412A. An Idyllic Walk to the River

          Another idyllic walk down West 11^th Street toward the river, cherished because it was a summerlike late-spring day, sunny, but without the muggy heat of summer.  Lunch again at Philip Marie on West11th and Hudson, where they squeezed me in after a ten-minute wait at the bar, giving me table no. 1 by the front window, where I had a marvelous view of Hudson Street and could people-watch  The usual babble of lunching New Yorkers, punctuated by bursts of raucous laughter.  At a nearby table, four heads together with camera-ready smiles for a photo taken by the waiter, then more plastic smiles as they took photos of each other.  As I left, I chitchatted outside with the host, who reminded me that next weekend was World Pride Day.  Even with the parade starting down here and going uptown, the opposite of the usual direction, he wearily anticipates huge crowds in the Village.

         From there I proceeded down West 11^th toward the river, and en route stopped once again at the Robin Rice Gallery at no. 325, where I was the only visitor, and Michael McLaughlin’s ocean photographs, entitled 41 Degrees Latitude, are still on display.  (See post #404.)  A new exhibition, “Summertime Salon 2019,” featuring a host of photographers, will open on July 17, with an evening opening reception on that day that I hope to attend.

         So on to West Street and the river.  There I sat on a bench, stared toward the sun, and with the gray water rippling in the breeze, saw streaks of silver pulsing from bank to bank: the astonishing sight ignored by others that I have called the face of God.  Overhead, cirrus clouds stretched their thin white tissue against the blue sky – an indication, I’ve been told, of a change in the weather; for tomorrow, rain is indeed predicted.  A sailboat puffed its white sail in the distance, a racing speedboat trailed a stream of white spume, and a cruise boat with a mere two levels of cabins pushed arrogantly by.  The only discordant note was an African American woman on a nearby bench screaming into her phone, “What do I get?  Tell me that, what do I get?”  And then: “Purify the water in Florida, that swimming pool,” and other comments that I couldn’t and wouldn’t make out.

         On to Pier 46, where I detected no hint of the seaside goldenrod that would root in pockets of soil on the rotten old wood pier below and bloom in the fall.  On the fake green grass, mixed and same-sex couples doing calisthenics, some of the couples so perfectly synchronized that they must have practiced together many times.  And the inevitable tattooed hairy hunk drinking up the sun that will guarantee him trips to the dermatologist a decade or two hence.  Looking downtown, the city’s skyline: the Freedom Tower in splendid isolation, and the elegant Woolworth Building, its Gothic splendor overtopped by bulbous, jagged high-rises that offend the eye.  Such is progress.

         A sign on the riverside promenade: A SUMMER OF FUN, with notices of the week’s events in HRPK, which I brilliantly deciphered as “Hudson River Park.”  Then my little garden with the bronze statue of an apple.  Blue, white, and yellow flowers, and prickly-stemmed red roses.  Again, the fullness of summer without the summer’s muggy heat.

         On the way back along West 11^th Street toward home, one more adventure.  At Hudson Street a white older woman asked if I cared to take her arm crossing the street.  Surprised, I did, and found that linking arms with her gave me perfect balance.  She explained that she had lost her husband, with whom she did this all the time.  Continuing toward Bleecker Street, we chatted.  She is an artist who lives across from St. Vincent’s Hospital, or whatever has replaced it.  She has lived in the Village 25 years, just as I have been there over 50.  She misses little shops that have been chased out by high rents, as do I, and can’t afford a studio in the Village.  I told her I’m an author living high above the Magnolia Bakery of “Sex and the City Fame,” mentioned my blog, and gave her my card, inviting her to contact me by e-mail.  In front of my building we parted.  Will I ever see her or hear from her again?  Who knows?  Stay tuned. 

         A charming ending to another idyllic walk down West 11^th Street to the river.  A repetition, but each walk slightly different.  Tomorrow, with the rain, back to humdrum affairs and sober business.