Manhattan Walk
The parks seem almost normal. A busker plays children's songs as little ones are hoisted on shoulders, older children circling the musicians on their scooters. Twenty-somethings lay in the grass, basking in the springtime's warmth.
Then you notice the masks. Every third or fourth person is wearing a surgical mask, be it an N95 or a thinner folded version. The number of people not wearing one is alarming.
There are homeless people everywhere. On benches, sleeping, their shoes by their sides. Staggering along the sidewalks making me grip my camera a little tighter, a forgotten gesture in this shiny city. Their stench precedes them.
My friend has recovered from the virus and is less concerned, her immunity is her shield. Her New York life has inured her to such sights. My suburban existence, on the other hand, not so much. I am nervous in a way that I have not felt since my first forays into Manhattan during the height of the crack epidemic when shuffling zombies were the norm.
We decide to detour to the quieter Village streets. It is around 5 pm and the lack of traffic is astonishing. We walk in the middle of the cobblestone streets as if we are in a pedestrian mall, the lack of cars reminiscent of European centers. I hear birds cheeping and shake my head. Conversation would usually be difficult over the honking of impatient drivers caught in gridlock.
New York seems to have taken a deep breath and dropped her shoulders.
My friend and I drove through Times Square on our way to the Village. It felt as if we had stumbled into a movie set. A normal journey through the crossroads of the world could include a twenty-minute jaunt along three blocks, pedestrians beating you to every corner. Now we see fewer people than we can count on two hands.
The billboards scream futilely, the tourists have fled.
Part of me is delighted by this sleepiness. Photography under such circumstances is sublime, perfect sightlines, and zero background noise.
But deep down, I am in mourning for my first true love. What separates New York from every other great city is its energy and most importantly its people. The rage, the impatience, and the instant camaraderie that enchants are missing.
People look at one another sideways in distrust, a sneeze as offensive as exposing oneself inappropriately.
Public bathrooms are impossible to find. My friend finally relieves herself between two cars in sheer desperation, our pleas at the few open businesses firmly rebuffed. A moment of hilarity ensues as we check out an apparently shuttered restaurant across the street where upon closer inspection we realize it is filled with diners and she runs away in mortification. Only later do we wonder why this particular place is not following pandemic restrictions.
We return to our car parked on a quiet street. Alternate side parking is suspended and parking is relatively easy. I comment on the fact that Village residents are generally wealthy and may have fled to their second homes outside the five boroughs.
We drive up the West Side Highway at the speed limit on a Wednesday evening, an impossible feat under normal circumstances. The evening light softens the high rises, making them appear less menacing.
My love affair with New York will never end. But today I am thankful to be fleeing to my suburban cocoon, my visit has left me unsettled in a nameless way, an invisible threat snapping at my heels as I drive north.