The Hudson River beneath our living room is awash in a shimmering light that bounces off the ceiling and onto my book to transform the edges of each letters crossbar, stem, arm, and leg into improbable coastlines, each guarding a perimeter of endless possibility.
This morning i’m reading N.K. Jemisin’s book “The City We Became” and feeling inspired by her prose this is me looking out the window wondering how she would describe the view. The poetic possibilities of boats and cormorants given pause by the provocative claim I just read in her novel. She writes:
‘There are no alleyways in Manhattan!?’
Ridiculous… but I recall an episode from the podcast “99% invisible” that mostly backs it up. There are just a handful of alleys in New York City and none above the Lower East Side. Just one of them alleys is public property; so every murder, mugging, and stray cat I’ve ever seen on Television or in the movies happens in Courtlandt Alley.
I turn away from the window and ask Chaltin if she wants to go see an alley. She’s reluctantly piqued with an emphasis on reluctantly. She knows me well enough to know that I’m not joking and I really want to play tourist to an alley because these are my favorite journeys.
Adventures where the cost and expectation is so low, and frankly so stupid that everything that happens on the journey takes on the magical pallor of an N.K. Jemisin novel.
We take the local C downtown. Brown and yellow the train car looks like it has seen a thing or two’ during its years of service. Old and worn-in and the perfect conveyance to see an alleyway. The tourists can have the express to 42nd street.
We go two stops when a lean tan collie boards on the back of a man’s blue and almost too small for a collie backpack. His boney butt contouring the bottom of the bag. He is a goof with his eyes going one direction and his tongue the other. The car perks up with a familial excitement for this idiosyncratic charmer and all eyes are on him. He yawns a few times (which I heard they do when they’re nervous), but it’s going to be worth it for this ‘good boy’ who’s owner has a stick and ball with him. I remind myself that fun adventure is always waiting on the other side of the nervous nellies and give him a wink of encouragement.
The dog; like artwork, opera, or a lone tree in an empty field is a focal point of interest to which individuals are drawn to and can find agreement. This is a thing I like, and so do you. The formerly alone become a collective. And temporarily – whole. The car bristles with love for this dog, and thru proxy, one another.
We get off at Canal Street.
The alley itself wasn’t super special but coulda been fun if I brought some white tape to trace my body on its concrete in the contour of a CSI Keith Haring, but it’s always good to leave something undone for a reason to return, even to an alley. While our journey today was pretty inconsequential it was delightful including some chai tea at the “hideout,” a nice place on the edge of Chinatown down a few steps where they simmer the cardamom, ginger, and clove on a small stove pot, one of our favorite places in the city.
The pandemic shook my taste for risk and this adventure just 20 minutes to Courtlandt Alley is a nice dip again into the joy of movement from one place to another.
Tonight’s opera is Eurydice and that journey will take us all the way to hell; but, as long as we’re all together…
*Tops of my current travel list for instance is to see the Captain Janeway sculpture in Bloomington, Indiana. Like who would buy a plane ticket to see the sculpture of a fictional Star Trek character? This guy.