Tourists meet Azalea pond
5:05 p.m. Manhattan.
I strode down my cement stairwell, sporting a hefty parka with a fur-lined hood and a bright blue wool scarf tucked inside, pulled high above my nose. My sniffling sinuses appreciated the effort.
On Columbus Avenue, I greeted fellow New Yorkers daring to go about their days in this 21-degree weather. My pace quickened as I waddled down the brownstone-lined block behind my building. The lofty structures stunt the sun’s rays, resulting in a particularly brisk shaded saunter to Central Park West. But AHH — reaching the beloved sunlight on the sidewalk surrounding CPW is like an encounter with heaven.
I strolled around Central Park for an hour, entering at 72nd Street around 2:00 p.m. I passed a few cabbies out in the front circle and walked by a woman singing “Don’t Let Me Down” to a crowd of two or three; whereas usually, a crowd of 30 would have their iPhones out filming the interchanging, but ever present John Lennon performer at the benches behind the entrance.
Down by Azalea Pond, tourists tested their luck on the frozen, snow-covered ice. But a man soon came to yell: “GET OFF THE ICE!” On the other side, by Chamber’s Landing, a couple smiled as they stepped onto the inch-thick frozen pond, waving at the geese swimming in sections where the ice had broken. I did not yell. I watched and wondered.
