Across the Town

Okay maybe I lied. As did the weather app on my phone, which told me New York City would offer up sunny days in the seventies this past weekend. What it meant to say, apparently, was non-stop rain and lower sixties, tops.

So when I said I intended to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge this weekend, accompanied by my mother, what I really meant to say was my daughter and her friend were going to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge this weekend, accompanied by some of their friends. I can assure you the pedestrian foot path on the grand old suspension bridge is paved with my good intentions, but so, after all, is the road to Hell, and I will not attempt to offer up excuses for failing to make my long anticipated crossing. Next time is all I can say, though I know my promises have an empty ring.

I did, however, notwithstanding the endless drizzle, pound much of the city pavement this weekend, savoring in particular my time spent on the gritty sidewalks of the lower west side. It is a part of town I spent little time in when I was growing up; there were no upscale department stores or white linen tablecloth cafes or apartment buildings with doormen and fancy elevators, places where my mom should have lived had she ever felt any inclination to leave her Brooklyn neighborhood where, let’s face it, she was queen. Sensibly named streets acquire different names down in the West Village. Third Avenue, for reasons beyond my comprehension, becomes The Bowery as it plunges through the southwest quadrant of Manhattan. To this day The Bowery still conjures up images of drunken bums sleeping it off in doorways puddled with urine, even though I have been there dozens of times in recent years and have yet to see (or smell) a bum.

It was only when my son ended up in New York for two years that I ventured into the West Village, that I even acknowledged its existence, much less its charm. I quickly became addicted to its narrow streets, angled and meandering in a way that seems incongruous with the grid that is so much of the rest of Manhattan. Whatever else you say about it, Manhattan is, for the most part, simple to navigate. Fifth Avenue slices the island lengthwise down the middle; even numbered streets (not to be confused with avenues) go east, odds go west. North-south roads tend to run one way, and if you catch the traffic lights right, you can sail from Houston Street toward the upper reaches of Manhattan and back without anything more than an imperceptible pause at an occasional yellow light. If you drive like a maniac you can even avoid being slowed -- or maimed -- by the taxis.

But south of West 4th Street, all bets are off. The numbers disappear, as do the right angles. I couldn’t tell you which way Bleecker Street goes, or Carmine Street, or Waverly Place, no matter how many times I’ve been on them now. There's a street named Gay, and I have no idea which way that one runs. I couldn’t tell you whether West Broadway is actually west of Broadway or east or how far away from each other they are or why the city planners couldn’t just come up with another name for one of them to alleviate some confusion. I couldn’t tell you which stores sell what or which restaurants should be condemned or which gritty looking three story brick buildings open up, unseen by passersby, into grand palatial apartments with royal appointments and which ones are college dorms partitioned into cramped living quarters where a television set occupies a seat on the couch and a stove top doubles as a kitchen table. There’s just no telling.

I’d be lying, though, if I said the rest of the city is somehow as boring and predictable as its grid. On Sunday afternoon, as I made my way up The Bowery into Third Avenue, leaving the chaos of lower Manhattan behind for the familiar pastures of my youth (the flagship Bloomingdale’s store), I finally tired of the rain and hopped into a taxi. The stars were aligned. The driver had rejected the couple standing a few yards south of where I was – something about them going further than he needed to go at noon on a Saturday. Not my business; someone was about to be dry and that someone happened to me. We were hitting the lights just right, smooth sailing into the land of broader boulevards stately department stores and designer boutiques.

A few minutes into the journey, the driver glanced out the window and chuckled. “That’s a guy,” he told me, raising his chin toward the bleached blond in the pink high heeled pumps, flowing skirt, and straw hat pedaling away on a bicycle way too short for him. His luxurious long waves bounced wildly as he sped up the rutted pavement. I smiled. Good for him, the wavy haired bleached blond man in senseless shoes. Out for a bike ride in the rain. Without a helmet no less. I applauded his daring, his individuality, his willingness to take a chance on the grid, to add his brand of color inside the parallel lines. Bridging the gap -- if there is indeed a gap -- between north and south, upper and lower.

I may not have walked the Bridge this weekend, but I certainly ended up on it one time too many when I drove past the short cut to the tunnel late Saturday evening and looped around the southern tip of Manhattan to find myself speeding up the ramp to the Brooklyn Bridge. Not on foot, to be sure, but it was a serendipitous crossing all the same. As sleepy as I was, I couldn’t help but take in the view, the twinkling lights of Manhattan and Brooklyn blinking across the river at each other.

Winking, I think, at me, reminding me of my promise to myself, not about to let me off the hook.