I heart New York. I know, it’s super cliché, but I do. Sometimes cliché is good; “I heart New York” is cliché for a reason. When I visit NYC I feel a celebration of humanity, just as I feel a celebration of nature when I’m in a remote mountain setting. Is it a coincidence that Manhattan is shaped like a human lung? The city is organic; a living testiment to mankind. I know it has its blebs and cancers, but when I visit my heart races, my breathing is deep and my senses are keen. Fight of flight, I suppose.
When we take vacations we like to hit the normal touristy stuff, but we often end up with stronger memories from the unplanned moments and back-door destinations. Memorial Day Weekend in NYC promised just such a mix. Sunday was going to start with a church service at St. Paul’s German Evangelical Lutheran Church, across the street from Colonial House Inn where we were staying in Chelsea. (I knew that Margaret had chosen the right hotel for us as soon as we turned down 23rd Street to reach our address. There were quirly little sculptures inside the tiny “yards” that fit our tastes perfectly.)
One Easter in Miami we attended a random Spanish/English bilingual church service, followed by a visit to Wat Buddharangsi Buddhist Temple. A clap of thunder struck the moment a priest emerged from his residence to welcome us to the temple, seering the moment in our minds forever. The priest introduced my family and me to the methods of Budhhist worship, and when we continued down to the Florida Keys we were richer for the experience.
In New York I wasn’t feeling so bold with the German Evangelical Lutheran Church, though. Their web site was 100% German, and I imagined our time there being less like that time in Miami and more like an service we sat through at a Greek Orthodox church feeling awkward and conspicuous. We were purposefully stepping out of our comfort zone that day, but at least we could follow along in our native language.
We abandoned our plan for the German church service, instead starting the day slowly by chatting over breakfast with a new acquaintance who was native to Turkey but lives in Vancouver. She runs a thrift shop there called Burcu’s Angels which specializes in vintage clothing. She was gracious enough to accept my nickname for her (“Pork Chop,” which is how I could remember the pronounciation for Burcu.) She was also gracious to appraise Margaret’s purchase from a Gramercy thrift store earlier in the week.
After breakfast we took the E-train downtown to find the address of a museum: “Cortlandt Alley between Franklin and White.” That’s a pretty quirky address for a museum, which made MMuseumm a must-see for me. We waited alone in Cortlandt Alley, eye-level with prolific graffiti and below a converted warehouse with makeshift wiring strung from the roof through each of the windows. The morning was sunny and happy but without a street-by-street sense of which neighborhoods are safe, it was impossible to know whether we strayed too far from the typical tourist path. A report from a passing stranger informed us of fresh blood on the pavement in the next block.
MMuseum is a homeless man asleep in the shadows. It’s both awkward and compelling, drawing you in and forcing you out. The space is all of 10'x10'; a former freight elevator. The artifacts are a curious collection of modern archeology —mosquitos killed mid-bite, a shoe thrown at President Bush, a mold of Mike Tyson’s ear — and after an hour we were ready to head over to Greenwich Village for the Washington Square Outdoor Art Exhibit.
For me the art show was an excuse to stroll up and down University and take pictures. There was indeed amazing art, but there is art everywhere in New York; street art, architecture and of course the ephemeral art of people in motion.
By mid-afternoon we were ready to sit, so we walked over to Washington Square Park, which of course was full of life, full of tourists, full of music and full of street performers. Washington Square Park is perhaps one of the most cliché tourist destinations in Lower Manhattan, and we loved it. We walked past a brilliant vibraphone player, a sand artist and Pigeon Man to take a seat in the shade by Ricky Syers who was entertaining the crowd with his puppets. He was truly entertaining, as was the jazz quartet playing nearby. We left feeling recharged and despite the cliché nature of the park, I highly recommend the visit. Just bring some cash; all this cliché doesn’t happen for free.
