuminated the charming storefronts and bike racks and VW bugs parked alongside pastel scooters. Guys in too-tight pants were smoking outside the bar, some people skateboarded past a group of silly laughing girls that were pulling someone out of a Playskool toy house, and I swear I heard the Twilight Zone music start to play. Through windows I could see young people shopping, eating, sitting around. Acting like normal people, but they weren't. They weren't old and gray or parents or pre-schoolers. They were cookie-cutter cut cookies. Where were the families? The aged? The innocent? Like Pinnochio when his friend turns into a donkey, I suddenly just wanted to go home because Brooklyn was creeping me out. I wanted to be in Harlem, where out my window I can see a Mother putting her baby to sleep at night and old fat guys playing dominoes in the park while their grandchildren run around the playground. In Harlem there are young hippish people, but they are part of a community of all ages, and it isn't the young ones who run the show. I feel like I'm in a family when I'm in Harlem, and I like that a lot.

Harlem History

Did you know that over 130 years ago, Harlem was covered in lush farmland, and was the scene of a fierce battle in the Revolutionary War? George Washington might have been walking around right where I live! I hope he can't see how the place looks these days.