It should be obvious that the skill set for running a maniacal place like New York City, which requires more of a macher than a mensch, is entirely different from that needed to manage the rest of the country. So it doesn’t come as a surprise that no mayor has ever gone on to become U.S. president or even vice president. Rudy Giuliani was the most recent to give the national stage a try and between his sketchy associates and messy personal life the public said, “Too New York.” But keep your eye on shape-shifting Mike Bloomberg the billionaire. First he was a Democrat, then a Republican, and now an Independent. Maybe one Christmas Day Chinese food will be delivered to the White House.
There aren’t many ethnic voting blocs anymore. Spanish Harlem isn’t particularly Spanish speaking, while Little Italy has become a pasta and cannoli theme park. Chinatown, that city within a city, is still home to the upside-down dead duck, pig intestines, and shredded jellyfish, but the once-dominant southern Chinese dialect of Cantonese has been eclipsed by Mandarin, the language of most recent immigrants. Most telling of all, wearing a Red Sox cap in New York a decade ago could be fatal, whereas now you might get away with some gentle ribbing or, at worst, a few peanuts to the back of the head.
Basically, the day you arrive here you’re a New Yorker. The only downside of a melting pot on such a grand scale is that everyone gets a parade, thereby tying up Fifth Avenue from March until Novem
ber. Most of the year, traffic operates entirely around the schedules of parades, marathons, union demonstrations, and the United Nations. If someone shows up at the office on Monday morning with his or her leg in a cast, it’s more likely the result of falling over a police barricade or being mowed down by a grand marshal than a cycling accident. Whereas for the rest of New York State the sugar maple is the official tree and the rose the official flower, the city’s tree is the wooden police sawhorse and its flower is the bright orange cone.
As a child growing up in Buffalo I was parade deprived. Sure, there was a spirited St. Paddy’s Day march and a Pulaski Day Parade that President Kennedy famously attended in 1962, but we didn’t join these. Despite my father being born in New York City in 1931, the year of the movie musical Manhattan Parade (which featured the hit song “I Love a Parade”), his parents were both from Copenhagen.
However, when I moved to Manhattan in 1983, the parades began coming to me. Leaving my West Village apartment one Sunday I became an unsuspecting marcher in the Gay Pride Parade amidst queer power chants, rainbow flags, and vinyl bustiers. Likewise, the Halloween pageant in the Village, which extended to salacious theatrical performances on fire escapes, front stoops, and church steps, was something to behold. I’d clearly saved myself a trip to Times Square, though whether for a Broadway show or a burlesque was hard to tell. The months that my friends and I had excitedly invested in creating our Halloween costumes during elementary school were nothing compared with the preparation that went into this extravaganza. If you’re going as existentialist Jean-Paul “Hell is other people” Sartre then perhaps the Halloween Dog Parade and costume contest in Tompkins Square Park is more your style. Not surprisingly, the dachshunds and Chihuahuas tend to steal the show since they can really rock a hot dog or bumblebee outfit, but Barknado the shark-attired French bulldog was truly inspired.
The week before the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade always reminds me of a kid trying to make friends with someone who has a swimming pool – right before the start of summer. New Yorkers, especially ones with children, desperately attempt to locate a coworker with an apartment near the American Museum of Natural History to watch
the floats being inflated on West 77th Street the night before. If the march is on a blustery day, there’s the added excitement of a potential mishap – would Sponge Bob escape his shackles and take to the skies? Would Kermit the Frog attack?
Walking home from Wall Street one mild January night I was suddenly in the middle of the Asian Lunar New Year, a profusion of parading dragons, crashing cymbals, leaping acrobats, and exploding firecrackers in the same spot where I normally saw an unsavory selection of seafood and counterfeit Prada bags.
By the middle of March, the Manhattan weather is at its most desolate, but that doesn’t bother the hardy St. Patrick’s Day paraders. Celts apparently thrive on dreariness, and that’s why they compose their music using as many minor chords as possible. Nor are they distracted by therapy appointments. “This is one race of people for whom psychoanalysis is of no use whatsoever,” Sigmund Freud is reputed to have said. This is arguably the largest parade in the United States, with exact numbers dependent on whether being in a bar somewhere in the vicinity of the parade route counts as attendance. The first St. Patrick’s Day Parade did not take place in Ireland but in Manhattan, when Irish soldiers serving in the English military marched to honor St. Patrick on March 17, 1762, the anniversary of his death. The Irish of Ireland have since co-opted our holiday along with our Lucky Charms cereal. Still, this is the parade that appeals to everyone – the actual Irish, the legacy Irish, the never-been Irish, and the wanna-be Irish, with all becoming true-green for a single day.
Marriage eventually forced a diplomatic move uptown and thrust me into the movie musical, Easter Parade. This unofficial event, started right after the Civil War, is a true democracy in that anyone can step out and display their finery, no permit necessary. It’s a good place to see live birds’ nests in bonnets of real flowers and living proof that polka-dotted mother-daughter dresses will never disappear completely.
A week later comes the Tartan Day Parade, with pipers letting fly with the only two songs taught in bagpipe school – “Scotland the Brave” and “Amazing Grace” – while Scottish terriers line the sidewalks along with some kilt-clad schnauzers trying to pass.
At my job on Wall Street, I had a bird’s-eye view of the ticker-tape parade held when the Mets won the World Series in 1986. It was before computers had taken hold, and an overexcited clerk could still toss enough records out the window to put a firm out of business.
On the Fourth of July, which most towns across the United States reserve for their big spectacles, Manhattan, of course, has to be different by celebrating American Independence with a parade in Chinatown. With more than 150 different nationalities in the city, it’s as good a place as any. That’s the reason most of us came here in the first place – to get away from prying eyes or to find a better opportunity and be, well, independent. We’re so independent that we host independence parades for other countries such as Greece, India, the Philippines, Pakistan, and Colombia. In thirty years of going from point A to point B, I’ve run into the Cuban Day Parade, Feast of San Gennaro Grand Procession, German-American Steuben Parade, Haitian Day Parade, Puerto Rican Day Parade, Captive Nations Parade, African American Day Parade, Three Kings Day Parade, not one but two dog parades, and the Veggie Pride Parade, where people march as giant carrots and pea pods and want to know, “Did your dinner lead a horrible life?”
When a parade passes by, the streets become a riotous arcade of cheering and trumpeting with high steppers and baton twirlers preceding floats that resemble giant wedding cakes. Many families venture out to join the fun and stand side by side with that great American patriot, the street entrepreneur, busily hawking his flags, T-shirts, and sausage-on-a-stick.
Local stores either board up their windows entirely as if a Category 5 hurricane is coming, or else throw open their doors and double up on inventory, and sometimes soda prices, too. Customarily genial doormen become Homeland Security adjuncts, guarding their entranceways to make sure that residential buildings aren’t mistaken for national parks. Trapped Fifth Avenue residents groan, “If your country is so fantastic why not go back there?” Call it a Kvetch-22.
With most churches beginning their services at the same time as the parade kickoffs, there’s the inevitable collision of worshippers and revelers. This creates such challenges as trying to sing “Be Still, My
Soul” over tubas, trombones, flügelhorns, and double bell euph
oniums blasting “Alte Kameraden” and “Frei Weg” during the battle of the oompah-pah bands.
By the time the Carlyle and the Pierre stop serving brunch, the parades are winding down as well. The avenues are filled with police officers directing traffic and street sweepers revving their engines like NASCAR drivers, while marchers yank off plumed hats and pack up their pom-poms, and paradegoers-in-training have their diapers changed. Once again it’s possible to walk to Petco near the subway station at 86th and Lexington or Rollerblade to Central Park.
Like most of my peeps in Carnegie Hill, my Upper East Side hood, I’ve incorporated parades into the tapestry of my life. I don’t keep a schedule and thus am regularly surprised to wander out for a calzone and land in a sea of salsa dancers or come face-to-face with a baton-twirling marcher in the Salute to Israel Day Parade. It’s inevitable that in a city with more than two dozen big parades a year, some denizens begin to experience parade rage. It can indeed be frustrating to encounter the Irish 165th Infantry when trying to get to the airport, and a few of the parades have a reputation for being overly rowdy. (No names, but one group has the Puerto Rican spindalis as its official bird.)
Overall, it’s a joy to witness such festivities. There are so many places in Europe, Asia, and Africa where different tribes, religious sects, and ethnic groups can’t seem to get along, but in the New York City primordial soup they live together in the same neighborhoods, and even apartment buildings, without clashing in any significant way. Despite commercials for mood modifiers and a pharmacy on almost every corner, marchers and spectators alike appear to be happy and enjoying a sense of community.
As a kid I used to ask my Danish dad, “When is our parade?” He replied, “It’s just us. Whenever we go out it’s a parade.” So one Sunday every summer I bring a bunch of Danish flags and flag stickers to my Unitarian church, along with some Danish butter cookies, and ask people if they’d like to be in the Danish parade. “What do we do?” (Unitarians love protocol almost as much as they do surveys and Robert’s
Rules of Order.) “Just walk home or wherever you’re going.” Everyone puts on a sticker, takes a flag and a handful of cookies. Because in busy New York City, life is a richer pageant if you love a parade.
Chapter 12
In the Hoods
New York is a series of neighborhoods, almost like villages, all with their own dry cleaners, diners, newspaper stands, nail salons, beauty parlors, barbers, grocery stores, movie theaters, pet stores, bars, and local characters. However, you won’t see many gas stations or car washes. Nor is the city big on skywalks and subterranean passageways, though it seems they’d make a lot of sense. In Toronto it’s possible to go from one end of the city to the other without stepping outside, and these pedestrian warrens are filled with shopping, hair salons, and restaurants. Is someone looking into this? After all, it was the Canadians who brought us the garbage bag, ginger ale, and processed cheese.
Nowadays every corner has a studio for spinning, Pilates, or yoga. Look above the streets and through tall plate glass windows you can see people cycling, stretching, rowing, and running on treadmills. I’m sure upbeat music is being piped in, but I always thought it might be more effective to have someone shouting insults: “Expect to find a partner with that waistline?” and “The transit authority is going to require you to put turn signals on those hips!” New Yorkers are accustomed to responding to anger. The city is without a doubt the capital of the Women’s Correctional Facility, with the most beauty parlors, day spas, waxing parlors, electrolysis shops, plastic surgeons, collagen centers, fitness gurus, aromatherapists, and cosmetic dentists per block. In fact, since finding out “laser vaginal rejuvenation” is a real thing, I
wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that New York women pay to have their X-rays touched up.
Shopping is the official sport in New York City. Not that proof is necessary, but the shoe floor at tony Saks on Fifth Avenue has its very own zip code – 10222-SHOE. Instead of the vertical tricolor of blue, white, and orange with the municipal seal in the middle, the official New York City flag should be a triangle banner with “Grand Opening” on one side and “Going Out of Business” on the other.
Most neighborhoods have daycare operations (both people and pet) and parks where children can play while their parents or nannies text on their phones. However, there are a few places where no one has seen a child in years – Wall Street and parts of the Garment District, for example. If you bring a small human here, people are liable to stand around staring, trying to guess its age – somewhere between two and twelve.
With the arrival of MetroCards, gone are the token suckers. As a result of quality-of-life campaigns (or crackdowns, such as they are), the squeegee men are mostly gone too. Likewise, no longer does one find guys selling stolen newspapers at a discount on street corners, subway stairwells, and among the backed-up traffic near bridges and tunnels.
All that’s really left are the Can People, or “Canners.” New York State law requires a deposit on all soda or beer containers, thereby making every discard worth 5 cents to its finder. Redemption is an egalitarian endeavor that attracts as many women as men despite the work being difficult and dangerous. The compact with the Canners is as follows: When exchanging cans for money, they’re not allowed to cause lines or disruptions at the supermarkets and in return the management won’t bother them. In their quest for cans they’re allowed to unpack every bit of garbage on every street so long as they put it all back the way it was. If these protocols are observed, then store clerks, superintendents, residents, and sanitation workers won’t harass them. The Canners have territorial battles, but if they’re sorted out privately and without violence the police won’t give them trouble either. The benefit to the beverage-consuming public is that our streets, parks, and
beaches remain clean, and we don’t have to feel guilty about throwing away our cans since we know they’ll all be redeemed.
New York has a similar system for getting rid of large objects such as rugs and bureaus. There aren’t any attics, basements, garages, or town dumps here. Flea markets and street fairs charge a fortune if you want to rent a booth, while inviting the entire neighborhood in for a tag sale isn’t advisable. So what to do with an old floor lamp, armchair, table, toaster oven, TV, or computer? Down to the street it goes with a sign saying “Free” and listing the condition, particularly if it’s an appliance. Discarded items can last on the curb anywhere from two to ten minutes. Once I was getting rid of six dining room chairs and by the time I came downstairs with the fourth, a guy loading them into a truck yelled, “Hey, lady, over here!” Some people like to observe from a discreet distance as fights between strangers ensue over this stuff. It’s good street theater.
A number of neighborhood names are self-explanatory, like Midtown and the Upper East Side. Others must be deciphered. Alphabet City on the Lower East Side has avenues named with a single letter, SoHo is South of Houston Street, NoHo is North of Houston, SoHa is South Harlem, NoMad is North of Madison Square Park, and TriBeCa means Triangle below Canal Street, even though the area is no longer shaped like a triangle. DUMBO is Down Under Manhattan Bridge Overpass. SoBro is the South Bronx. SpaHa means Spanish Harlem, aka El Barrio. Trendsetters are trying to rebrand the Financial District as FiDi, the border between Prospect Heights and Crown Heights as ProCro, and the area right after the Manhattan Bridge Overpass as RAMBO. Meantime, residents of Manhattan’s West Side like to refer to it as the Best Side.
Other names can be more confusing. Times Square is not a square and The New York Times is no longer there. Turtle Bay has no turtles and no bay. Likewise, Murray Hill has no Murray and no Hill. Coney Island is a peninsula. Duffy Square is more of a trapezoid. Irving Place is named after Washington Irving even though he never lived there. As for the West Side neighborhood that’s supposed to be called Clinton or Midtown West, folks persist in calling it Hell’s Kitchen the
same way some Indians will always refer to Mumbai as
Bombay, and everyone ignores the fact that Sixth Avenue was changed to Avenue of the Americas way back in 1945. Most New Yorkers don’t even know that the West Side Highway’s official designation is the Joe DiMaggio Highway. And Zombieland is the unofficial name for the area around 125th Street and Lexington Avenue where drug addicts are notorious for being unpredictable street crossers.
Some names didn’t catch on at all, such as NoBat (North of Battery Tunnel), SoSo (South of SoHo), NoCal (North of Canal Street), and HoBo (where Houston Street intersects the Bowery). UhOh is any neighborhood where if you run out of milk you can’t find a store or bodega without traveling more than ten blocks. As for street names, after Force Tube Avenue in East New York, Brooklyn, and Fteley Avenue in Soundview, the Bronx, my favorite is Old New Utrecht Road in Borough Park, Brooklyn.
Long Island is an actual island. So if you’re moving about between Manhattan Island and Staten Island and Long Island for Thanksgiving or Hanukkah it’s geographically correct to post on Facebook that you’re spending the holidays island hopping.
Things aren’t much more straightforward when it comes to waterways. The North River is the southern part of the Hudson River, and the East River isn’t a river at all but a tidal strait. If you decide to go swimming you’ll notice the Hudson has fresh water and the East River is salt. As for drinking water, New York water is not only safe to drink, but tastes terrific and it’s free. If you can’t afford foam Statute of Liberty crowns, give your friends back home a bottle of New York City water.
Life in New York Page 9
