Upstate weekends*

A bad day in the country is better than a good day in the city, a saying has it (far as I know, I made it up).

I go up to Chichester for long weekends, and don't have a bad day at all. When I headed out on Friday morning I thought of my drive on Lincoln's birthday, Tuesday the 12th, when the weather was decidedly different. This was the scene I encountered at Graham Hills Park in Pleasantville then:

This is how it looked on Friday, at noon; fittingly, it was George Washington's birthday:

I drove up to the lot, parked, and went out for a stroll. It's a lovely spot, not 30 miles from Flushing; took me a shade under ¾ of an hour to get there, a fairly normal time frame. My drive takes me up to and over the Bronx-Whitestone Bridge, to the Bruckner Expressway, on side streets (I just realized I pass now familiar names: Virginia Avenue, White Plains Road, and Beach Avenue), past Rosedale Avenue, right on Sound View Avenue, onto the Bronx River Parkway, past the Cross Bronx Expressway, past Pelham Parkway, Moshulu Parkway, 233rd Street, and just as I'm passing Woodlawn Cemetery and about to leave NYC, Nereid Avenue.

Nereid is a sea nymph in Greek mythology. Why does a Bronx street nowhere near water bear that name? Story has it the name was given to a fire hose company.

It is a very familiar drive. So familiar, I can anticipate potholes and those bumps on the road which are called topes in Mexico, jarring to go over at 50, 60 miles per hour; I imagine I can feel my teeth rattle, and shudder thinking what that is doing to my car.

In a quarter hour I was back on the road. Past the Croton Reservoir, up Yorktown Heights —I'm not sure if GW slept here, but he perhaps crossed here with his army; the evidence is skimpy. It does seem nearby Pines Bridge was held, for Yorktown was deemed to have strategic importance. I can well imagine it having value. At the top, north of the reservoir, the view is commanding.

Descending the heights, the road narrows from three to two lanes, and the real Taconic Parkway begins. Many drivers continue to drive at excessive speeds, lured by the width and elbow room of the road from Pleasantville to Yorktown, but as we enter Putnam County the road changes: it narrows, and gets curvy. About a mile before Peekskill Hollow there is a particularly challenging curve, which can be dangerous, even deadly, for the unwary, the careless or the stupid, of which, alas, there are too many.

Continuing to climb, the Taconic reaches a height of 1,133 feet above sea level just by the entrance to Fahnestock Park, then descends into Dutchess County farmland.

In our early days of travel to Chichester we would junction with Interstate 84, and take it to the NY State Thruway (of Thomas Dewey fame). That road passes two state prisons and the baseball stadium home of the Hudson Valley Renegades (not, one local lawmaker warned the developers, I remember, not to be Camden Yards on the Hudson, explaining the need to rein in the expense of building that ballpark).

Years ago I stopped taking I-84; instead I continue on the Taconic. Past East Fishkill, past Hopewell Junction, past Lagrangeville and James Baird State Park (where I used to stop with our dogs). In the recent few months I have taken to stopping at the Taconic Hereford area. Already the woods look the way they do further upstate. I look forward to seeing them in spring and Summer; so far I've only seen them in late autumn and winter. *

Usually I exit the Taconic at Bullshead Road, swing west, stay on as it becomes Slate Quarry Road, and junction with State Route 9G. Now and then, primarily in spring and summer, I will get off the Taconic earlier, at Arthursburg, and take Route 82 up. Whichever way I go up, I soon approach the Hudson River, and I can finally see the mountains.

Shh! Don't tell the authorities I took this picture whilst driving; I'll deny it. But I sure did like seeing the Catskills.

One sunny, cold day I took a drive up past Hunter and Tannersville, taking a left turn at the only traffic light for many miles. I stopped to take photos of one of the great sights in these Catskills:

An old painter's tower. As it has for thirty years, it looks to not have been used for a very long time, but it does provide a look into a prior age, when a painter could climb into its top floor and get a panoramic view of the mountains and lakes and streams in the surrounding countryside. It is but a few miles from the North-South Lake, where we have gone for years.

Phoenicia is only a few miles away. A couple of years ago it was named one of the 10 coolest small towns in the US by a travel publication. It certainly has been gaining popularity over the last several years; many city people

Cinema Chichester

Over a long weekend in Casa Norteña, I indulged my cinematic taste.  I procured all of these films from the Phoenicia Library.

Rififi is an old favorite; I probably first heard of it from reading Roger Ebert. It's in French, but that doesn't really matter (I like to indulge my two years of junior high school French; although I command few words, some years ago I did manage to ask a Paris Metro ticket master parlez vous Anglais; of course he ignored that; I was disappointed, but not really surprised).
It's a crime film: four career criminals decide to make a big strike; three know one another well, and one of them recruits his Italian compatriot, César, a premier safe cracker. They decide to go for a big heist. 45 minutes into the film, the plan is executed, and for twenty minutes there is no dialogue or music. Some people like it (François Truffaut praised the film), some don't (Jean-Luc Godard regarded the film negatively); no surprise there. Roger Ebert gave it four stars (calling it "a milestone in movie history"), and I humbly agree. The film's director, Jules Dassin, was an American film maker blacklisted during the McCarthy panic; he moved to France to make films.

Dovetailing with Dassin's real-life story is the plot of Guilty by Suspicion. Here, the cruelty and cynicism of red-baiters of the House Un-American Activities Committee is revealed. Those soulless politicians, of which Richard Nixon was one, damaged the fabric of this country. The film is not simply an examination of the past, but a warning for the future, a clarion call often ignored (at our own peril). Far more eloquently than I can say it, Ebert states the film teaches a lesson we are always in danger of forgetting: that the greatest service we can do our country is to be true to our conscience. De Niro and Benning and Wendt are superb.

Ant-Man and the Wasp is not my usual fare. Not even close. But I know Paul Rudd from Perks, and decided to try it. I loved the film. It's basically a good versus evil tale, with a love story appended; true to the modern day, Ant-Man, or Scott Lang in 'real life,' is a good dad. Michael Douglas, whose work I like, mostly, does a bang-up job, and Evangeline Lilly, whom I don't otherwise know, both were great. Michael Peña was sublime. I really enjoyed the film greatly.

I can't say the same for Lean on Pete; I tried, twice, but just couldn't get through it. The other two I didn't watch. I got all five DVDs from the Phoenicia Library, my local library upstate. Getting films right off the shelf, or going online and reserving them, is so easy, and joyful.

When I come across a film I think I'll enjoy I simply go on a computer and access the library website to reserve it. I do it downstate also. It's easy, and convenient. When I worked at the Hewlett-Woodmere Library I would scan the shelves now and then, if I didn't have any particular film in mind, and occasionally landed gems. I found Definitely, Maybe that way, and perhaps even Perks of being a wallflower.

Some libraries have mobile apps (HWPL and QBPL), some do not, yet, but will soon, I hope (Phoenicia, which is part of Mid-Hudson Library System).

Watching films in a theater is unique; in that I do agree with Steven Spielberg. But to sit at home and watch a film has its own beauty.

Bronx tour

Today I took a bus ride to a Bronx neighborhood for lunch and a little sightseeing. It was a sunny, chilly day, the azure sky was clear, the sun bright. The bus ride was fun, the food delicious, the sights wonderful. All in all, a magnificent afternoon.

I rode a Q44 bus, specifically the Q44+ SBS (that's Special Bus Service to us civilians). Unlike the rest of the bus system, SBS lines do not accept payment on the bus itself; that must be bought beforehand in machines in place by selected stops. Strategically, one might say; another might say annoyingly. The purpose is to make buses move faster — a challenge, needless to say, to anyone at all familiar with NYCT buses (that New York City Transit, to us civilians). We buy a ticket before boarding the bus, the driver does not have to collect fares, there is no delay as individual riders insert their Metrocards into the fare box up front, but just get on and let the bus go. Nice theory; as with so many things in city life, good when it works — though it doesn't always. Some buses have been timed at an average speed of 3 mph, which is the average human walking speed. Thankfully, none of those slowpokes are in Queens.

All Q44 buses are articulated. They have three doors, making it easy for passengers to board and debark, and impossible for the driver to monitor. Thus, the two factors work together.

The ride from northern Flushing to Bronx was quick; in half an hour I was in Parkchester.

As I rode along, I noticed the bus had wifi (my smartphone recognized the network, and I joined it), as well as USB ports. Progress has its pluses, for sure.

On the way we passed St. Raymond's Cemetery, just on the Bronx mainland on the other side of the BWB. Whenever I pass by it, which is often. I think of Billie Holiday, one of my favorite singers (jazz and not), who is buried there. So is Frankie Lymon (Why Do Fools Fall in Love? was a big hit for Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers, circa 1956).

This is a congested area: the Hutchinson River Parkway, the Cross Bronx Expressway and the Bruckner Expressways all form a highway mishmash. The Q44 threads its way through side streets underneath that mishmash, emerging into Unionport.

People tend to think of Bronx as a monolith, yet it is made up of neighborhoods: Unionport, Parkchester, West Farms, Morrisania, among many.

Queens is considered in its parts: people talk about Flushing, Jamaica, Astoria, but as with Brooklyn, Bronx isn't considered that way. Nor are Manhattan or Staten Island. But that is what Queens is, a conglomerate of neighborhoods. As are the the other boroughs (oh, that feels good, to speak of Manhattan as an other borough; I detest when the other four are referred to as, when some people speak about Manhattan, the outer boroughs).

We ain't outer; we're equal. Queens, Staten Island, Brooklyn,  Bronx and Manhattan. Along with experience, outer borough needs to be excised from modern American language; I'm doing my best to do just so.

By now it's quite clear I'm writing about Bronx, and not the Bronx. It is something I do. There is a long-standing theory that the land which is now that borough, or parts thereof, was owned by the Bronck family, and when contemporaries spoke of going there, or about that family, they referred to the Broncks, thus the Bronx. Might be true; I believe the story, I just don't like the expression. My neighbor is Bronx, not the Bronx.

Okay, that's settled.

The Q44 bus picked up the service road of the Cross Bronx Expressway. For now, let it suffice to say I was glad to be on a bus not on the Cross Bronx itself, even as its service road clogged up with traffic. I didn't mind; I was having fun.

East 177th Street, otherwise known as the service road of the Cross Bronx Expressway. That damned Robert Moses. Ah, there's a topic, the Cross Bronx: its perennial traffic, its damage of Bronx neighborhoods perpetrated by that rapacious developer intent on paving New York City with highways (and the man himself didn't even drive).

Past Haviland Avenue, Gleason, Olmstead (not the landscape architect who designed Manhattan's Central Park along with Calvert Vaux), Chief Dennis L. Devlin Park ... and suddenly the bus stopped at Hugh Grant Circle.

As Forgotten-NY.com has it, no, not the cheeky British actor, not that Hugh Grant, but the Hugh Grant who was mayor of New York City from 1889 to 1892. He is credited with the initial stages of placing the city's electrical system underground, no small accomplishment to anyone who has lived through the occasional hurricane, yet a contemporary critic charged him with being part of a lying, perjured, rum-soaked, and libidinous lot of polluted harpies. Oh, my, he wouldn't last long today, unless he apologized, though he did have quite a bit to apologize for. Hey, he has a Bronx traffic circle named after him, which most, if not all, of his Tammany brethren can not claim a century and a quarter after their eventual demise. At least Hugh Grant is remembered, even if most people walking past his circle don't see the street signs, and don't give much of a hoot, anyway.

I got off the Q44 at a stop on the intersection of East 174th Street, and Taylor and Wood Avenues. These Bronx streets aren't a rectangular grid: two avenues intersect at 177th Street, become 174th Street, go over the expressway, Wood ends, Taylor resumes, as does 177th, and Beach Avenue begins. That is how New York City is: not the rule, rectangular grids are the exception, thankfully so; symmetry is so boring.

I walked over the Cross Bronx Expressway, which of course was chocked with westbound traffic.

Walking along Beach Avenue, I passed the Chapel of the Atonement, constructed in 1942. Across the street stands Public School 47, constructed in 1911.

Buildings three quarters of a century and over a century old seem to be out of the norm in New York City, where construction of new buildings is perpetual. Yet, for different reasons, buildings do last, which I consider important, not just for the sake of curiosity, but to anchor us in the past.

At Westchester Avenue I found Sabrosura 2 (a casual Chino-Latino restaurant in the Bronx, it calls itself). I read about it during the 2016 political campaign in New York, when a certain senator from the state of Texas who was then running for the Republican presidential nomination was greeted in a less than enthusiastic manner, let me say gently. I didn't like him either (still don't). I found the immense hall loud and uninviting; I walked across the street to Estrellita Mixteca, and had a delicious meal. First I was served tortilla chips and salsa made from smoked tomatoes, perhaps roasted, or perhaps mixed with chipotle (delicious). I ordered chicken in a peanut sauce (cacahuete); magnificent. The restaurant is a New York gem: small and casual, friendly service, great food. This is precisely what I hoped for when I made my plan of exploring and eating New York neighborhoods.

I walked along Westchester Avenue, the 6 train rumbling overhead. How well I know that sound. I live a mile from the Main Street station of the 7 line, so I don't hear the subway. But I did commute on that 7 line for many years, when I worked in Manhattan; most of the ride from Flushing to Long Island City (where the train ducks into a tunnel for the ride under the East River to Manhattan) is on elevated tracks. Many times I have also walked along Roosevelt Avenue in Corona and Jackson Heights, neighborhoods intersected by the overhead tracks of the 7 train. Too, I remember the elevated train in Jamaica, and know the elevated train in other Queens (and, in fact, also in Manhattan) neighborhoods. The subway clatter can be overwhelming, especially when two trains pass by at the same time. But people get used to it, as with so many other things in life: it is, and you learn to adapt.

In fact, the interplay of shadows and sunshine under the tracks can be fascinating, and has been used numerous times in film. Think The French Connection to start.

I reached the intersection of Westchester Avenue and White Plains Road. Curious, I've always thought: two major Bronx streets named after a county and a city outside the Bronx. Might well be testament to geographic detail prior to modern times. (Yes, I know I just preceded the borough's name with an article; at times, it's proper usage.)

I took this picture of a work of art on the Virginia Playground, then proceeded to the Hugh Grant Circle. There I found mosaic work on the Parkchester station (left) similar to that I saw in the 46th Street station (right) along Queens Boulevard, back a month ago, when I went in search of Bix.

Then I went to look at the terracotta sculptures in Parkchester.

Parkchester is a planned community developed by MetLife (1939-1942). For some people, that might be difficult to imagine: a private company developing housing for the public good. These days, with the emphasis on quarterly performance and maximizing profit, no company would undertake such a project. Not that it was utopia; it was racially segregated.

A New York Time article of 10 May 1992 has this quote by a resident: "When I was a child, I couldn't live here," said Ms. Terry, a television producer. "They [ Metropolitan Life ] wouldn't sell to anyone who wasn't white. Now, the neighborhood is integrated, multicultural and exciting."

In 2019 I clearly saw what we now call diversity, a different word from a different age: integration. It was vibrant, no doubt.

All around the complex are these sculptures, some by the American sculptor Joseph Kiselewski.It seems I will have to do some research to get information on these sculptures. Meantime, their whimsies really tickled me.

This guitar player was the second figure I photographed (actually, the third; up above, in the picture of streets signs of the Hugh Grant Circle and Westchester Avenue, I got the fireman in the background)

 This bear stands in front of the entrance to one of the buildings.

Huddled masses.

 The brickwork has been  patched.

There might be hundreds of such sculptures all around the entire development. I saw a sampling. I have never seen anything of their ilk before; it was interesting and exciting to see them. As I took my pictures, true to form, people who walked by me made no show of noticing a man pointing his camera up at the buildings. Perhaps some of them knew of the sculptures; perhaps some didn't. It is my experience that New Yorkers ignore what others might consider weird behavior; live and let live. I would not be surprised to learn some of those people gave me the fish eye, glancing at me out of the corner of their eyes as they passed by, maybe turned and looked. At any rate, I wasn't doing anything so weird; I was taking photos.

Satisfied, I went looking for the Q44 to take back to Flushing. I found the Cross Bronx Expressway service road readily, saw a bus stop, and turned to look. My great fortune: a Q44 was coming my way. I got on, went to dip my Metrocard, and — no can do: the Q44 is an SBS and does not accept Metrocards. I knew that. I apologized to the driver, and told her I'd get off at the next stop. Several blocks later she pulled the bus into a stop, and I got off after sheepishly asking her where I could find the SBS fare machine; she pointed them out, and waited for me. Yes, my lucky day: the bus driver waited for me to walk to the fare machine, and buy a ticket; when I saw the Q44 still there, and realized it was waiting for me, I dashed back, got on, and thanked the driver profusely. She shrugged it off as no big deal, in true New York fashion. Except it was a big deal: she was very nice to me, twice. I told her she had done two good deeds for the day, and again thanked her.

I enjoyed the ride back home. The afternoon sun reflected off the waters of the Long Island Sound as the Q44 SBS crossed over it on the Bronx-Whitestone Bridge. Soon we were in Queens. Taking a wide left turn onto 14th Avenue, the driver eased that articulated bus onto Parsons Boulevard. Soon we reached 35th Avenue. I debarked, walked to the intersection, and, before crossing, again thanked the bus driver. She had been so nice to me, capping off a great afternoon.

She acknowledged me, and waved back. I dashed back home, intent on doing a couple of chores, and so I did, tossing in five loads of laundry, using all six driers at once, and finishing in time to watch some news before Jeopardy. A great day, indeed.

Roy Rogers

A snowstorm fell today. It wasn't a good day to be on the road; not many inches of snow fell, but cleanup response was rather slow, and the roads were slippery. Yes, I drove. I shouldn't have, but I did. I came up to Chichester. Any other place, any other destination, would have waited. But not Chichester.

My ties to Chichester go back to the last time the hapless New York Mets, a team I have long suffered with, won the baseball championship, back to the year 1986. That summer we took possession of this little house in the Catskills, a house I call Casa Norteña, Northern House. As the popular expression has it, Chichester has become part of our DNA.

It is a modest house, and not a fancy neighborhood — though the nearby hamlet where we go to the hardware store and the library, the art gallery and the theater, has become increasingly popular in recent years, not just because Woodstock is a neighbor, but on its own terms. A few celebrities make the surrounding area their summer home (no name-dropping, please; we are modest, though we do like having Philippe Petit as a charter supporter of our local library in Phoenicia; okay, one name dropped).

Up here, distances are regarded differently than in the city. People think little of driving to Kingston to shop, thirty miles away. Many also drive fifteen, twenty miles for breakfast at a renown eatery which serves the best pancakes, hands down; Sweet Sue's is a constant. We've been going for breakfast at Sue's for probably thirty years, and its pancakes remain fabulous, as does its coffee. Drop one more name? Years ago, as we were having breakfast, I overheard a conversation, or, better said, a voice, and I recognized it instantly. Slowly turning to look, I realized it was indeed Cousin Brucie.

The drive was long, longer than usual. I took it nice and slow and careful. I left Flushing at eleven this morning. The Whitestone Bridge (BWB in traffic report parlance) was moving fairly well. Traffic on the Bruckner Expressway was very light (how I wish I could make that happen at will). The Bronx River Parkway wasn't well plowed, and traffic moved at 35 mph, an advisable rate. The Sprain Brook Parkway was much the same: not well plowed, moving slowly. It took me an hour to get to the Graham Hills Park, which has become a stopping point for us over recent years. Usually it takes me maybe 45 minutes to get here, but today was not a normal day (and an hour ain't bad, considering). Those fifteen minutes felt longer than that.

Yeah, wintry. Normally I drive up that road to a parking lot, where mountain and off-road bicyclists are flexing their muscles and stretching their limbs and getting ready to go, or enjoying being back from, rides along the trails inside that wonderful park. Today I drove up ten feet, stopped, decided to turn around and park at the entrance; it was that slippery. I got out, stretched, walked up a few yards, had enough, and got back into my automobile, and headed on.

The Taconic Parkway is a marvelous road. I've heard it compared to highways in France; my own experience on French highways is far too limited to offer any opinion on that, but I have driven the Taconic across the years, and can confidently say it is a beautiful road. It can also be a dangerous road for the uninitiated; there are a few tricky spots. Alas, over the years I have seen accidents, some of only one car, clearly the result of too much speed in an unfamiliar turn. Today, we were all lucky (though some of us drove far too fast, and passed on the right; tsk, tsk).

My car thermometer stayed at 22º forever, dipping to 19º as I climbed what I call the Taconic Heights; as Putnam County ends and Dutchess County begins, there is a magnificent natural area, Fahnestock State Park. I went there for years with our dogs, Magnus and Maxwell. We enjoyed stopping at a lake, and going to a point, where I would throw sticks for them to retrieve. It was good fun.

The original land, a donation of about 2,400 acres  (9.7 km²), was donated in 1929 by Dr. Ernest Fahnestock as a memorial to his brother Clarence, who died in the post-World War I influenza epidemic treating patients with the disease.

There is so much history in that sentence that I will leave treatment of it for another post. Suffice it for me to say that Fahnestock Park is wonderful.

As I descended from the 1,133 foot peak into Dutchess County, I and several other drivers followed a plow thankfully cleaning the road. By then I had decided I would get off the Taconic, take 84, and go to the Thruway.

I-84 was clean and devoid of traffic. There weren't a car or truck in sight. I took my Impreza to 55mph and put on cruise control. I felt as if I were flying. I crossed the Hamilton Fish Bridge (there is a name, and its role in American history is complex), carefully; either the highway hadn't been plowed recently, or the snow was falling faster (and it weren't falling fast).

I junctioned with I-87, the Thomas Dewey New York State Thruway (almost everyone at one point knew the picture of President Harry S. Truman, having just beaten the odds and all the polls and been reelected, holding a newspaper with the blaring headline Dewey defeats Truman. Blaringly wrong.

(UPI Image)

I went a few miles, and stopped at the Plattekill Rest Area. I craved a serving of Nathan's fries, how I craved them. The parking lot was nearly empty. Weirdly, an NYPD vehicle sat in the middle of the lot, not in a spot (not that that mattered just then, though it looked weird), with a jack under its driver's front side. Looked as if the cop had a flat tire. Looked as if he didn't intend to fix it. A dozen punchlines ran through my mind (need a hand, officer?), but I said none. I went inside. The place looked deserted. Nathan's was closed. (boo! hiss!) But I was hungry. So I went to the open concession and looked at the menu: burger? no. chicken sandwich? no. fish sandwich? okay. Wasn't very good. But I was hungry.

Roy Rogers. I didn't know the chain still existed. I wondered if the youngsters working there had any idea whom Roy Rogers was. I remember him.

I recall Roy Rogers restaurants from years back. But the business of fast food (currently referred to as the space) is very competitive. I do not believe I have seen the name in many years.

I also haven't stopped in that rest area on the Thruway for quite a few years. In fact, I haven't driven on the Governor Thomas E. Dewey New York State Thruway much for the last many years. Too many trucks, too many drivers in a hurry (not that I'm a slowpoke), and a boring road.

  I decided I would rather drive on the Taconic Parkway than on the Thruway; my favorite route from Flushing to Chichester became to take the Taconic up to route 199, drive through Red Hook and over the Kingstgon-Rhinecliff Bridge. I have since modified it, but I don't see Thomas Dewey much.

A college on the Bay

Today I took another walk on the promenade along Little Neck Bay. It was a chilly day —37º on my car's thermometer — yet not quite as cold as I had expected; my scarf was a little much, and I loosened it as I walked on. Surprisingly, there were very few people out.

Quickly, just beyond the shade of the Throgs Neck Bridge (if there had been any), I espied a duck which I knew wasn't just an ordinary sort:

a red-breasted merganser, my resident birding expert tells me (I should know the name by now, but I don't; though this one is different from the hooded merganser, of course).

It swam, or paddled, near a group of regular ducks and a sole seagull; seems a strange agglomeration of feathered ones, but who is a human to talk?

Fort Totten, which I've mentioned before, and which I have known for much of my life, lay ahead. It has been a constant presence for decades, and it is now a civilian site, to a significant degree. though there are FDNY and Coast Guard stations therein. It is no longer a military base.

Last week, as I walked along this very promenade, the day I encountered the red-tailed hawk, a platoon of trainees jogged on the trail, led with a firm voice by a, well, leader, who urged them to stay close and pick up the pace; methinks they were Fire Department trainees.

I continued on, picking up the sector of the promenade adjacent to the Cross Island Parkway. Already, a quarter to four on this cloudy afternoon, traffic was building up. I felt, not quite schadenfreude, for I do not wish commuters ill, having been one myself for many years; I'll say I felt relief at not being amidst that. Traffic is an evil we city dwellers accept as a necessary part of our lives, as we accept congestion and crowds: those are simply parts of life in the big city. Yet, are they as they need be? Is it impossible for life to be different? That is a discussion worth having, over lemonade or a pitcher, or even over a cup of hemlock; I contend we make them worse by our behavior. If we let a person or a car go in front of us, that would help the overall picture. But perhaps the biggest reason why people do not let that one go in front is the fear that others will, too. Being played for a sucker is a legitimate fear. I've been there. You let that one go, two others will push ahead, and you'll be left behind. But have you ever observed traffic on a highway? A car in the center lane moves into the left lane when that lane appears to be moving, but a few feet away a car moves out of the left lane into the center lane. Who's right?

I kept walking, clearing the south end of the Fort. There's a little inlet there; leeward, it provides shelter from the buffeting winds, and usually there are many birds to be seen, usually geese. Today, no wind, no birds. I went a bit further, and turned around. As I passed a little body of water, perhaps a pond, though I think of pond as something I see on a street after a big rain — wait, that's a puddle; never mind — suddenly I saw the big sweeping motion of a large bird. I had just been thinking it doesn't hang out here every day; I should feel lucky to have seen it last time, and I did feel so. Yet, here it was: the red-tailed hawk.

I took several pictures, and went on, smiling happily at my good fortune.

Further on, I looked across the Long Island Sound, north, and saw familiar sights. Throgs Neck Bridge and its twin Bronx-Whitestone Bridge span the Sound, connecting Bronx and Queens Counties (and New York boroughs).

At the foot of the Throgs Neck stands this small building; I am not quite sure what it is, though it seems to be part of SUNY Maritime (I will visit soon, and find out).

The ship is part of SUNY Maritime. It probably goes without saying much that this is a very different college campus than the rest of the State University system. It is one of my intended destinations this coming spring.

Queens library tour

Today I visited three QBPL branches. Each is in a distinct neighborhood in east central Queens: Glen Oaks, Bellerose, and Queens Village.

Glen Oaks borders Nassau County in the east. Its public library is dramatically modern. It's located at 256-04 Union Turnpike.

 Bellerose is a hybrid: there is a Bellerose neighborhood in Queens, and there is a Bellerose village in in Nassau County. I went to the Bellerose branch of the Queens Borough Public Library. The building is at 250-06 Hillside Avenue. It was built in 1978, and, plainly, it is rather drab, a brick box without much style.

My third visit was to the Queens Village branch of QBPL. Unusually, it is on a side street (94-11 217th Street). It was built in 1951, and looks it.

The contrast between the three buildings is stark; in fact, the juxtaposition of the modern Glen Oaks building on the one hand, and of the two older buildings on the other hand is remarkable. Not just on the outside, though the appearance of each building is quite different: Glen Oaks Library is obviously different, yet Queens Village Library's architecture has some style to it, unlike the Bellerose Library, which is plain and boring, and, I'll say it, ugly.

Inside as well: all three buildings have stairs between floors, a practical and functional feature for all types of buildings; it is uncommon for a residence or an institution to have enough floor space on one level to obviate the need for stairs. Yet the internal Glen Oaks staircase isn't simply utilitarian; it  plays an aesthetic role, for this isn't just a building that fills a simple function or plays a simple role. It is a work of architectural art, as are its components.

This set of stairs isn't shunted off to the side, but sweeps through the very middle of the building; it isn't hidden, but accented. It is a featured part of the design. I'm suddenly reminded that my own library — well, my former library; I've been retired for a couple of months, yet I still think of it as mine, in large part because it meant so much to me, the one place I worked where I really felt comfortable and fulfilled as a professional (a long discussion meant for another time and a different post) — my own former library had a similar design, though its stairs weren't in the middle of the floor, they were not hidden, but featured, meant to be seen, a piece of architectural art.

I don't know enough about architecture to say more than I know what I like, and these stairs I like, for they are not simply stairs.

As I climbed the stairs, I could still see the floor I had come from, and anticipate the one where I was going; I'm sure someone far more eloquent than me can verbalize what that means in flowery language.

For example, as I walked to the upper level I had a full view of the main floor, including that sign which identifies the professional at work: Librarian. I appreciate that. Far more often than should have happened, I can remember being at work and having someone come up to me and ask, do you work here? I can remember thinking, well, I will edit that, and say I wondered, why ask that question of someone well dressed, sitting behind a desk, working at a computer? I mean, really.

I will not say anything further, and as the sword of Damocles did not fall on me, I will continue.

The other two libraries I visited also had staircases, but utterly functional ones. I will admit these are not utterly ugly, and efforts have been made to dress them up. That goes to the heart of the matter of what libraries are, what libraries try to do: serve the public. Going to the library is a cultural outing, even when one goes to get a DVD of the latest action movie or to read some tabloid's salacious tales.

This is the Queens Village Library's staircase, the better of the two older libraries. Even with my limited visit, I think the best I can say about Bellerose is that the community needs a new library. Why that's done, what sort of governmental machinations transpire so that a community's library is upgraded, as happened in Glen Oaks, I don't (yet) know.

The Glen Oaks Public Library was designed by the Marble Fairbanks firm, which has worked on a number of public libraries in the New York City area. It has a lot of glass, and inside it is a bright, airy space. The firm has a more elaborate description on its website; I agree with its description of Glen Oaks as suburban residential, even as it lies within the urban NYC borders.

In the 2010 census, the Glen Oaks had a population of less than 20,000.

I arrived at the library at 2.40, and saw a small number of students hanging out or going inside. I was impressed before going in: the library building is dramatic.

The Bellerose Library did appear to be a well-used neighborhood resource. That was encouraging; despite all the changes in technology, people still are going to the library. Kids there after school, that was clear; adults using computers, perhaps conducting job searches or working on resumes or applying for jobs online; older adults there reading a newspaper, caring for a grandchild, or snoozing. Technology has changed how people use the library; in some cases, they don't: I would help people when I was working as a librarian who would say I don't need help, I have my computer and my phone.


Although now several years old, this article about the Bellerose Jewish Center clearly describes the changing demographics and character of its neighborhood.

Although Jews made up 44 percent of the community in 1991, they represented only 22 percent in 2002, according to the Jewish population study commissioned by UJA-Federation of New York. The number of Jews plunged during that decade from 23,000 in 1991 to just 12,400 in 2002.“Chinese and South Asians are moving in and the Jewish population is aging and Jews are moving out,” Gottlieb observed.

That trend has not stopped. In the Bellerose neighborhood around the library there are many Indian and Pakistani shops, restaurants and markets. Ranging from Union Turnpike to Hillside Avenue, two major streets, the neighborhood has a distinct South Asian flavor. As happens so often, ethnic group congregate in particular areas. Some of it is of autonomous design, as people move close to family or friends or to others of their ilk, where they will find shops catering to their tastes. It's curious how people behave: in the US, in general, people want to become part of the society at-large, yet they also wish to live near people of similar background and retain their language and customs and food. Some of that is not autonomous; clearly segregation remains in society. I don't know enough to elaborate on the topic, nor is that my focus, but there it is.

Queens Village is a huge neighborhood. There are distinct pockets here and there, yet it is largely black. Of course, that doesn't mean so much, for within the 'black' community there are different groups: Guyanese, and Caribbean: within this latter group there are Jamaicans and Haitians.

I remember going to dinner, years ago, with Laura to a Haitian restaurant on Jamaica Avenue (which does not appear to be there any longer). And I also remember going to a Haitian bakery nearby.

Back to the libraries. For all their differences, there are important similarities, stemming from their cultural role in their neighborhoods.

In Bellerose Library (below) as in Glen Oaks Library (above), the book truck plays the same role: once items are returned to the library, they need to be reshelved to be made available for other patrons to find; invariably, this will be done by a high school student. I've seen that for many years; I worked with many such pages (as they're known in library parlance). Working after school is a way to make money, pocket change it used to be called once upon a time, which high school students appreciate. But not all high school students who want to work will work in a library.

Once the books, films and other items (video games a newer category, as are audio books) are reshelved, patrons can see them, select them, and take them out.

So the circle is completed.

Travels in Queens

Queens County is one of New York City's five boroughs. I have lived here most of my life. Unlike many Americans, I haven't moved far from where I grew up: I went to junior high school, high school and my first two years of college within just a few miles from my home. When I went to finish undergraduate school and then get my MBA, the radius of my travels remained short.

I have traveled  in and around and through Queens on foot, by bus and car for many years, and as one might expect, I think I know the area well. If I run into unexpected traffic or blockages, I know how to avoid and get around them.

Yet, since I retired, since just before, when I began peregrinations in my corner of my home borough in anticipation of having more time for such, I have come to realize I do not know Queens quite as well as I thought I did. In prior posts I have discussed this idea some. Today I had a fresh taste of it.

I took a Q58 bus from Main Street, in downtown Flushing, to the Queens Mall in Elmhurst (not East Elmhurst, mind you; the two, for some cartographic or bureaucratic or otherwise obscure reason, are separated, and not by an antonym). That bus ride took me from Asian Flushing through Latin American, and still Italian, Corona, into the cauldron of a melting pot which is the most diverse place on our fair planet. With someone else driving, from the high vantage point of a bus, one sees details it is simply impossible to see while driving a car (for that matter, even as a passenger). Plus, a passenger doesn't have to be concerned with traffic (a big plus). Small shops, houses without any yard space, all cheek by jowl (unusual expression, and not widely used, but quite accurate), narrow side streets suddenly appearing (Penrod Street an example, Pople Avenue, and not the one in England, but another), only to disappear (Waldron, Van Dore, Van Cleef).

As we passed The Lemon Ice King of Corona the bus veered left, and I veered toward summer. The day was fair, the temperature in the 40s — near balmy compared to the single digit readings of a week earlier — and the taste of one of those ices beckoned, reminding me of a day last summer we all went there, Laura and I and our son Ben and his wife Liz and their son Brandin. I ordered a coconut ice, and it was sublime. I could've used today being 85 degrees warm and my ordering one of those ices; I have made an appointment for five months hence.

The Q58 took Corona Avenue as it meandered through the neighborhood, following its turns from a westerly to a southwestern direction, crossing Junction Boulevard and heading west again. Slicing southwest, it passed near Newtown High School (the area actually was named Newtown, adopting the name Elmhurst in 1898, when Queens County became part of New York City). Then it turned onto Broadway.

This Broadway isn't very broad, but it is a major street in central Queens: its west end is across Vernon Boulevard from Socrates Sculpture Park, a magnificent art venue in Long Island City, runs through Astoria, over the BQE in Woodside, through Elmhurst, and as it crosses Queens Boulevard it morphs into Grand Avenue (which itself forks into Grand and Flushing Avenues — the latter being nowhere close to my Flushing — both winding up deep in Brooklyn).

I got off the Q58 on the other side of  Queens Boulevard. This section of Queens is deeply urban: all sorts of small business and large ones line the street, which has a reputation for being very dangerous to cross: it has two sets of lanes in each direction, local and express (a distinction often lost on drivers who seem intent of getting home before a posse gets them, or inclined to use the long stretches between traffic lights as racing strips). Only in recent years have traffic lights been adapted for the benefit of pedestrians.

I walked a block and encountered the First Presbyterian Church of Newtown (nee Elmhurst), dating from late in the XIXth century.

Constructed in 1895, it is the fifth building for a congregation founded in 1652. The church is listed in the National Register of Historic Places.

This article about the organ in the church has a nice historical background of the Church, including this very apt description of its character:

As late as the 1960s, First Presbyterian's members were primarily of European descent. As Elmhurst became one of the most ethnically diverse communities in the world, the church membership evolved to include people from over 40 countries.

Nearby I found Horsebrook Island, an urban triangle named for a small body of water that once originated nearby. Paraphrasing an NYC Parks description, it flowed east,  along present-day Long Island Expressway, draining into Flushing Meadows. It was buried in the early 20th century as Elmhurst developed from a suburb into an urban neighborhood.

To most people, especially in winter, it doesn't seem much: a triangle with some bushes and brown leaves and a sign, yet its importance is undeniable, if obscure. The entire area is wet, and the nearby mall, according to an article in Forgotten New York, a wonderful website I look at often, is constructed inside a bathtub, similar to the World Trade Center.

2015 article from Queens Ledger: Rescuing A Treasure: Bernardus Bloom Farmhouse

I carefully crossed double-wide Queens Boulevard at 56th Avenue. Away from the big street, houses are small, some dating back to 1901. Two blocks up I turned left, chuckled at the political opinion of one unafraid to declare it openly (that is a Chevrolet Cavalier, a model discontinued in 2005), and headed for nourishment.

Maps are one of the great features of modern technology, both on desktop computers (yea, I still use one; my thumbs are not dexterous enough, nor my eyesight keen enough to ignore those) and mobile devices. I did have a specific mundane task to complete for this outing, going to a Spectrum store, the old Time Warner, an Internet provider which runs commercials incessantly, to the point of nausea, both in English y Español, extolling its features and services, a claim so absurd it would be laughable if its charges weren't so outrageous; I needed to get a replacement for our remote control. In planning it, I looked for a place to have lunch. Not a franchise, no thanks. Not a hot dog or a slice of pizza; no way. I wanted something different, some place, dare I say it? unique.

I found Pata Cafe, reviewed both in Yelp (I am not quite the right demographic for that site, but, as Duke Ellington used to say about music: there's good music and then there's everything else, a judgement very much on the mark for food as well), and in the NY Times. What a gem.

Small and intimate is an apt description. It seems even smaller when school kids are inside; seems kids from PS 102, a couple of short city blocks away, like to get Pata's bubble tea. A gaggle of them went in before me and the space did, indeed, seem small. It is always good to remember, when one sees kids being kids, as I often did in my library work, that, I, too, once was a rambunctious teenager who liked to act out but was quite harmless. Those kids left, and quite suddenly Pata seemed small and intimate once again.

Spicy tom yum, delicious, but shockingly spicy at the start. This is a perfect example of accepting what you are served versus demanding what you want. Very much like jazz: you can demand to hear what you've heard before, or accept the artist's improvisation.

I don't know if this soup was improvised, this being my first visit to Pata, but after a few sips, and especially once I added a couple of small spoonfuls of rice (served with my green curry), it gained a complexity I utterly enjoyed. Helps to like spicy food, of course.

The green curry I ordered was fantastic. Vegetables and eggplant and shrimp swam in a coconut milk lagoon. I found it a perfect counterbalance to the spicy soup. savoring each of the many shrimp inside it. Long grain jasmine rice served with it wasn't quite enough to sop up all the liquid, so I finished it as it were soup. What a satisfying pleasure it all was; I sat in bliss for several minutes, content and unhurried. I knew Pata's crepes were raved about by devotees, but I simply had had enough.

I walked along Van Horn Street, past the school, to Grand Avenue, and was soon on a Q58 bus, headed back to Flushing. By now it was past three in the afternoon, and kids were out of school. Several got on the bus on the other side of Queens Boulevard, and most got off as the bus traveled along Corona Avenue.

We passed Alstyne Avenue and Martense Avenue, went past the 5 corner intersection of 108th Street, Otis Avenue, and Van Cleef, Street, and joined the traffic in the interchange of the Long Island Expressway, the Grand Central Parkway and the Van Wyck (pronounced as in bike, not as in candle wick, according to a descendant), a real bottleneck which in the depths of rush hour can be torturous to traverse (Queens traffic reports on radio and television rarely fail to mention the traffic by the Fairgrounds). Early enough in the afternoon, and with deft driving, we sailed on through without much ado. Soon we were back on 41st Road. I thanked the driver, wished him a good evening, and crossed Main Street, stopped into the Main Street branch of the Queens Borough Public Library (reputed to be the single busiest library branch in the country), and headed home.

Happy Lunar New Year.