We lost one of the good ones today. Matt Freeman, Captain, USMC, my dear friend--and friend, brother, son, husband to others--was killed on the ground in Afghanistan.
I still don't know the exact circumstances of his death, and I can't seem to get my head around the fact that he's gone. The last time I saw him was two years ago, at Amy's funeral in Savannah, and now the last time I may see him will be at his own funeral.
Nothing in life prepares you for this, prepares you to start losing the people you love before they turn thirty. I am taking turns feeling stunned, devastated, angry, and empty.
Yes, it had been awhile since we talked, and longer since we had seen one another, but I always felt like Matt was close, like we could pick up where we left off in a second. He was one of those people who would (will) always be important in my life. First and foremost, he was one of my closest friends throughout high school, someone I felt like I could tell pretty much anything and never be judged, which is nothing short of monumental at that age. He could always be counted on for a great conversation, for a laugh, and well, for anything else for which you might need him.
For a time it was more complex than that--he has actually appeared on this blog before, in my very first post, the friend who kissed me beside the pond when I was wearing a gold prom dress. Even though it turned out to be relatively brief, he became one of my first serious relationships, and it helped me to understand what a mature, respectful romantic relationship should be like (as opposed to my previous experiences with what turned out to be a complete scumbag). It ended due to indecision on my part, but somehow we still remained friends--and not just in name, but actual friends.
I remember long, lazy days in the sun at the beach, running back to his parents' beach house to escape afternoon thundershowers. There were late nights in various locations, groups of us sitting up and talking, scheming, planning to change the world. There was drama class and drama club, various plays and rehearsals, field trips and hilarity. There were the days we'd just run around town aimlessly, and then he'd drive me home, speeding like a madman in his teal Geo Metro around that sharp bend on Highway 144, racing to get me back in time for curfew. Later there were oyster roast reunions, where everything had changed for everyone, but somehow it all felt the same. I feel like I don't do it justice, but my memories of high school are memories with Matt. He was part of me growing up, and his friendship likely deeply affected who I became. I am having a hard time understanding that that is where he will have to remain from this day forward--in the past.
Those who know my left-leaning tendencies will understand why I am mad. There's also the greater existential anger--why the hell is it always the best people, the people with the most to offer, who die?
I guess that I should take comfort in the fact that he died doing what he wanted to do. I mean, hell, I am actually hugely impressed at how much Matt really lived in his twenty-nine years. He'd not only traveled all over the world, but he flew a lot of it himself. He worked his ass off and ended up with the job of his dreams--flying planes for the military--and in fact, he had one of the coolest-sounding jobs of anyone I have known. No matter where he went, he still found ways to stay close to his family. He found love (well, rediscovered might be more like it) with his wife, Theresa. A lot of people don't achieve all this in fifty to sixty years, let alone fewer than thirty.
But still, I mourn. I am sad that he won't be a parent--because he probably would have been a fantastic dad. The thought of what his family is going through makes me break down in tears. The realization that we'll never again reconnect on the phone or catch up during a trip home...well, it makes me feel like my youth is dead. And while I know that in the end we will honor his sacrifice in the name of service to country, tonight I feel like my country stole my friend from me. Call me an anti-patriot, but we're all entitled to our various stages of grief.
Matt had a better attitude than I do; in fact, I'm sure he would have argued heatedly with me over the above sentiment. When I spoke with his mom tonight, she said "I talked to him on the phone the other day, and he told me that he was happy that he was finally doing what he wanted to do. And he asked for us to send more pens and paper, things like that, because he said 'Each one of these that I hand out is one less person shooting at me.'" He believed he was helping change the world. I'm positive that he did help change the world. I just wish he was still here to help it continue to evolve for good.
This post is scattered, unfocused, poorly-constructed. I am unable to properly harness words to best convey what I am feeling tonight, so I'll lay it to rest with words from the Bard, from one of the plays Matt loved dearly: "Good night, sweet prince: And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."
Friday, August 7, 2009
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Sunny with Passing Clouds
It's one of those rare, stunningly gorgeous spring days in Brooklyn, when the air is clear, the sky is blue, and the sun somehow highlights what green lives in this city and makes it glow in stark relief against the gray of concrete. I've been aimlessly wandering in my neighborhood most of the day, strolling through the farmer's market, perusing the flea market, petting strangers' dogs, and browsing shops I haven't visited in awhile. It's been a lovely, relaxing day and even though I grow increasingly more restless here, overall I have been content.
Of course two small things broke my heart today, and they stand in sharp contrast to the rest of the day. The first involved pigeons. Although everywhere else in the world I don't terribly mind pigeons, in New York City, I'm not-so-secretly disgusted by them. However, my distaste was trumped by the site of two pigeons under the Brooklyn Queens Expressway. I happened to glance over and almost cried when I saw one pigeon gently preening another, which was lying dead on the ground. I don't know how many emotions birds experience, but witnessing this exhibition of something so much like grief in these two small creatures caused heartbreak number one.
Heartbreak number two came when wandering down Havemeyer Street while taking a different way back to my place. Amidst old, plain residences and construction frames on what will presumably become more "luxury" high rises, I noticed a sign with no-nonsense red lettering hanging out in front of a restaurant with open windows: "Kenny's Trattoria." Inside was decorated simply in brown wood. There was no one in the restaurant except a middle-aged man sitting in a chair, gazing outside, slowly rubbing his hands together, waiting. With little to no foot traffic in that part of the neighborhood, I wondered how long he'd been waiting on customers who hadn't come. The site of the empty tables and the faraway look on his face caused literal pain in my chest. How many days has he passed, waiting for customers to buy meals so he can pay his overhead? I hope not many; I hope that this is an unusual off day. But how many times does this happen to people who work hard and save to open a business and live the American dream, only to be disappointed? The near-continual shuttering of restaurants and businesses around me lets me know that the answer to this question is "all the time."
So that's really all--sunshine with a few passing clouds today for me. For others, I hope those clouds dissipate soon.
Of course two small things broke my heart today, and they stand in sharp contrast to the rest of the day. The first involved pigeons. Although everywhere else in the world I don't terribly mind pigeons, in New York City, I'm not-so-secretly disgusted by them. However, my distaste was trumped by the site of two pigeons under the Brooklyn Queens Expressway. I happened to glance over and almost cried when I saw one pigeon gently preening another, which was lying dead on the ground. I don't know how many emotions birds experience, but witnessing this exhibition of something so much like grief in these two small creatures caused heartbreak number one.
Heartbreak number two came when wandering down Havemeyer Street while taking a different way back to my place. Amidst old, plain residences and construction frames on what will presumably become more "luxury" high rises, I noticed a sign with no-nonsense red lettering hanging out in front of a restaurant with open windows: "Kenny's Trattoria." Inside was decorated simply in brown wood. There was no one in the restaurant except a middle-aged man sitting in a chair, gazing outside, slowly rubbing his hands together, waiting. With little to no foot traffic in that part of the neighborhood, I wondered how long he'd been waiting on customers who hadn't come. The site of the empty tables and the faraway look on his face caused literal pain in my chest. How many days has he passed, waiting for customers to buy meals so he can pay his overhead? I hope not many; I hope that this is an unusual off day. But how many times does this happen to people who work hard and save to open a business and live the American dream, only to be disappointed? The near-continual shuttering of restaurants and businesses around me lets me know that the answer to this question is "all the time."
So that's really all--sunshine with a few passing clouds today for me. For others, I hope those clouds dissipate soon.
Monday, April 20, 2009
April Showers
I love a good thunderstorm. Growing up in Savannah, thunderstorms were a near daily occurrence in the summertime, and I always loved the sound of rain on the roof and windows, the play of light across the marsh, the dim lights in my house, the low rumbles interspersed with giant roars of thunder. Insanely as a kid I'd get a thrill from running around in the yard barefoot as they raged, until my mother would yell my first and middle names at me, telling me to get inside or else. Then I'd go take a quick hot bath, put on warm, dry clothes, and sit by the glass doors in the back or lie sprawled on my bed, watching, listening, thinking, savoring. To this day I can sometimes think of nothing more satisfying than getting in bed, opening the blinds, and listening to the rain on the glass and the wind in the trees.
Unfortunately there aren't as many thunderstorms in New York City, and most days that's probably a good thing given concrete's propensity to make it rain both up and down simultaneously. But tonight--tonight there is thunder, and rain, and wind. Now that I've taken off my soaked clothes and put on soft flannel pants and I've gotten in my bed, I feel...I suppose I just feel happy to be alive, and warm, and listening to the rain. This quiet moment alone has value beyond measure, and I am thankful for it, and for all the others I have left.
Unfortunately there aren't as many thunderstorms in New York City, and most days that's probably a good thing given concrete's propensity to make it rain both up and down simultaneously. But tonight--tonight there is thunder, and rain, and wind. Now that I've taken off my soaked clothes and put on soft flannel pants and I've gotten in my bed, I feel...I suppose I just feel happy to be alive, and warm, and listening to the rain. This quiet moment alone has value beyond measure, and I am thankful for it, and for all the others I have left.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Gray Hair and Graves
I think my little brother's girlfriend is dying.
Actually, even though it's hard to say it about someone that young, my little brother's girlfriend is dying. She has Hodgkin's lymphoma--I'm not positive, but it sounds like stage III-IV--and her prognosis is not good. The other night, she came down with an infection, and if her mother (with whom she had to move back in) hadn't unexpectedly checked on her, the doctors said she probably wouldn't have made it through the night. She's been in the hospital more than out lately. She's twenty-one years old, with luminous brown eyes and a soft southern accent. She never got to go to college, because she's been sick so long. She's twenty-one years old, and she likely won't see twenty-two.
My brother has been spending more time in the hospital than any twenty-six-year-old ever should, waiting. I can only begin to imagine what he thinks as he waits, and just trying to get my head around it absolutely breaks my heart. Inevitably, he'll finally hear the words he's been dreading. He'll have to go home, drive home in his car like he did the day before when he knew he had at least one more day to talk to her, except it won't be the same at all. Then the next day he'll have to get up and figure out how he's going to make it to twenty-seven.
Not too long ago I was putting my hair in a ponytail and gasped as I revealed two bright silver hairs beneath the top layer of dark hair. I felt like it was the end of the world, like my youth was gone, like I may as well hang it up now and figure out how to be happy with my lot, now that I no longer had my pretty face and any time to waste. Right now I realize how absolutely ridiculous and melodramatic I was being. In fact, I'm lucky I get to live long enough to grow gray hair. I will most likely get to turn twenty-eight next month.
Eventually, each one of us will end up in a grave of one kind or another. Not all of us, though, will get the chance to find our gray hairs, to watch them slowly gain more ground on our scalps. We don't all get to accumulate the stories, the laughter and heartbreak, the knowledge and experience that adds up to wisdom, that accompanies those gray hairs. Sometimes it's hard to understand that you're fortunate until you take a moment to put things in perspective.
Actually, even though it's hard to say it about someone that young, my little brother's girlfriend is dying. She has Hodgkin's lymphoma--I'm not positive, but it sounds like stage III-IV--and her prognosis is not good. The other night, she came down with an infection, and if her mother (with whom she had to move back in) hadn't unexpectedly checked on her, the doctors said she probably wouldn't have made it through the night. She's been in the hospital more than out lately. She's twenty-one years old, with luminous brown eyes and a soft southern accent. She never got to go to college, because she's been sick so long. She's twenty-one years old, and she likely won't see twenty-two.
My brother has been spending more time in the hospital than any twenty-six-year-old ever should, waiting. I can only begin to imagine what he thinks as he waits, and just trying to get my head around it absolutely breaks my heart. Inevitably, he'll finally hear the words he's been dreading. He'll have to go home, drive home in his car like he did the day before when he knew he had at least one more day to talk to her, except it won't be the same at all. Then the next day he'll have to get up and figure out how he's going to make it to twenty-seven.
Not too long ago I was putting my hair in a ponytail and gasped as I revealed two bright silver hairs beneath the top layer of dark hair. I felt like it was the end of the world, like my youth was gone, like I may as well hang it up now and figure out how to be happy with my lot, now that I no longer had my pretty face and any time to waste. Right now I realize how absolutely ridiculous and melodramatic I was being. In fact, I'm lucky I get to live long enough to grow gray hair. I will most likely get to turn twenty-eight next month.
Eventually, each one of us will end up in a grave of one kind or another. Not all of us, though, will get the chance to find our gray hairs, to watch them slowly gain more ground on our scalps. We don't all get to accumulate the stories, the laughter and heartbreak, the knowledge and experience that adds up to wisdom, that accompanies those gray hairs. Sometimes it's hard to understand that you're fortunate until you take a moment to put things in perspective.
Friday, March 6, 2009
One day you'll be the mom on the online social network.
You know you've heard it before. One of your coworkers, from her cubicle five feet away screams "Oh my god, my mom just friend requested me on Facebook!" Your other five coworkers who sit within a ten foot radius join her and you in a mutual grimace and agree: "Ick." Then everyone joins in with bits of advice, such as "You'd better delete those pictures of yourself funneling beer in a baby pool of Jello," and "Dude, go ahead and make a 'family' list and put her on it and set the restrictions so she can't see ANYTHING, I mean she won't know the difference anyway--she's old."
Of course your gut reaction is "ick." After all, we are the generation that pioneered the social networking frontier. We found MySpace and Facebook and Friendster when they first launched, and we latched on. We put everything online, all those pictures of us partying like rock stars, thinking we looked so cool, or all those dimly-lit photographs of us giving bedroom eyes to the camera where we thought we looked so hot, disclosing on our profiles that we love spicy food and Australian men, and oh, that we're willing to try anything once. And then a few years later we realized that actually we looked like drunk twelve-year-olds and got tired of forty-year-old balding men or thug playas writing "Hey baby u look Hott i think u need 2 holla back" whilst masturbating over our pictures that feature us in the foreground and our dirty laundry in a pile in the background, and we yanked all those pictures and put up a few that made us still look fun, but more maturely fun, the kind of people who climb cliffs by the Mediterranean and then pose for photos fun. We still disclose online, but only just enough, chuckling over the actual twelve-year-olds who make all the same mistakes we once did. We add friends we haven't seen since middle school. We actually talk to some of those people online and realize occasionally that we both are no longer as dorky as we once were. We check our multiple social networking accounts at least once a day. We post on each others' walls to keep in touch, because regular e-mail just takes so much time. We have portions of an entire industries built around us--people get paid to keep our online lives running, other people get paid to figure out how they can use the information we willingly provide to target advertisements to our tastes. We're the generation that owns social media--we made it what it is, and to an extent, it made us who we are. So yes, we laugh (or scream and complain) when the older generation tries to get in on the action, to see what all the noise is about. I mean really, whose mom is really cool enough to even have any "about me" information to put on a profile?
But hang on a second there. As a whole, we may still be awesome and cool enough to add really amazing photos of us rocking out in whatever capacity, but have you noticed that some of us have (gasp) passed the thirty-year mark? That many of our friends are now starting to post pictures of their kids and pets and homes alongside those of themselves vacationing on verdant seasides? Well, since I mentioned them, what about those kids, the ones who ended up online before they even knew what the internet was (but who will never know a world without it)? Those kids are going to get older. They're going to become teenagers and young adults, and as we know firsthand, teenagers and young adults love social media, because it allows them to declare to the world "Hey, I'm here, and this is who I am." And one day, they too will create personal profiles on whatever social networking sites continue to thrive in the coming decades.
So the question is--what then? Who are we then? I mean, we made these sites what they are. Do we eventually drop off because the demands of a job and a family and full-on adulthood make it so that we no longer have time to write "Hey dude, thought about you today" on someone's wall? Do we drop off because spending time on MySpace or Facebook becomes considered immature? Do our kids create lists with restrictions that prohibit those included on them from seeing anything that says anything about who they think they are, and add us to those lists?
I think that realistically, our perceptions of social networking and family members' places on it will evolve as we continue to use them and our kids join in on the game. But I also that some things will never change--for the most part, when someone's parent friend requests her, that person will still yell and scream and tell her friends and coworkers, and have a silent moment of panic as she wonders what in hell she should do. Right now, we get to be the cool kids who complain, but in just a few short years, many of us are going to be the uncool parents.
I think the change in perspective will be painful for us in many ways. But then, I think getting older will continue to be painful in a lot of ways. Unfortunately there's no fighting it, so I suppose laughing at it helps some.
Of course your gut reaction is "ick." After all, we are the generation that pioneered the social networking frontier. We found MySpace and Facebook and Friendster when they first launched, and we latched on. We put everything online, all those pictures of us partying like rock stars, thinking we looked so cool, or all those dimly-lit photographs of us giving bedroom eyes to the camera where we thought we looked so hot, disclosing on our profiles that we love spicy food and Australian men, and oh, that we're willing to try anything once. And then a few years later we realized that actually we looked like drunk twelve-year-olds and got tired of forty-year-old balding men or thug playas writing "Hey baby u look Hott i think u need 2 holla back" whilst masturbating over our pictures that feature us in the foreground and our dirty laundry in a pile in the background, and we yanked all those pictures and put up a few that made us still look fun, but more maturely fun, the kind of people who climb cliffs by the Mediterranean and then pose for photos fun. We still disclose online, but only just enough, chuckling over the actual twelve-year-olds who make all the same mistakes we once did. We add friends we haven't seen since middle school. We actually talk to some of those people online and realize occasionally that we both are no longer as dorky as we once were. We check our multiple social networking accounts at least once a day. We post on each others' walls to keep in touch, because regular e-mail just takes so much time. We have portions of an entire industries built around us--people get paid to keep our online lives running, other people get paid to figure out how they can use the information we willingly provide to target advertisements to our tastes. We're the generation that owns social media--we made it what it is, and to an extent, it made us who we are. So yes, we laugh (or scream and complain) when the older generation tries to get in on the action, to see what all the noise is about. I mean really, whose mom is really cool enough to even have any "about me" information to put on a profile?
But hang on a second there. As a whole, we may still be awesome and cool enough to add really amazing photos of us rocking out in whatever capacity, but have you noticed that some of us have (gasp) passed the thirty-year mark? That many of our friends are now starting to post pictures of their kids and pets and homes alongside those of themselves vacationing on verdant seasides? Well, since I mentioned them, what about those kids, the ones who ended up online before they even knew what the internet was (but who will never know a world without it)? Those kids are going to get older. They're going to become teenagers and young adults, and as we know firsthand, teenagers and young adults love social media, because it allows them to declare to the world "Hey, I'm here, and this is who I am." And one day, they too will create personal profiles on whatever social networking sites continue to thrive in the coming decades.
So the question is--what then? Who are we then? I mean, we made these sites what they are. Do we eventually drop off because the demands of a job and a family and full-on adulthood make it so that we no longer have time to write "Hey dude, thought about you today" on someone's wall? Do we drop off because spending time on MySpace or Facebook becomes considered immature? Do our kids create lists with restrictions that prohibit those included on them from seeing anything that says anything about who they think they are, and add us to those lists?
I think that realistically, our perceptions of social networking and family members' places on it will evolve as we continue to use them and our kids join in on the game. But I also that some things will never change--for the most part, when someone's parent friend requests her, that person will still yell and scream and tell her friends and coworkers, and have a silent moment of panic as she wonders what in hell she should do. Right now, we get to be the cool kids who complain, but in just a few short years, many of us are going to be the uncool parents.
I think the change in perspective will be painful for us in many ways. But then, I think getting older will continue to be painful in a lot of ways. Unfortunately there's no fighting it, so I suppose laughing at it helps some.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
New York City Pedestrian Etiquette
General
1. Keep/bear right. This is customary in the U.S. Keep this in mind at all times.
2. Walk in as straight a trajectory as possible. There are many other people around you traveling at varying rates of speed who can't always anticipate your change of direction, and meandering is just plain annoying.
3. If you must stop, pull over to the side. Do not stop suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk. Chances are there's someone directly behind you who will collide with you if you do, and even if he or she does not, making him/her change direction rapidly will disrupt the flow of traffic and likely cause a collision between said person and another innocent pedestrian.
4. Do not abruptly change direction. Glance around you before you do to make sure you don't mow anyone down.
5. When approaching someone traveling toward you in the same trajectory as yourself, again, keep/bear right. If all follow this rule there will be no head-on collisions or awkward sidewalk dances.
6. When walking with a group of people, it is not always possible to walk two, three, four, or more abreast. Shift to single file if someone else is approaching you or needs to pass, even if it means pausing your conversation momentarily. Do not make the other person step into traffic or trash to accommodate your group.
7. When conversing with another person and walking, do not use elaborate hand gestures. You will hit someone.
8. Do not swing your arms excessively. You will hit someone, and chances are it's not actually helping you walk faster. This rule also applies to umbrellas, shopping bags and other packages.
9. If you encounter another person on an otherwise empty sidewalk, give him or her space. It is not necessary to brush against the only other person in sight when passing. It's rude, creepy, and you should be rejoicing in the fact that there is actually enough space to momentarily move at will.
10. Even if you have nowhere to be, please make an attempt to keep up with the flow of traffic. Otherwise, if you have no deadline, wait until rush hour is over.
11. When entering/exiting through a doorway, do not stop as soon as you get inside/outside of the door. You are not the only one who needs to get in/out. Move to the side.
12. If you can't text message and walk normally, don't text message and walk at the same time.
13. Do not spit. If it's life-threatening (which it never will be) and you must spit, at least look around to make sure your wad is not going to hit a hapless bystander.
14. If you are pushing something large, such as a stroller, a hand truck, or a rabbit, please keep both hands on it and push in a straight line. When you take one hand off, your cart, stroller, etc. will veer to one side, either cutting someone off or getting in his or her way.
15. If you are pushing one of the aforementioned objects on wheels and you need to stop, please pull over and park it parallel to the nearest wall or stationary object. If you park it perpendicularly, you largely block the way.
16. If you are pulling a piece of luggage on wheels, keep it as close behind you as possible, or else someone will trip on it or accidentally kick it.
17. If walking with a child, please pay attention to what he or she is doing. Make sure (s)he doesn't stray or bolt into someone's legs.
Stairs/Escalators
18. Descend/ascend on the right-hand side of the stairs. This keeps traffic flowing.
19. Do not stop abruptly while ascending/descending the stairs. It is likely someone will run into you.
20. Do not sit on stairs in busy transportation hubs such as Grand Central Terminal. They are heavy foot traffic throughways, not benches.
21. Similarly, don't stand at the entrance/exit of a stairway during rush hour to take pictures or check your text messages; you block traffic. Please step to the side.
22. Never turn around on the stairs and attempt to go back up/down the same way you came unless it's 3 am and there's no one around. Everyone else will be moving in the opposite direction. Not only will you find it difficult to get to where you want to go, but everyone will curse at you. Instead, continue to the bottom/top and ascend/descend on the opposite side with the flow of traffic.
23. If you can, help people carrying strollers, carts, or other large objects up or down the stairs. It helps everyone in the end.
24. Expanding on rule #8, don't excessively swing your arms, bags, or umbrellas when climbing stairs. You'll probably hit someone in the face.
25. On escalators, stand to the right, climb to the left. If you don't feel like climbing, move over so that others can. If you are traveling with another person and you both want to stand, do not stand two abreast. Stand one in front of the other on the right hand side so other people can pass. No one else cares about your conversation.
26. If you are the first person in a crowd to get to the stairs, please take them quickly and with purpose. If you are inclined to dawdle, wait a bit till the faster climbers go by.
Walking in the Rain
27. The smaller your umbrella, the better life in the rain is for everyone. Large golf umbrellas are obnoxious both opened (they extend over the whole sidewalk and pose hazards to your fellow pedestrians' eyes) and closed (they are long). If you carry one, take extra precaution to not be a jerk.
28. When holding an umbrella over your head, be alert. Lift it above the heads of those who don't have umbrellas. If you are taller than someone approaching holding an umbrella overhead, lift your umbrella above that person's as you pass; it's much harder for the shorter person to avoid you. Avoid poking people in the eyes with umbrella spokes at all costs.
29. Just because holding an umbrella overhead partially obscures your vision, it is not an excuse to not look where you are going. Peer out frequently and remain alert to your surroundings rather than crashing into people.
30. When walking under scaffolding, close your umbrella. There simply isn't room to walk with them open, and the scaffolding overhead keeps you dry.
Scaffolding
31. Walk single file temporarily while under scaffolding. There is not enough space to walk two abreast and maintain the flow of traffic in both directions.
32. If physically able, try not to walk slower than the average pace of those around you. You create a bottleneck, because people can't pass, and those who walk faster than you will secretly want to punch you in the back of the head.
33. Again, keep right. This is particularly important under scaffolding, as others are prevented from going around you by the horizontal support bars.
34. Do not--under any circumstances--stand, loiter, or abruptly stop under scaffolding. There is very little room to get around you. If you are trying to get out of the rain, stand against the building wall (preferably behind the horizontal support bars). This allows others to continue on their respective ways.
35. Please refer to rule #30.
Subway
36. As we all learned in grammar school science class, two bodies of matter cannot occupy the same space at the same time. Therefore, you must let people off the train before you get on.
37. When boarding the train, move as far as you can into the center of the car so that others can board the train without having to squeeze past you. Yes, it's nice to stand by the door so you can be the first person off, but it can't work out that way for you all the time.
38. If seated, look around. Are any elderly people, pregnant women, or people trying to manage children standing near you? If so, be considerate and offer one of them your seat.
39. When possible, let shorter people stand near vertical bars. It is hard for them to reach those overhead horizontal bars above the seats.
40. Parents, please fold your strollers and hold your children when the train is crowded. Strollers lead to bottlenecks when people are trying to get around them to board or exit the train.
41. This is addressed to everyone, but pertains especially to men: close your damn legs when you sit down. You're not fooling anyone--there is absolutely no need for you to sit with your knees splayed apart. You are effectively occupying two seats when you do so and are preventing others from sitting. In addition, if people are sitting next to you, they will be creeped out by your legs touching theirs unnecessaily.
42. Turn the iPod volume down. No one cares what you're listening to; in fact they're annoyed that you're essentially forcing your music choice on them. You're also contributing to your own permanent hearing damage.
43. Bikes on the train during rush hour are really annoying. I realize they're eco- and heart-friendly, but just know that pre-coffee, everyone hates you and your decision to ride a bike halfway to work in the morning.
44. If you are not positive that you can ascend stairs faster than 90% of the people on your train car, don't be the person who must stand directly next to the doors that let out closest to the stairs. Let the people who actually want to bolt up the stairs do so; it produces slightly more space for everyone.
45. Gentlemen, it should go without saying that you should not be a perv and grope or expose yourself to others. It's kind of against the law. However, it is also in poor taste to press yourself inappropriately against women, to obviously stand too close, and to blatantly look down their blouses or stare at any part of their anatomy the entire ride. How would you feel if someone did this to your mother, your sister, your daughter, your girlfriend, or your best friend?
Smoking
Smoking may be your lifestyle choice, but it is not everyone else's. If you are a smoker you should try to acknowledge this and not force your decision on others by observing the following rules of common courtesy:
46. Move out of doorways, even if it's raining, so everyone going in and out does not get a face full of your cigarette smoke.
47. If you must walk and smoke, realize that if you hold your burning cigarette casually in your arm and let it swing loosely by your side, you're probably going to burn someone, and he/she will not be pleased.
48. Also realize when you smoke and walk at the same time, your exhalation cloud will end up in the face of the person behind you. You waive the right to be surprised or offended if they pass and glare at you while muttering under their breath.
49. There are some places in front of which you should never smoke. Hospitals and preschools are some of those places.
50. Try to look out for open windows when standing on the sidewalk smoking. If you see them, move down half a block or so to keep people inside from having to breathe your secondhand.
While I tried to be thorough, I am sure that this list is in no way comprehensive. If you note any glaring omissions, please be sure to post them in the comments section so that all may be aware.
1. Keep/bear right. This is customary in the U.S. Keep this in mind at all times.
2. Walk in as straight a trajectory as possible. There are many other people around you traveling at varying rates of speed who can't always anticipate your change of direction, and meandering is just plain annoying.
3. If you must stop, pull over to the side. Do not stop suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk. Chances are there's someone directly behind you who will collide with you if you do, and even if he or she does not, making him/her change direction rapidly will disrupt the flow of traffic and likely cause a collision between said person and another innocent pedestrian.
4. Do not abruptly change direction. Glance around you before you do to make sure you don't mow anyone down.
5. When approaching someone traveling toward you in the same trajectory as yourself, again, keep/bear right. If all follow this rule there will be no head-on collisions or awkward sidewalk dances.
6. When walking with a group of people, it is not always possible to walk two, three, four, or more abreast. Shift to single file if someone else is approaching you or needs to pass, even if it means pausing your conversation momentarily. Do not make the other person step into traffic or trash to accommodate your group.
7. When conversing with another person and walking, do not use elaborate hand gestures. You will hit someone.
8. Do not swing your arms excessively. You will hit someone, and chances are it's not actually helping you walk faster. This rule also applies to umbrellas, shopping bags and other packages.
9. If you encounter another person on an otherwise empty sidewalk, give him or her space. It is not necessary to brush against the only other person in sight when passing. It's rude, creepy, and you should be rejoicing in the fact that there is actually enough space to momentarily move at will.
10. Even if you have nowhere to be, please make an attempt to keep up with the flow of traffic. Otherwise, if you have no deadline, wait until rush hour is over.
11. When entering/exiting through a doorway, do not stop as soon as you get inside/outside of the door. You are not the only one who needs to get in/out. Move to the side.
12. If you can't text message and walk normally, don't text message and walk at the same time.
13. Do not spit. If it's life-threatening (which it never will be) and you must spit, at least look around to make sure your wad is not going to hit a hapless bystander.
14. If you are pushing something large, such as a stroller, a hand truck, or a rabbit, please keep both hands on it and push in a straight line. When you take one hand off, your cart, stroller, etc. will veer to one side, either cutting someone off or getting in his or her way.
15. If you are pushing one of the aforementioned objects on wheels and you need to stop, please pull over and park it parallel to the nearest wall or stationary object. If you park it perpendicularly, you largely block the way.
16. If you are pulling a piece of luggage on wheels, keep it as close behind you as possible, or else someone will trip on it or accidentally kick it.
17. If walking with a child, please pay attention to what he or she is doing. Make sure (s)he doesn't stray or bolt into someone's legs.
Stairs/Escalators
18. Descend/ascend on the right-hand side of the stairs. This keeps traffic flowing.
19. Do not stop abruptly while ascending/descending the stairs. It is likely someone will run into you.
20. Do not sit on stairs in busy transportation hubs such as Grand Central Terminal. They are heavy foot traffic throughways, not benches.
21. Similarly, don't stand at the entrance/exit of a stairway during rush hour to take pictures or check your text messages; you block traffic. Please step to the side.
22. Never turn around on the stairs and attempt to go back up/down the same way you came unless it's 3 am and there's no one around. Everyone else will be moving in the opposite direction. Not only will you find it difficult to get to where you want to go, but everyone will curse at you. Instead, continue to the bottom/top and ascend/descend on the opposite side with the flow of traffic.
23. If you can, help people carrying strollers, carts, or other large objects up or down the stairs. It helps everyone in the end.
24. Expanding on rule #8, don't excessively swing your arms, bags, or umbrellas when climbing stairs. You'll probably hit someone in the face.
25. On escalators, stand to the right, climb to the left. If you don't feel like climbing, move over so that others can. If you are traveling with another person and you both want to stand, do not stand two abreast. Stand one in front of the other on the right hand side so other people can pass. No one else cares about your conversation.
26. If you are the first person in a crowd to get to the stairs, please take them quickly and with purpose. If you are inclined to dawdle, wait a bit till the faster climbers go by.
Walking in the Rain
27. The smaller your umbrella, the better life in the rain is for everyone. Large golf umbrellas are obnoxious both opened (they extend over the whole sidewalk and pose hazards to your fellow pedestrians' eyes) and closed (they are long). If you carry one, take extra precaution to not be a jerk.
28. When holding an umbrella over your head, be alert. Lift it above the heads of those who don't have umbrellas. If you are taller than someone approaching holding an umbrella overhead, lift your umbrella above that person's as you pass; it's much harder for the shorter person to avoid you. Avoid poking people in the eyes with umbrella spokes at all costs.
29. Just because holding an umbrella overhead partially obscures your vision, it is not an excuse to not look where you are going. Peer out frequently and remain alert to your surroundings rather than crashing into people.
30. When walking under scaffolding, close your umbrella. There simply isn't room to walk with them open, and the scaffolding overhead keeps you dry.
Scaffolding
31. Walk single file temporarily while under scaffolding. There is not enough space to walk two abreast and maintain the flow of traffic in both directions.
32. If physically able, try not to walk slower than the average pace of those around you. You create a bottleneck, because people can't pass, and those who walk faster than you will secretly want to punch you in the back of the head.
33. Again, keep right. This is particularly important under scaffolding, as others are prevented from going around you by the horizontal support bars.
34. Do not--under any circumstances--stand, loiter, or abruptly stop under scaffolding. There is very little room to get around you. If you are trying to get out of the rain, stand against the building wall (preferably behind the horizontal support bars). This allows others to continue on their respective ways.
35. Please refer to rule #30.
Subway
36. As we all learned in grammar school science class, two bodies of matter cannot occupy the same space at the same time. Therefore, you must let people off the train before you get on.
37. When boarding the train, move as far as you can into the center of the car so that others can board the train without having to squeeze past you. Yes, it's nice to stand by the door so you can be the first person off, but it can't work out that way for you all the time.
38. If seated, look around. Are any elderly people, pregnant women, or people trying to manage children standing near you? If so, be considerate and offer one of them your seat.
39. When possible, let shorter people stand near vertical bars. It is hard for them to reach those overhead horizontal bars above the seats.
40. Parents, please fold your strollers and hold your children when the train is crowded. Strollers lead to bottlenecks when people are trying to get around them to board or exit the train.
41. This is addressed to everyone, but pertains especially to men: close your damn legs when you sit down. You're not fooling anyone--there is absolutely no need for you to sit with your knees splayed apart. You are effectively occupying two seats when you do so and are preventing others from sitting. In addition, if people are sitting next to you, they will be creeped out by your legs touching theirs unnecessaily.
42. Turn the iPod volume down. No one cares what you're listening to; in fact they're annoyed that you're essentially forcing your music choice on them. You're also contributing to your own permanent hearing damage.
43. Bikes on the train during rush hour are really annoying. I realize they're eco- and heart-friendly, but just know that pre-coffee, everyone hates you and your decision to ride a bike halfway to work in the morning.
44. If you are not positive that you can ascend stairs faster than 90% of the people on your train car, don't be the person who must stand directly next to the doors that let out closest to the stairs. Let the people who actually want to bolt up the stairs do so; it produces slightly more space for everyone.
45. Gentlemen, it should go without saying that you should not be a perv and grope or expose yourself to others. It's kind of against the law. However, it is also in poor taste to press yourself inappropriately against women, to obviously stand too close, and to blatantly look down their blouses or stare at any part of their anatomy the entire ride. How would you feel if someone did this to your mother, your sister, your daughter, your girlfriend, or your best friend?
Smoking
Smoking may be your lifestyle choice, but it is not everyone else's. If you are a smoker you should try to acknowledge this and not force your decision on others by observing the following rules of common courtesy:
46. Move out of doorways, even if it's raining, so everyone going in and out does not get a face full of your cigarette smoke.
47. If you must walk and smoke, realize that if you hold your burning cigarette casually in your arm and let it swing loosely by your side, you're probably going to burn someone, and he/she will not be pleased.
48. Also realize when you smoke and walk at the same time, your exhalation cloud will end up in the face of the person behind you. You waive the right to be surprised or offended if they pass and glare at you while muttering under their breath.
49. There are some places in front of which you should never smoke. Hospitals and preschools are some of those places.
50. Try to look out for open windows when standing on the sidewalk smoking. If you see them, move down half a block or so to keep people inside from having to breathe your secondhand.
While I tried to be thorough, I am sure that this list is in no way comprehensive. If you note any glaring omissions, please be sure to post them in the comments section so that all may be aware.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Weekend Update: Roosevelt Island
Winter tends to drive me indoors for several months at a time, longing for the feeling of sunshine on my limbs and lungfuls of fresh air. This semi-hibernation begins to make me feel like my world has contracted around me, limited to my office and my apartment, with the occasional bar thrown in for good measure. Always toward the end of January I start to feel edgy and pent up, and all I want to do is to get outside and back into that big jungle of a city in which I seem to have taken up permanent residence.
So today without my usual weekend partner in crime, I decided to go island hopping. Roosevelt Island has always intrigued me a bit, being smack in the middle of the East River, packed full of high rises, and sporting a decaying hospital at the south end. I envisioned several very narrow, twisty streets and secret jems of bookshops or bars or who knows what tucked away from the general public. The method of getting there provided yet another draw for me--I'd always wanted to ride the gondola-like tram, it being such a brightly-colored novelty in comparison to my typical subterranean shuttle.
After taking several more trains than is normally necessary due to weekend subway "improvements," I emerged blinking into the sunshine in front of Bloomingdale's on the Upper East Side. I fought the throngs of shoppers for a few blocks until I found the tram staircase and hopped onboard. It was pleasantly cozy with heating, and I scooted over near the window to take in the southern view.
The ride was delightful, offering stunning avenue and rooftop views, and in fact I could have done it all day, riding back and forth, up and down over half of the width of the East River. However, I was itching with anticipation to see what treasures Roosevelt Island had in store for me.
As it turns out, there weren't many. The place was, for a better word, strange. Immediately I found the well-maintained sidewalk that runs around the periphery of the island and began following it south, toward Renwick Ruin, which was once a smallpox hospital. The west side of the island offers stunning views of Manhattan, and breathing in the brackish air, I thought I would very much like to one day go for a run on this path. In fact, a jogger had already passed me, to my envy.
I walked briskly down past a sprawling, operational nursing home/hospital campus to arrive at a large chain-link fence topped with razor wire, marking the northernmost edge of the Renwick Ruin area. Unfortunately, the area appears to be closed to the public, and one can only catch tantalizing glimpses of the decaying buildings of the old smallpox wards. Sighing, I walked the length of the boundary fence, noticing one spot by the ground that seemed to have been wrenched upward by human hands, and which appeared large enough for me to slither through on my belly. While I consider myself a relatively adventurous individual, I decided that I was not brave enough to get arrested and jailed by myself. I made a mental note to come back with someone I could outrun, and kept walking.
Rounding the south end of the path, I then started moving northward, up the eastern side of Roosevelt Island. The view of Queens was not quite as rousing as that of Manhattan, so I stepped up the pace to get to the "heart" of Roosevelt. On the way I passed a "Hazardous Materials" area (which, it should be noted, had no barrier between it and the river, making me wonder what exactly the winds have blown into the water from time to time), and got growled at by an apparent bum, but other than that passed no one. Other than the constant white noise of wind and traffic from the FDR across the way, the place was almost unsettlingly quiet.
Th path curved in a bit and I thought I spied a good place to dive into town. I veered into the middle of the island and found myself on Main Street.
Apparently my vision of a mini maze of streets was a bit misguided. Roosevelt Island seems to have exactly one major road running down the center of most of its length. Other than that, there are the perimeter roads, but no side streets. The island simply isn't wide enough. In fact, you can see both edges of the island from any place you stand unless your view is impeded by a building. Still, I was looking forward to finding the main "hub," where many of the residents were surely out and about on such a brisk, sunny day.
Main Street is paved with the same interlocking brown bricks as the sidewalks. All the surrounding buildings are generally either brown or red-brown brick, lending the place a bizarre monochromacity. At first glance, the brick paving and the narrowness and curving angle of Main Street, combine with a glimpse of an obviously old church made me compare it to a very generic-looking, Americanized version of a European village, but soon I realized even that was being overly romantic.
The street was lined with the shops that met all an urbanite's basic needs--a mini mart, a hardware store, a nails salon, a thrift shop, one ubiquitous Chinese restaurant, and further down a new Gristedes supermarket and a tiny outdoor farmer's market. However, much to my discontent, I realized that Main Street was almost dead silent. The very few people on the sidewalks were not speaking, just walking along, heads down. I began to doubt my own sanity--was I the only one crazy enough to be taking a walk on this windy day? Surely with all the residences surrounding me, there had to be more people. But where were they?
I didn't dally too long on Main Street, and instead pressed on, determined to walk the two-mile length of the island and back. I noticed that the tall buildings around me were either glass-coated luxury high rises, or those that looked like housing projects, with nothing in between; very strange real estate planning and development indeed.
Further north I passed a large, imposing-looking gray building with a capitol-like dome on top. Approaching the sign, I could see it was called "the Octagon." This pleased me probably more than it should have, and I began to envision it as Roosevelt Island's answer to the Pentagon, wherein strategists were devising elaborate plans of defense on the chance that some force tried to seize the island for its strategic position between Manhattan and Queens. I was disappointed to see that upon closer inspection, it too was a high-end residence. Later I learned that it had once been an insane asylum, which made it slightly more interesting again.
I passed yet another hospital on the north end (if you have to get injured, try to do so on Roosevelt Island, where medical help is apparently just footsteps away) and soldiered on behind another lone jogger to the lighthouse at the northern point. I stood there for a moment, cold wind whipping tears out of my eyes imagining myself on the bow of a large ship, heading on an Arctic expedition, and then turned my back to the wind, walking again down the west side of the island back toward the tram station.
Shortly thereafter I ran into an actual replica of a bow of a boat jutting out from the sidewalk over the rocks. I walked up to the tip to observe the sturdy red tugs steadfastly pushing barges twice their size up and down the river, then noting that my imaginary boat was about to crash into Manhattan, turned my attention to another old church behind me, which looked lived in. Among the rusting bikes and grills in the yard were other more peculiar pieces, such as an old car seat sitting atop a picnic table in the yard. I guess you never know when you might need a spare car seat.
The only other things of note on the walk back to the tram were some small statues reminiscent of the ones at the subway station at 14th Street/8th Avenue (presumably by the same artist) sitting in pedestals planted in the rocks by the riverside. The title of the installation was "the Marriage of Money and Real Estate," featuring a small house in a skirt either holding hands with a coin in a hat or being dragged down into the river by a lobster with a money bag for a head.
Passing a rather expansive and cozy-looking Starbucks just before the tram, I believe I found most of the residents of the island, packed inside sipping grande lattes or cocoas and typing away at laptops; it was the largest concentration of people I'd seen there all day. But again, no one seemed to be talking.
At this point I had walked Roosevelt Island pretty much in its entirety, and not finding one place to draw me in and make me stay awhile, I decided it was time to move on. I regained admission to the tram with a swipe of my MetroCard and several minutes later was again sailing through the air and over half the river, peeking in nearby windows and deserted rooftop gardens, back to the loud, densely populated New York with which I am by now intimately familiar.
I know that in the past when I expressed interest in Roosevelt Island, my friends gave a small snort and said "Why? There's nothing there." Unfortunately I can offer no gripping experienced to refute this claim, and in reality I think Roosevelt Island's history may be much more fascinating than a visit. For example, according to the RI Historical Society, the lighthouse I mentioned, which overlooks the forebodingly named Hellsgate section of the East River, was built in 1874, and its construction was preceded by "long 'negotiations' with John McCarthy, an asylum inmate who'd built his own clay fort there to defend us against British invasion. Until the 1960s McCarthy's crudely carved plaque remained (stating):
This is the work
Was done by
John McCarthy
Who built the light
House from the bottom to the top
Let all ye who pass by
Pray for his soul when he dies."
I suppose my initial assessment of the Octagon may not have been as far off-base as I thought.
So today without my usual weekend partner in crime, I decided to go island hopping. Roosevelt Island has always intrigued me a bit, being smack in the middle of the East River, packed full of high rises, and sporting a decaying hospital at the south end. I envisioned several very narrow, twisty streets and secret jems of bookshops or bars or who knows what tucked away from the general public. The method of getting there provided yet another draw for me--I'd always wanted to ride the gondola-like tram, it being such a brightly-colored novelty in comparison to my typical subterranean shuttle.
After taking several more trains than is normally necessary due to weekend subway "improvements," I emerged blinking into the sunshine in front of Bloomingdale's on the Upper East Side. I fought the throngs of shoppers for a few blocks until I found the tram staircase and hopped onboard. It was pleasantly cozy with heating, and I scooted over near the window to take in the southern view.
The ride was delightful, offering stunning avenue and rooftop views, and in fact I could have done it all day, riding back and forth, up and down over half of the width of the East River. However, I was itching with anticipation to see what treasures Roosevelt Island had in store for me.
As it turns out, there weren't many. The place was, for a better word, strange. Immediately I found the well-maintained sidewalk that runs around the periphery of the island and began following it south, toward Renwick Ruin, which was once a smallpox hospital. The west side of the island offers stunning views of Manhattan, and breathing in the brackish air, I thought I would very much like to one day go for a run on this path. In fact, a jogger had already passed me, to my envy.
I walked briskly down past a sprawling, operational nursing home/hospital campus to arrive at a large chain-link fence topped with razor wire, marking the northernmost edge of the Renwick Ruin area. Unfortunately, the area appears to be closed to the public, and one can only catch tantalizing glimpses of the decaying buildings of the old smallpox wards. Sighing, I walked the length of the boundary fence, noticing one spot by the ground that seemed to have been wrenched upward by human hands, and which appeared large enough for me to slither through on my belly. While I consider myself a relatively adventurous individual, I decided that I was not brave enough to get arrested and jailed by myself. I made a mental note to come back with someone I could outrun, and kept walking.
Rounding the south end of the path, I then started moving northward, up the eastern side of Roosevelt Island. The view of Queens was not quite as rousing as that of Manhattan, so I stepped up the pace to get to the "heart" of Roosevelt. On the way I passed a "Hazardous Materials" area (which, it should be noted, had no barrier between it and the river, making me wonder what exactly the winds have blown into the water from time to time), and got growled at by an apparent bum, but other than that passed no one. Other than the constant white noise of wind and traffic from the FDR across the way, the place was almost unsettlingly quiet.
Th path curved in a bit and I thought I spied a good place to dive into town. I veered into the middle of the island and found myself on Main Street.
Apparently my vision of a mini maze of streets was a bit misguided. Roosevelt Island seems to have exactly one major road running down the center of most of its length. Other than that, there are the perimeter roads, but no side streets. The island simply isn't wide enough. In fact, you can see both edges of the island from any place you stand unless your view is impeded by a building. Still, I was looking forward to finding the main "hub," where many of the residents were surely out and about on such a brisk, sunny day.
Main Street is paved with the same interlocking brown bricks as the sidewalks. All the surrounding buildings are generally either brown or red-brown brick, lending the place a bizarre monochromacity. At first glance, the brick paving and the narrowness and curving angle of Main Street, combine with a glimpse of an obviously old church made me compare it to a very generic-looking, Americanized version of a European village, but soon I realized even that was being overly romantic.
The street was lined with the shops that met all an urbanite's basic needs--a mini mart, a hardware store, a nails salon, a thrift shop, one ubiquitous Chinese restaurant, and further down a new Gristedes supermarket and a tiny outdoor farmer's market. However, much to my discontent, I realized that Main Street was almost dead silent. The very few people on the sidewalks were not speaking, just walking along, heads down. I began to doubt my own sanity--was I the only one crazy enough to be taking a walk on this windy day? Surely with all the residences surrounding me, there had to be more people. But where were they?
I didn't dally too long on Main Street, and instead pressed on, determined to walk the two-mile length of the island and back. I noticed that the tall buildings around me were either glass-coated luxury high rises, or those that looked like housing projects, with nothing in between; very strange real estate planning and development indeed.
Further north I passed a large, imposing-looking gray building with a capitol-like dome on top. Approaching the sign, I could see it was called "the Octagon." This pleased me probably more than it should have, and I began to envision it as Roosevelt Island's answer to the Pentagon, wherein strategists were devising elaborate plans of defense on the chance that some force tried to seize the island for its strategic position between Manhattan and Queens. I was disappointed to see that upon closer inspection, it too was a high-end residence. Later I learned that it had once been an insane asylum, which made it slightly more interesting again.
I passed yet another hospital on the north end (if you have to get injured, try to do so on Roosevelt Island, where medical help is apparently just footsteps away) and soldiered on behind another lone jogger to the lighthouse at the northern point. I stood there for a moment, cold wind whipping tears out of my eyes imagining myself on the bow of a large ship, heading on an Arctic expedition, and then turned my back to the wind, walking again down the west side of the island back toward the tram station.
Shortly thereafter I ran into an actual replica of a bow of a boat jutting out from the sidewalk over the rocks. I walked up to the tip to observe the sturdy red tugs steadfastly pushing barges twice their size up and down the river, then noting that my imaginary boat was about to crash into Manhattan, turned my attention to another old church behind me, which looked lived in. Among the rusting bikes and grills in the yard were other more peculiar pieces, such as an old car seat sitting atop a picnic table in the yard. I guess you never know when you might need a spare car seat.
The only other things of note on the walk back to the tram were some small statues reminiscent of the ones at the subway station at 14th Street/8th Avenue (presumably by the same artist) sitting in pedestals planted in the rocks by the riverside. The title of the installation was "the Marriage of Money and Real Estate," featuring a small house in a skirt either holding hands with a coin in a hat or being dragged down into the river by a lobster with a money bag for a head.
Passing a rather expansive and cozy-looking Starbucks just before the tram, I believe I found most of the residents of the island, packed inside sipping grande lattes or cocoas and typing away at laptops; it was the largest concentration of people I'd seen there all day. But again, no one seemed to be talking.
At this point I had walked Roosevelt Island pretty much in its entirety, and not finding one place to draw me in and make me stay awhile, I decided it was time to move on. I regained admission to the tram with a swipe of my MetroCard and several minutes later was again sailing through the air and over half the river, peeking in nearby windows and deserted rooftop gardens, back to the loud, densely populated New York with which I am by now intimately familiar.
I know that in the past when I expressed interest in Roosevelt Island, my friends gave a small snort and said "Why? There's nothing there." Unfortunately I can offer no gripping experienced to refute this claim, and in reality I think Roosevelt Island's history may be much more fascinating than a visit. For example, according to the RI Historical Society, the lighthouse I mentioned, which overlooks the forebodingly named Hellsgate section of the East River, was built in 1874, and its construction was preceded by "long 'negotiations' with John McCarthy, an asylum inmate who'd built his own clay fort there to defend us against British invasion. Until the 1960s McCarthy's crudely carved plaque remained (stating):
This is the work
Was done by
John McCarthy
Who built the light
House from the bottom to the top
Let all ye who pass by
Pray for his soul when he dies."
I suppose my initial assessment of the Octagon may not have been as far off-base as I thought.
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