I am a part-time member of the local choir that laments how much the West Village has changed. To me, the jewelry-box-like storefronts along Bleecker Street and elsewhere in the West Village ring false. While each is of a scale that whispers “local” or “one-of-a kind,” behind each charming facade lurks a corporate behemoth and mass produced products that are as readily obtainable in Greenwich, Connecticut as in Greenwich Village.
The staff within these stores are another matter entirely. For them, I have only praise, because for many months, on a near daily basis, they reminded me that the personal, small town flavor of our neighborhood was alive and well. Despite the near obsession with our local architecture, bricks and mortar alone do not a Village make.
Until fairly recently, I had a dog in my life. As he aged and became more infirm his world contracted, until our daily perambulations were limited to a two block square radius, traversed at a pace only negligibly faster than standing still. As the days passed, and we maintained our schedule of daily walks, the people behind the store windows gradually came into focus and then emerged from behind closed doors, with a treat, a pat, and encouraging words. I realize now that we had come into focus too – a small gray-haired woman accompanied by her grizzled old French bully, moving at a snail’s pace past the doors and windows several times each day, as predictable as Big Ben.
And so, just a few of the many thanks that are owed:
….To the gentleman at Sandro with the hint of the islands in your voice – thank you for the daily wave, and the occasional serving of philosophy.
….To the crew at Marc Jacobs on West 4th and Bleecker, thank you for always indulging Puck when I allowed him to enter. Though I laughed when you began calling him “Grandpa Frenchie, ” you have no idea how I despaired to know his elder-bull status was so painfully obvious
….To the staff at Jack Spade who bailed me out one day with the offer of a Dinosaur-bone-sized dog treat – it was just the motivation a tired old dog needed to finish the last leg of his journey home.
….And to Le Pain Quotidien, for your daily offering of a self-serve bowl of biscuits which you were always willing to re-fill, I can assure you that the great pleasure one elderly “Frenchie” had in coming across your provisions never, ever diminished.
The “old” West Village still exists. I just had to slow down to see it.
