Does absence make the heart grow fonder of the West Village? Who knows? Sometimes a prolonged break can rejuvenate, inspire and give one fresh eyes for life in general.
There actually is life beyond Hudson Street…
These occasional columns will attempt to provide a West Villager’s eye-view of a part of the country so often lampooned and derided. Is there anything to be learned from observing life on the Gulf Coast of Florida, in what is called the Tampa Bay Area?
(Locals call it Paradise.) Stay tuned.
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So, here is my first letter from Paradise.
As I am preparing to leave Manhattan, I give my new mailing address to the Citibank teller:
“Moving toFlorida!” I say happily.
“By choice?” he says.
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Day 1 In my mailbox: Free prepaid cremations, courtesy of The Neptune Society.
My friend recommends a hospital to me. “You’ll love it – it’s where Jack Kerouac
died!” Hmmm. (Wasn’t he a right-wing alcoholic by the end?)
Day 2 During my Sunday walk through the scruffy little urban park: A signboard proclaiming “Free TAMPA RAYS vouchers to all Blood Donors- today only.”
Day 3 Passing a racy, low-slung silver Scion with West Virginia plates, am startled to see a decal reading, “As I Lay Dying” on the rear window. A fellow Faulkner fan? Then I spy the “KISS” decal……just a metalcore fanatic. Sigh.
Somehow, all these reminders of looming disaster, of death and dying, are weirdly invigorating.
Day 4 It’s freakin’ hot and humid. Again, I find myself taking the shortcut through the little park. Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here. I pick up my pace.
My spring-green canvas Adidas trainers move quickly past the unshaven smokers slouching towards their tropical Bethlehems. The men poke hopefully into trash cans, postponing that status-lowering trip to the Blood Bank.
“You take it easy now,” an older black man says to me when I meet his eyes. “I sure will,” I reply, my step a little jauntier. I am not invisible inSaint Petersburg, as I was beginning to feel in the Village among all those models and bankers.
Screw that Citibank teller and the horse he rode in on!
(And ha ha, death, you haven’t caught me yet.)
Down here it feels so good, it actually feels naughty, just being alive.
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Barbara Riddle is a regular contributor to WestView News. Her memoir, “Sex and Sinclair Lewis: Tales From A Greenwich Village Girlhood” has been excerpted in these pages and can be read in the Archives. She is the author of the novel “The Girl Pretending to Read Rilke” and you can read her blogs at www.poodlesontheroof.blogspot.com/ and www.barbarariddle.blogspot.com/ Write to her at poodlesontheroof@gmail.com
