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Asking for Directions
It was one of those tree-lined streets you get just below Union Square, Second Avenue and 10th Street or so.
It was early evening, in a summertime sort of way, which meant it was just growing dark, and my definition of evening stretched to cover quarter to nine.
Tree-lined for New York City, at least. Because if you were from, say, the Black Forest, in which they have a lot of trees, you'd probably scoff and say, "Tree-lined? That isn't tree-lined. Why, you can even see through these trees to the other side of the road. In the Black Forest we have no such notion of seeing through trees to the other side of the road. When we say tree-lined we means scores and scores of trees for as far as the eye can see, which isn't terribly far, as you might imagine, since there are loads of trees all over the place which make it rather difficult to see a whole lot further than the nearest line of trees or so." Of course, you'd be saying all of this in German. And sipping a Caffe Mocha in Starbucks, if you actually were in New York, making this particular observation. I'm not entirely sure this hypothetical German would have a whole lot to say about it being early evening in a summertime sort of way which meant it was actually the time which would traditionally fall into the 'night' category. Most Germans I know are okay with evening being accepted to be a little bit later in the summertime, though you never know, someone might object, claiming time is not relative to the position the Sun finds itself in at any given period, but rather is fixed, and nine o'clock is night, whether or not it's still light out. I'm usually quite forgiving in these situations, myself.
Which was walking down one of those tree-lined streets you get just below Union Square, towards Second Avenue, kind of trying to keep clear of the whole St. Mark's Place thing, though you know you never can manage, even on an early evening in the summertime, when it's nice and warm on the street, and absolutely unbearble in any sort of indoor-like situation, even the ones with air conditioners, as those are the ones the cockroaches dig, anyway. They aren't the most resilient species for nothing, you know. I mean, you try it for a week; be as annoying and digusting for a week as you can possibly be and see how many people want to talk to you or hang about you. No, instead, they just leave you alone, and you get on with things as you were, and eventually you have virtually every restaurant in the city to yourself, as no one else dares eat with you or be seen in the same general blastzone as yourself. They wind up starving to death, or learning to cook (and, let's be honest, which one is easier, which one would you opt for?), and you survive. Granted, you have a horrible reputation and no one wants to be around you and they keep spraying you with this odd-smelling sort of stuff, but hey, isn't that the life of a cockroach? Okay, so you're not a cockroach, but you can see my point, can't you?
A tree-lined street, that certain atmosphere, and no, I'm not just talking about 71% nitrogen, 2x% oxygen and so forth, you can hear it in an Artie Shaw number, or, better yet, a Bobby Short (rendition-ised) tune, (again, you're not hearing the 71% nitrogen &c. in the tune, but the other thing, for Pete's sake), and an evening out. Early evening.
The ones that stretch on for miles and miles, as far as the eye can see, a tree-lined street that, I'll grant you, probably isn't so impressively tree-lined as some along the Danube or anything, you might say, but no one ever worried about drowning walking down Second Avenue, down along the cashpoints and the pool halls, especially not on an early summer evening. Not that you'd be terribly worried about drowning in the Danube if you were driving along, through the Black Forest, not unless you had an especially intense fear of drowning. And if you had that extreme a fear of drowning you'd probably not be comfortable walking down Second Avenue past the cashpoints and pool halls, either, with the East River mere blocks away, a handful of blocks up from Houston Street in the warm summer air as it all falls down on the city in a manner you can only describe as quiet, even though no sane person would ever describe the crinkle of Second Ave and 10th Street or so as quiet, not even on a summer night as it turns over into night and the warm air settles round. The city sparkles sometimes.
It all sparkles sometimes.
disclaimer:
And so you have it.
Week Whatever It Is, without our formerly fearless leader, from whom we've heard nary a peep, since running off somewhere in early July to try and finish, once and for all, God Coffee, I Miss You.
Will we see him return? Will Will take things over and run with them? Who knows? Who cares?
All these questions and more probably not to be answered any time soon but it's fun to think about them, isn't it! Thrilling!
At any rate, even though you're not asking, I had a lovely evening.
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Yer Weekly Horoscopes. Tricky.