upper east side.

One afternoon I took the six line uptown until I arrived at 68th street. I walked up the stairs, out of the subway station, and was surrounded by a large group of twenty-somethings engaged in conversation and lighting up cigarettes. The brisk air and beginnings of fall had people wrapped in scarves with their jackets stiffly zipped up over the layers of clothing. The free hands of the smokers were shoved into pockets trying to avoid the cold. Much of the city is filled with the stench of tobacco that rises up and out of the glowing, amber ashes. With a remnant of smoke in my nose, I decided to continue North towards the seventies and so I went up Lexington Avenue. Once I passed 70th street, the demographics changed and I was surrounded by only mothers, or nannies, with some young children. One little girl in a pink coat and tennis shoes called out to “Rosie,” who I assume was her nanny, asking her to wait while she practiced her dance routine in the reflection of the Juicy Couture display windows. The little girl showed no admiration for the items lit up behind the glass and I could not help but wonder how long it would be before that changed. Rosie graciously waited for the routine to get to the exciting finale and clapped for the girl as though it were the first time she had seen the show. Rosie clasped her coat at her neck and took the girl’s hand and they headed East. 

I decided to weave in and out of the avenues and streets to see more of the architecture in the area. The buildings were lower there and had an array of designs. Tall, glass-covered buildings from Midtown and the financial district were replaced with slivers of various colonial-style houses. It looked as though someone had cut portions out of those large homes and spliced them together on the streets of the seventies. Some sections were made of brick and some of stone, which created a small sense of individuality. With such small space in the city, there is little room for gardens and certainly no room for a backyard. Some of the steps leading up to the houses were adorned with bright yellow and burnt orange mums and round pumpkins greeted visitors at the doors. The buildings were inviting. It felt like communities of people lived in these homes unlike the thousands of people that simply coexist on hundreds of floors in apartment buildings across midtown.

I suddenly noticed the vacancy of the streets as I walked. There were no people. It could have been due to the time of day that I decided to go, but it was strange. The further North I meandered, the less city noise I heard. Car horns were replaced with a restful silence. I could even hear the click of the green lights changing to yellow and then red. Yellow taxis turned into black, private car-service vehicles and I felt the cold air settling into my coat. I was traveling towards 75th street when I looked to my right and noticed a coffee shop with a sign saying “Joe.” I chose to purchase their seasonal hot apple cider and was relieved to find that I had a few dollars in my wallet to pay at the cash-only establishment. Back out into the cold, I held my cup close and continued North. Extravagant boutiques lined the streets and I looked at the merchandise knowing I could never afford it and would never have an occasion to wear such attire. 

That part of town pulled me out of the rush of Midtown and provided an atmosphere of slower pace and leisure. I enjoyed the lower buildings. It was a friendly part of town and I felt less like a number and more like a person.

Currently Listening: "One Red Thread" by Blind Pilot