I was
sticky in
NYC. Continually.
Steam and
exhaust and
haze and overall mugginess. Sticking to me, attracting
smoke from
cigarettes and
cigars, the occasional
joint in the park. The air became thicker as the day went on, the thick sky lowering itself into the streets until it started to rain. The
rain released the smell of
urine and oil and
garbage and
pretzels.
It was beautiful.
Noise. So much of it, so many different sounds.
Taxis, buses,
subways, feet. Engines revving, horns
honking, tires screeching, people yelling, station announcements,
babies crying,
"Can you spare some change?", whistling, dueling
boom-boxes, horses clopping,
sirens blaring -- starting over ... blaring again, low boat horns, jet engines, helicopter above, traffic
cop's whistle in the street.
It was beautiful.
And then there was
the park.
Nestled in the middle of this
bustling, moving, breathing animal of a city is a
paradise. So green and cool, shaded from the
muck hanging in the air. Children and dogs exercising themselves. A juggler, a
fire-eater, a guy on a bench. Rollerblades, running shoes, and
razor scotters. Sitting on a rock,
eating a popsicle, looking up at the tops of the buildings above the tall trees, watching a dog chase a squirrel up a tree, watching the dog's owner chase him through the park, listening to far off city noise, and to a baby, babbling in
another language near me.
It was beautiful.