A Walk in the Park
Walking with Lucia in New York is quite the experience. Strangers wave and smile; they nudge each other and point; they mutter “Cute” as they walk past. “Those are the nicest toes I’ve seen all day,” a white-haired lady with a cane announced on Broadway and 73rd yesterday, pointing at Lucia’s bare babyfeet. “She’s like a little doll!” a little girl observed to her mother outside Gray’s Papaya today, where I may have been eating a hot dog on the corner while waiting for the light to change. Indeed. A little doll who allowed us a mere four hours of sleep last night—but I digress.
Despite a dramatic appearance of Fusskins this morning, Lucia and I had a lovely afternoon. It was a gorgeous day—low seventies, no humidity, just blue sky and sun. We walked along 72nd Street from Riverside Boulevard to Central Park and entered the park through Strawberry Fields; we wound our way to the bandshell and took in the city sights. There was a man wearing black hotpants and rollerblades taking a quick break from his flamboyant roller-dancing to play “La Cucaracha” on a piano. (These freestanding pianos are apparently a citywide thing this summer—this is the fourth I’ve seen.) Not far from the piano tinkling, there was a fantastic band playing—trumpet, trombone, banjo, bass—and I took Lucia out of her stroller to dance in my lap. She was captivated by the music, all smiles, happily standing and jumping and, eventually, joining in with some raptor cries. We walked down to Bethesda Fountain and looked at rowboats on the lake; two Japanese girls near us started whispering “Kawaii! Kawaii!” to each other and pointing at Lucia; one snapped a picture of her. Then we spread a blanket out on some grass and played for a while before heading home.
I can’t count the number of different languages I heard on our walk; and I can’t describe how enchanted Lucia was by the sights and sounds she took in, sitting straight up and leaning forward excitedly in her stroller. This was exactly the kind of afternoon I pictured whenever I imagined returning to the city. I felt like a tourist, looking around me wide-eyed at the things I once would have walked past without thinking—the Dakota; the pedicabs; hot dog carts—but with the contentment that comes from knowing I’m actually not a tourist at all, just a once-again New Yorker remembering why she loved it here in the first place. “Are you from New York?” a tourist with a map question asked me on the corner of 72nd and Central Park West. “Sort of,” I answered. I responded without thinking, not realizing right away that I could set aside the refrain of “I used to live here, but not anymore.” Next time someone asks me, I can just say yes.
Despite a dramatic appearance of Fusskins this morning, Lucia and I had a lovely afternoon. It was a gorgeous day—low seventies, no humidity, just blue sky and sun. We walked along 72nd Street from Riverside Boulevard to Central Park and entered the park through Strawberry Fields; we wound our way to the bandshell and took in the city sights. There was a man wearing black hotpants and rollerblades taking a quick break from his flamboyant roller-dancing to play “La Cucaracha” on a piano. (These freestanding pianos are apparently a citywide thing this summer—this is the fourth I’ve seen.) Not far from the piano tinkling, there was a fantastic band playing—trumpet, trombone, banjo, bass—and I took Lucia out of her stroller to dance in my lap. She was captivated by the music, all smiles, happily standing and jumping and, eventually, joining in with some raptor cries. We walked down to Bethesda Fountain and looked at rowboats on the lake; two Japanese girls near us started whispering “Kawaii! Kawaii!” to each other and pointing at Lucia; one snapped a picture of her. Then we spread a blanket out on some grass and played for a while before heading home.
I can’t count the number of different languages I heard on our walk; and I can’t describe how enchanted Lucia was by the sights and sounds she took in, sitting straight up and leaning forward excitedly in her stroller. This was exactly the kind of afternoon I pictured whenever I imagined returning to the city. I felt like a tourist, looking around me wide-eyed at the things I once would have walked past without thinking—the Dakota; the pedicabs; hot dog carts—but with the contentment that comes from knowing I’m actually not a tourist at all, just a once-again New Yorker remembering why she loved it here in the first place. “Are you from New York?” a tourist with a map question asked me on the corner of 72nd and Central Park West. “Sort of,” I answered. I responded without thinking, not realizing right away that I could set aside the refrain of “I used to live here, but not anymore.” Next time someone asks me, I can just say yes.
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