A Thousand Words

The night before last broke the all-time low temperature record for November 11 in New York City. The hard freeze cast asunder the annuals—begonias, impatiens, et al.—and there were no survivors. Last year, the same plants survived into December. The year before that, they lived to celebrate Christmas. While this past month has seen dramatic temperature fluctuations—I even had my air conditioner running a couple of weeks ago—there's been a whole lot more going on than weather. And one picture is worth a thousand words:

In the 1970s, a friend and neighbor of mine conceived the trailblazing idea of opening up a restaurant that sold salads and only salads. He encouraged one and all in his circle to brainstorm possible names for his business. The chosen one: Salad King. Runner-up: Land of a Thousand Salads. He never did open up that eatery, but made his fortune anyway—peddling pet food instead of salad.

This is a pricey infant and children's boutique in Manhattan's Chelsea neighborhood. If only I could have been a fly on the wall during their name brainstorming sessions.

Hopefully, the third time's the charm.

Manhattan hipsters be like: It's Saturday, let's go to the Bliss Bowl for brunch.

Manhattan hipsters be like: It's Sunday, let's go to the Motel Morris for brunch, even if it's not a motel.

From my "Never heard of it" file:  Kombucha.

New stand on the block.

Something for everyone: one-stop shopping.

See Jane do laundry.

"Night of the Stars" subway advertisement. One busted mylar balloon and counting.

Men from outer space or skywriting above my alma mater's deactivated nuclear power facility.

MTA cost-saving measure: Homework assignments for employees.

Subway terminal sign for MTA employees in desperate need of emergency eye wash.

View from the Henry Hudson Parkway this week of the Sun, which is expected to one day expand into a red giant star and swallow Earth. The scientific time table is billions of years, but perhaps now is as good a time as any.

"Somebody done lost somethin'."

I believe that a hot dog vendor is only as clean as his umbrella.

Now the children try to find it and they can't believe their eyes. Yes, there used to be a hospital right here.

If one is going to be a seagull in New York City, the harbor sure beats a Stop & Shop parking lot in the Bronx.

Now these brainstormers got it right.

There is nothing so beautiful as a sexy pizza.

I sat on a rare blue seat today—akin to finding a four-leaf clover on the Number 1 train—traveling downtown into Manhattan. I sit in the first car going down and last car on the return trip to the Bronx. The blue seat was there for me both times. Same train. So, the last will be first. But on a New York City subway: the first will be last, too.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Russian Interference

Fear not: This essay hasn’t anything to do with the Robert Mueller investigation. It’s about an encounter I had last week in Van Cortlandt Park. Minding my own business, I was sitting on a bench that overlooks the El on nearby Broadway. The morning in question was on the breezy side but pleasant—ideal fall weather to be left alone with my thoughts and the super-loud subway horns repeatedly blowing in the distance. This is the norm when track workers are in the vicinity of Number 1 trains preparing to exit and enter the terminal at W242nd.

It being a weekday with schools in session, the park was rather empty. In other words, there were plenty of unoccupied benches from which to choose. So, when I spotted a tall, elderly man—not ancient by any means and walking with a spring in his step—heading my way, I prepared for the worst. He had a look on his face that told me he was preparing to sit for a spell—and right beside me. I understand the mind-set: A senior citizen feels compelled to sound off and needs an audience of at least one. And like it or not, I was that one—the chosen one—in this instance.

Now, here’s who gave me an earful: a Russian refugee suffering from diabetes who came to America fifteen years ago and settled in the neighborhood. Right off the bat, he wanted to know if I was a native born American and wondered if I had ever heard of the Soviet Union. The old fellow must have mistaken me for a Millennial or some such thing. I remember the USSR, all right, and the Cold War, too. I came of age with both prominent on the radar. My newfound friend waxed nostalgic about the nation of his birth and what he deemed its “moral code.” Gorbachev and Yeltsin, he said, were responsible for chaos—mostly—which is what made him a man without a country. As a footnote to his naming names, he conceded that Josef Stalin was something of a monster, but, come on, the guy also “built Russia.”

The rambling Russian was far from finished. He informed me that he was now an American patriot, despite finding great fault with our penchant for military adventures and haughty boasts of “exceptionalism.” On the other hand, the man thinks very highly of American domestic policies, although he wasn’t the least bit specific on this count. In the midst of his extended sermon—I didn’t get a chance to say much—he inquired if anything he had thus far said offended me. “No,” I answered, which was the truth. With respect to benign, affable ramblers, I don’t offend easily.

In retrospect, the most offensive thing the man probably said to me was that he voted for Donald Trump. His friends, he reported, thought he had taken leave of his senses. But this former denizen of the Soviet Union had attended a university in the old country—when all that good stuff was taken care of by the totalitarian nanny state—and made an intellectual argument for his vote. Since he didn’t have the greatest command of the English language, I can’t really say how he came to his decision to throw in with the Orange Man. The voluble Russian merely wanted to “make America great again” and “drain the swamp.” Don’t we all. One last thing, my park bench companion let a lot of saliva fly as he spoke. Fortunately, I was far enough away from these missiles of October. And just as quickly as he crashed my space, he departed. I was prepared to shake his hand, but I suppose it’s not in the Russian playbook.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)