By Diana Hottell
We moved into our Village apartment on December 1st.
I didn’t want to just see New York, but to somehow consume it. Back in Twisp, Washington (Population 900), I’d often look out at the West 40 toward the mountains, hear a fly buzz, and wonder what was going on in New York City at that moment.
One way I’ve begun to tackle this Great Unknown has been to take to the subways and buses, ride to the end of the line, get out, and start a meander. I particularly like the ones that streak out of the black tunnels and leap into the air to bear me—as if I were on a Magic Carpet—five stories high through the different neighborhoods.
I’m a Peeping Tom from way back, but it’s amazing what I’ve seen from those windows. It’s a spectacle: shops selling everything in the world with signs in Spanish, Arabic, Russian, Hebrew, Greek, etc.
The ornate lintels of older buildings flow by dizzyingly. And the murals! Taking the J train I was mesmerized by the number of paintings done on rooftops, seemingly for miles. How wonderful to fly through this art gallery. Graffiti artists must take to the roofs of Queens, Brooklyn, and the Bronx for countless hours during clement weather.
See, there’s no public transportation at all in Twisp, which sits in a 60-mile long valley. Thus my ferocious love affair with your transportation system.
Buses, too, are great for gawking around, especially when stuck in traffic. One must have the luxury of time to climb aboard, but it’s a place, if you stay on long enough, to meet people from different parts of the world. The Brooklyn Bus #63 in particular, through Bay Ridge, was a trip through disparate corners of the world. We changed at 86th Street to the #1 and sailed down to Bensonhurst to find something to eat.
It’s a bonus to be so old you get to ride for half price. Thank you, New York.
Sure, we’ve walked across the Brooklyn Bridge and gone to several of your world-class museums, but I revel in the lesser-known happenings. Like the amateur boxing matches taking place two stories below ground. We’ve eaten Peruvian, Georgian, and Ethiopian food, and in restaurants where NO ONE spoke English. In fact, when we asked for water in that Chinese restaurant, the waitress just laughed and never brought it.
We rode the B line to its end in Brighton Beach and discovered “Little Odessa,” where some people just speak Russian. Food from the old country was displayed under Cyrillic signs for a thousand delectable feet.
Because my husband and I have a Dixieland band back in Twisp, we follow our ears. Jazz is everywhere in bars in the Village. But we’ve gotten music from unlikelier places as well: outdoors in Washington Square—Chopin from a grand piano! Bagpipes! Operetta!—and at subway stops and in sharply resonating tile tunnels. I’ve been delighted by Carnegie Hall caliber four-part harmony on the A train between 14th Street and West 4th.
We also head to churches for music.
The harmonies we heard last Sunday at the Russian Catholic Byzantine church on Mulberry Street transported us back in time to the third century. Plus, we left the service bathed in the rich stink of divine incense, all our senses overstimulated. At the Shearith Israel synagogue, I was transported by the choir.
One flaw in this multiverse of a city—especially for know-nothing visitors—is the lack of restrooms. But we’ve turned it into a sort of game: Where to go? What’s behind THIS door, or THAT door? We’ve had quite a few adventures looking for bathrooms.
So great adventure doesn’t have to happen in far-flung corners of the world, but half a block away, say. You just have to set your standards a little lower and be willing to risk a fiasco now and then. I enjoy my self-styled mystery tours, taking potluck at the end of whatever subway or bus line. You just never know what’s next. This city has been a place of magical experiences for me. I just slide my MetroCard and cross my fingers.
