Here comes the sun

Since the springtime, I have been consistently waking up around the same time in the morning.  It leaves me lots of time to bike around the park nearby.  Every so often I will catch photographers around the park, we chat, and they offer advice on angles and framing shots.  I met a photographer that day, who waited around the park since 4:30am to catch the sunrise.

Beatles - Here comes the sun

Boom clap

Punctuated by the noises from the slow amble of the subway cars across the bridge, my sister was married here seven years ago.  Her ceremony was in the park, on the steps in front of the pebble strewn beach.  Just minutes before it started, we were delayed by kayakers returning to shore.  Realizing they landed amidst a wedding, they clapped and cheered, and then went about the task of pulling their dinghies back to dry land.  Her reception was held at Bubby's nearby, which has since closed. 

Charli XCX - Boom Clap

Galapagos

Without intending to do so, I have spent the majority of my life very close to bodies of water.  

Until I was seven, we lived in Causeway Bay in Hong Kong.  Although we were within short proximity to water, as the name suggests, I do not recall seeing the bay frequently.  Waterfront views were limited to short ferry rides into Kowloon to visit my mom's family. Even from a recreational standpoint, I remember going to the beach as a massive undertaking; clunky beach bags and lawn chairs touted onto public transport - a trip on the subway, only to transfer to a lengthy bus ride in order to reach Shek O Beach.  I am certain my sister and I tested our parent's patience during those trips, if their infrequency was testimonial.

Our family eventually moved to the United States, and settled in Staten Island.  We were approximately 20 min drive to the various coasts and beaches on Staten Island, though the preferred destination would be the Jersey Shore.  

When my wife and I finally left Staten Island for Brooklyn, we found ourselves attracted to places near the water.  Perhaps ill advised post-Hurricane Sandy, we first lived in downtown Brooklyn, in a high-rise that had views of the waters surrounding Manhattan.  Despite being 36 floors up, both of us were pleasantly surprised, and found great comfort in hearing the Staten Island ferry blow its horn to signal its departure.  It was a reminder of the home we knew for quite a long time.  

Our next move would be to Dumbo, near the park.  I take many strolls there early in the morning, to watch the waves crash among the rocks.  During high tides signaling the coming of a storm, the waters surge above the rocks, spilling onto the walkway and catching dog-walkers unawares.  I let my eyes follow the wake from nearby ferries and ships, watching their velocity translate into cresting waves that push back to the shore.  I wish I could sufficiently put into words the immense comfort in watching the waters recede and pull away, only to come back.  In this way, nothing ever leaves.  Everything eventually returns to shore.

Smashing Pumpkins - Galapagos.   

Hungry heart

I was a consultant in my first job out of school.  It was a role well suited for my twenties: a healthy expense account, continuous travel, and diverse work.  In retrospect, it was a bit analogous to joining the Army - travel to exotic, distant lands, meet exciting, unusual people, and instead of killing them, upsell them on projects that were constantly growing in scope.  

In those years, I traveled away from New York City often or worked interminable hours.   My wife (then girlfriend) worked equally long hours at an advertising agency.  If we were both in Manhattan, we sometimes waited for each other to figure out whose company account would pay for the car service home that night.  As a result, my perspective of the city at the time was limited to dusk and nighttime; Sunsets were a special treat.

On those occasions, I remember looking at the sunset from my window adjacent cubicle, and watching the lines of cars streaming down the avenue, racing the last rays of light into the horizon. Hordes of people rushed on the streets, presumably back to their comfy homes and welcoming families.  I can distinctly recall the longing to be a part of that crowd, purposeful in direction and confident in their conclusion of a workday.

To this day, for me, the act of watching a sunset retains its luxury.  I strive to make time for it where I can, and try to satiate that leftover hunger from my earlier years.

Bruce Springsteen - Hungry Heart

Take me to the riot

I have been in the United States for decades.  If that tenure was expressed solely in terms of July experiences, this would translate into years of barbeques, waving mini American flags, marching band, and watching the Macy's fireworks spectacular.  There may be minimal variation - swap out waving flags for waving sparklers, hot dogs for burgers, but the commonality compared to other months, say January, would be high.

I make this statement only because I can remember how July used to suggest the loss of independence for me.  July 1st, 1997 marks the transfer of sovereignty over Hong Kong from the UK to China.

My memories from when I was 5 years old in Hong Kong are sparse; that I no longer speak Cantonese fluently makes recalling the memories feel akin to watching a badly subtitled foreign film.  One tiny snippet I can remember vividly is my mother watching the television and crying.  The Tianenmen Square protests had just happened the month prior, and its footage was on heavy rotation in Hong Kong.  I can still see her, watching the screen, her eyes scanning down the lines of tanks to the lone man defiantly facing them off.  One hand gripping the edge of the folding table, she slammed the melamine bowl and shouted, "They must have ran him over!" She wept at the footage of students running from gunshots.  I suppose given the state of current events at the time, her shock was punctuated by the sadness in knowing her time in Hong Kong, her home, was limited.

Stars - Take me to the riot

Time after time

It feels cliché to say that time and places can be recursive, particularly in New York, where its residents tend to develop habitual haunts.  Yet, while the physical location remains the same, all else is in flux.   As you grow, you become different, and places acquire different meanings.

Prior to moving to New York in 1992, my mom took me and my sister for a month long visit; on a practical side, she needed to sort out all the logistics of moving, but I am sure she also wanted to acclimate us to a whole new city.  We hardly spoke the language, and Hong Kong, though a close rival in population density, was much smaller to navigate.  I was around six years old at the time, and happy to explore as a tourist. 

She took us to the Metropolitan Museum, where everything was storied and historic: dusty Egyptian mummies, figurative paintings from the Renaissance, gleaming armor that extended to even the horses.  As with any trip with young children, she concluded the tour with a mandatory stop at the gift shop, where we were allowed to pick out one item.  I forget what my sister bought, but I was enamored with a print of the Flatiron Building (Several years later, I would find out that the image was painted by Samuel Halpert.)  Thinking back, I am not sure why I picked a picture of a building, as a piece of paper should seem somewhat unappealing to a six year old.  I suppose I liked the unusual shape of the building, a near impossibility that felt just as uncommon as moving halfway across the globe.

My family settled for a bit at my grandmother’s apartment in Manhattan, and then eventually in Staten island. The Flatiron Building and I drifted, each progressing on its own accord.  It cropped up in the background of my life; my wife (then girlfriend) would work nearby in 2006.  She worked long hours, and sometimes I would wait near the Flatiron until it was time for us to head home by cab.  At other times, it featured more prominently – 25 years later, my wife and I sublet an apartment on 23rd street for a few summers as the suburban doldrums got to us.  In that brief time, I enjoyed the neighborhood and its vibrancy; to be able to lounge in the plaza in front of the building and people watch was a weekend morning treat. 

I still do not fully comprehend why I picked out that print of an unknown building in a city I knew nothing about at the time.  But perhaps we choose certain things (and people, and places) that we want to grow in significance in the future, not knowing the timing or the path it will take to get there.      

Song: Time After Time, Iron & Wine

The start of something

I have been sitting on this for some time.  The excuses came too easily - work was crushingly busy, and life got in the way; in truth, I simply found writing about New York City to be extremely difficult.  The sheer amount of fodder to capture was daunting.  How could I hope to present a cohesive view that imparted my passion for New York?  Wanting to do justice to a topic so dear to my heart, I poured through books about the city.  That only solidified the challenge, as I encountered an endless queue of talented writers, ceaselessly heaping insightful observations and relatable vignettes about their experiences in New York.

Consequently, I did not write anything down for a very long stretch.  It was not until reading a particular passage in “The Lonely City: Adventures in the Art of Being Alone” that I felt comfortable enough to proceed:

“And when one inhabits a city, even a city as rigorously and logically constructed as Manhattan, one starts by getting lost.  Over time, you begin to develop a mental map, a collection of favoured destinations and preferred routes: a labyrinth no other person could ever precisely duplicate or reproduce.”

Certainly, there are many commonalities in our experiences in New York – it is a harsh city, an expensive one, one that pushes and demands much from its denizens.  But for those willing to tough it out, the rewards are the seemingly stolen moments; brief seconds of intimacy with the city and its strangers that are granted with serendipity.  It is these moments that make up our experience of New York City, the same moments that separates and makes our experiences distinct.

And so, I will endeavor to relay my moments, to draw out my mental map of New York City.  I hope you enjoy.  

(New York City moments are best experienced when serenaded by a personal soundtrack, so I will try to insert musical accompaniment where I can.)