Nobody Is Home

What lessons did I learn this Easter holiday? For one, I learned that a few people could get together for several hours and not once check their phones.” Once upon a time we placed calls to friends, family, and acquaintances and sometimes announced, “Nobody is home.” I learned, too, that they could chat with one another and reminisce without background distractions like blaring televisions or loud music. If the assembled have something to say and maintain attention spans longer than thirty seconds, it's still—believe it or not—possible. But this reality bite wasn’t all I uncovered this past week...

Although I’ve come to this conclusion a time or two before, this festive interlude reinforced the obvious. Marked changes of routine and eating habits for fifty-something men and women can have deleterious consequences. Dining at different times of the day and consuming atypically large proportions is a recipe for indigestion and worse. The latter was my unfortunate fate. While I appreciate diner fare, for instance, cups of soup on top of heaping helpings of everything—like piles of canned peas and carrots, family-sized amounts of mashed potatoes, and bread baskets—is an awful lot of food. Multiply all of this by three and expect the worse on day four. Oh, and throw a couple of pizzas in there...

I saw many Cricket games being played on the Van Cortlandt Park flats this past Sunday. While I may be a subscriber to BritBox and a big fan of British shows—especially their mysteries—the game is still incomprehensible to me. Even Sergeant Lewis playing it didn't help.

The old Putnam railroad used to run through this part of Van Cortlandt Park in the Bronx. I can remember some train traffic there in the line's waning years. Now it's a walking, running, and bicycle nature trail. "Watch out for trains" has been replaced with "Beware of puddles and mud."

It's that time of year...

The people ride in a hole in the ground. This is the hole.

You are about to enter another dimension. A dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind.

You are about to leave that dimension and be stuck in reality.

A reality where the old...

Is being consumed by the new.

A reality where the hot dog vendor is soliciting tips. Here's one from me: "Stop yakking on the phone while servicing your customers!"

It's Washington Square Park reality. There's an artist somewhere in the picture. She's kneeling and has a little dog beside her. I don't know what her story is. It was raining on her paper and the old gal was at once unmoved by the bad weather and sending out unapproachable vibes to passersby.

Reflection time: Why are certain politicians talking about things like convicted felons having the right to vote and slavery reparations? It's the same old primary story. Folks, it's time to channel Charlie Sheen here and think: Winning!

Sometimes it just makes sense to be in the catbird seat.

I encountered, too, a veteran New York City chef and restaurateur in my travels this week. He lamented the present business environment—the outrageously expensive landscape that makes it increasingly difficult to open a restaurant let alone survive in one. A thousand-dollar-a day rent in some spots—plus a $15/hour minimum wage—is not exactly a recipe for success.

While I support higher minimum wages, I also know that many businesses can't afford the extra costs. Large restaurants with sizable staffs and paying astronomical rents are doomed. And the first people to complain about the service in restaurants—when they cut back on the help—are the elitists who support policies that leave them no choice but to do so.

Four score and one or two years ago, my paternal grandparents ventured north from their Morningside Heights Manhattan neighborhood to Inwood Park, which is located in the northernmost tip of the borough. Meeting friends there, they picnicked on a little sandy patch under the Henry Hudson Bridge, even before the bridge was there. My father and uncle, then young boys, swan in the murky waters of the Harlem River Ship Canal, which were then quite dirty with raw sewerage floating to and fro. It's a much cleaner waterway now, which is something—at least—to be thankful for.

Just to the west of their personal beach—where my grandfather and a friend from the old country chilled their homemade wine in a natural spring in the hills—were train tracks. Back then the tracks hosted more than commuter trains. Heading into old New York, freight trains were often miles long. Now this commuter Amtrak train is making its way to the new Penn Station, which was erected after the razing of the original,architecturally beautiful one.

But everything old is new again—or will be at least. The contemporary Penn Station is a sorry mess and a pricey makeover is in the offing. 

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)