Although I have, at times, been unjustly accused of owning and exercising an overactive imagination, I could not imagine a more pleasant way to travel in New York than by ferry. So I set out this morning to collect empirical evidence that might exceed my imagination. I rode by bike over to the Port Imperial ferry and set sail for the Big Apple.
The ticket collector gave me the eye as I rolled my bike on board but before he could say, as he always does, “You need a ticket for that bike,” I whipped out the bike ticket AND my monthly pass. Whaddya think I am, a tourist?
As a triathlete (running, sailing, biking) possessing, ahem, uncommon skill, I intended to wrap up the weekend’s exertions by biking down the former West Side Highway to the Governors Island ferry terminal at the southern tip of Manhattan. If I survived that 4.6 mile endurance test, I would take the ferry across and recuperate on the island. Perhaps there would be palm trees to shade me.
There’s a wonderful bike path along the road that also accommodates runners, skaters, skiers (!), roller boarders, scooterers and the occasional very frightened walking tourist. Along the path there are stop lights for the bikes where driveways occasionally cross. Those are apparently in place to be ignored.
There are also numerous pedestrian crosswalks to allow foot traffic to cross from the riverwalk to the inner wilds of Manhattan. At each crosswalk is a sign that clearly announces that state law mandates that bikers must stop for pedestrians in the walkway. Being a law abiding citizen, I stopped at the first crosswalk in order to let a family walk safely across.
The paramedics are still triaging the injured in the thousand bike pileup that resulted behind me.
I continued on my way, feeling rather fit and athletic until I noticed that I had not gained on the jogger ahead of me for at least three blocks. She was probably cheating somehow. As I pedaled furiously, attempting to pass her, I noticed the beret wearing dog. There’s really nothing else that can be said about that.
I came upon a fellow sportsman biking his way towards the river with a life jacket attached to this backpack. I had once seen a distracted cyclist go right off the path and into Lake Michigan along the waterfront in Chicago (a pretty woman was involved). I wondered if this lad feared the same fate or was simply on his way to kayak in the Hudson. We’ll never know.
Inexplicably, the bike path abruptly ended at Battery Park City and I found myself doing something I never imagined, even with that active imagination of mine. I was riding my bike down the streets of Manhattan! After a couple of terrifying blocks, I headed for the riverfront esplanade again. As I rode through the park I noticed an absence of other cyclists and an abundance of scowls directed my way by stroller pushing parents. I headed back for the streets and dodged taxis, trucks and buses. It was actually a lot of fun riding out there. Of course it’s only fun until a bus puts your eye out. Although that did not happen this time, I doubt that I would enjoy it so I promised myself to stick to the paths in the future.
I soon arrived at the ferry terminal and found a special line for bicycles. I felt like a VIP standing there in my special spot, right up until they let hundreds of pedestrians board ahead of me. Then I felt like a caged dog.
After stowing my bike, I moved to the front of the ferry in order to catch some breeze. Unfortunately, we simply sat at the dock in the heat for awhile. That’s when I noticed a colorfully attired man.
A word or two of explanation is in order at this point. I am, by nature and long habit, a shy and reticent person. Although I can and do speak to thousands of people at times, and enjoy it immensely, I am simply not comfortable meeting people one on one. Cocktail parties are not my forte. While you may wish that I would bring that reticence to the written word (too bad!), I have endeavored to move in the opposite direction and actually converse with strangers. In fact, I have a personal rule that I must meet and share words with at least one new person each time I head out on one of my NYC excursions. Officials, wait-staff and cabbies do not count towards satisfying this rule.
Which is how I came to say to this colorful man, “Hi! I’m writing about odd encounters in New York and I wondered if I might take your picture.”
My social and conversational skills obviously need work.
“Why, certainly!” he cheerfully agreed, and I knew I had snared another victim-stranger. “I happily qualify as odd and picturesque.”
“Are you an artist?” I inquired.
“Drat! I’ve been found out again! How is it that people keep seeing through my disguise? And is what your costume, good fellow?”
“Middle aged, overweight, pasty faced Wall Street dweeb.”
“Outstanding rendition! You had me completely fooled. Who are you behind the disguise?”
“Multi-sport athlete.”
“The transformation must by astonishing.”
“Miraculous,” I assured him. “Which material do you work with?”
“Well, during my day job, and we must all have day jobs I suppose, I am a print maker.”
He then went into a fascinating description of the art of printmaking. He explained the difference between printmaking and copying. He also explained why silk-screening was neither printmaking nor copying. Printmaking involves the direct transfer of the image of an object from that object to something else. For instance, inking a piece of limestone and then imprinting the ink on canvas is printmaking whereas using dyes through stencils as is the case with silk-screening is not.
I asked, if that was his day job, what were his hobbies, thinking that he would explain the art he created just for fun rather than work. He misunderstood my question and so explained that cooking and running and other things were his hobbies. That sounds simple but to hear him explain it made me want to have the same hobbies. Figuring I had latched onto a unique guide to the counterculture world of New York, I asked him to recommend places I could go to see unusual things and experience the city beyond the guidebooks and tour buses.
He thought for a moment and then said, “I don’t really know. I commute in from Jersey every day.”
Reeling from that shock, I turned to his companion and asked for her story (once I get rolling on this social interaction stuff, there’s just no stopping me). She introduced herself as Firebird and told me she had come out from Detroit, where she taught dance to young kids, in order to perform this weekend on the island.
Having grown up in Michigan, I have watched Detroit decline through the years and am aware of some of their recent troubles and aspirations – sometimes one and the same. I asked Firebird if she knew anything of a plan to turn downtown Detroit into a museum of modern urban ruin. She had not heard of that, but said that artists do break into the decrepit structures frequently in order to paint, perform and do other artsy stuff.
Speaking of stuff, the colorful man’s stage name is Stuff. He joined our conversation about Detroit and their efforts to create art. I then said that I was so glad that artistic heads prevailed a few years back when developers wanted to buy Governors Island in order to build condos. The former Coast Guard base has, instead, been slowly redeveloped as a park and venue for art of all forms. I suggested that a perfect use for all of the old Coast Guard residences would be a residential community of artists. That idea excited everyone and we talked about both the possibilities and improbability of it happening – which led somehow to a discussion of the Burning Man festival (Stuff was a two-timer at the gathering). Wondering how I had gotten into such a delightful conversation, I looked up as an Asian nymph with silk wings and vibrant hair of indeterminate color floated into our group and gave Stuff a big hug.
‘This is Tom,” he said by way of introduction. “He is an artist with words as his medium.”
“Well, I don’t know …,” I demurred.
“I didn’t say you were a good artist. I have neither opinion nor knowledge on that matter. Anyone in whom the creative juices flow is an artist.”
“Thank you sir. I will carry that thought with me. As we have arrived, I will wish you a colorful day.”
“Indeed! No need to look for me on the island as you can’t miss me. Especially when I strap on my roller skates!” and with that he was gone physically but that brief, unexpected encounter was one of those you just never forget.
I disembarked and rode away from the crowd, along the Brooklyn side of the island. Trees shaded the vehicle free street and cooled the day. I rode along looking at all of the interesting old buildings left over from the Coast Guard days. The offices and some of more interesting residences are being restored for uses yet to be determined but likely related to creative pursuits.
An otherwise pleasant day suddenly darkened as I rode up to the Castle. I suddenly realized why I must have chosen to visit Governors Island this weekend. Last week, in a stunningly successful naval encounter, I had rounded up a bunch of bike thieving sailors of piratical persuasion and sent them this way for proper punishment. Since I was in the neighborhood, I figured I might as well drop in and say hi.
Their prison was certainly visually up to spec as a place for such lowlifes. The bars seemed strong and the walls thick but I was a bit concerned about that door left ajar.
Let the conditions inside deter any of you who may contemplate a life of bike thievery.
But…where were the prisoners? I ran into the courtyard searching for them. Nothing.
“Where are all the detainess?” I asked the startled park ranger at the door.
“They’re gone. They’ve been gone quite awhile,” she said, reaching for her radio, no doubt to alert the guards.
I sped away on my bike in search of the pirates before she could detain me.
I soon came upon a double travesty. Not only was this federal correctional facility of the country club variety but it also had no security whatsoever. Seriously, hammocks in the prison yard?
I sped away again, searching for a clue as to their whereabouts. Which is how I came upon their likely co-conspirators.
Disillusioned in the extreme, I sped off to find help but was quickly distracted by the nymph from the ferry. She’s riding her own bike behind this typical mode of transport for those with weary feet.
One of the advantages of striking up conversations with strangers, especially ones who revel in being called odd, is that they will remember me. In part this is undoubtedly because I am so memorable but the fact that I look nothing like their usual companions probably helps as well. As I rode around the island, various performers would call out and wave with a hearty, “Hi Tom!” which causes the tourists to look in my direction, wondering no doubt, what social skills I must possess to have so many friends.
Having been ‘hi Tom-ed’ by the nymph, I gave up my pursuit of the pirates. My growing hunger resulting from all that speeding off also played a part in me slowing down to smell the food.
I love street food. Walking down the streets of New York is like being at the state fair all the time except the food is better. Usually. I’ve had street food vehemently disagree with me when I didn’t even know we were having an argument. Nonetheless, the risk of dysentery is worth the excitement of the hunt.
Today’s quarry, carefully chosen because it happened to be right next to me when my stomach growled, was a Jamaican food cart.
As I approached the cart, a thought struck me that should have struck many bad meals earlier if I had been thinking clearly.
“What would you like, sir?” the counter girl asked, her voice full of island lilt.
“What would YOU have?” I asked.
“Jerk chicken is our specialty,” she replied, happy, I think, that I had not simply ordered another hot dog like everyone else.
“Bring it on!”
What came out of that cart was stupendous. Friday night, I ate at a truly excellent restaurant in Battery Park City. This was better. By far. Wow.
As I scarfed it down and made a mess of myself, I overheard a dreadlocked man talking to another customer about a special meal they had available today. Continuing my gregarious day and wiping sauce off my face, hands, legs and bike, I approached the genial cook.
“Did I just hear you talking about vegetarian chicken?”
“Indeed you did. We have a most wonderful vegetarian chicken!”
“I didn’t know that chickens were normally carnivorous.”
“Well, this one certainly wasn’t because it was a soybean.”
“You killed a soybean plant just so you could have food?!?!?!”
“It deserved to die!”
Before horticulturally inspired fisticuffs could break out, the proprietress of the food cart came out front with a sample for me.
I looked at it with disgust then promptly ate it in the interest of science and art.
While that bean’s death may have been cruel and unjust, I can tell you that it was also noble and worthwhile. For me anyway.
“This is amazing!” I shouted.
The lady laughed and asked, “When you come back? I make sure I have some ready for you. I don’t normally bring it because not enough people here know us. I bring tofu instead but for you I will bring the vegetarian chicken.”
She gave me her card and said to call her the day before my next trip to Governors Island and she would cook the chicken. I then asked where they normally set up as the island is only open on the weekends. The man told me that they had been coming to the island for three years but had been in front of the Bronx courthouse weekdays for 15 years. He also said it was very bad for business when the island was open on Fridays last year because their regular customers got very angry when the cart was missing on Fridays. He also said that they didn’t make much money coming to the island but, “This is New York, mon. Sometimes you just need to see the horizon and there’s no horizon in the Bronx.”
With a full belly and visions of converting to vegetarianism dancing in my head, I headed inland for more socializing. I came upon Firebird who ‘hi Tom-ed’ me and then put on a dance for me.
She told me about her work with kids and how some instructors were actually using dance to teach algebra to youngsters. I said I was pretty good at math and wondered if someone could teach me to dance using algebra. She didn’t think so.
Another surprise awaited me around the next bend. A tree house! I love tree houses and always wanted one of my own. Of course my fear of heights and lack of climbing agility would have cut into my hours in the tree house. This one, however, had actual stairs and railings so I scampered up immediately to relive childhood memories that I’d never lived in the first place.
I was so happy to be up in the tree that I decided right then and there that I would overcome my tree climbing fears. Unfortunately, someone thought faster than I did.
Since I had the intention and was prevented from acting on it only by unjust laws, I shall consider that fear conquered.
Unfortunately, as the moon follows the sun (does it?), despair followed elation as I saw evidence of the dread pirates I had so recently given up pursuing in favor of Jamaican chicken. Apparently, they had defaced Lady Liberty. Literally.
I tenderly touched her cheek and mounted my bike for the slow ride back to the ferry.
But who can stay sad for long when you have friends like Stuff?
He ‘hi Tom-ed’ me as I waved goodbye and walked onto the ferry. I moved to the front and tried to think of my next foray into New York. In the past week, I have conquered piratical bike thieves, sailed a perfect tack through the harbor, made friends with strange strangers of the superior sort – what is left?
Bridges. I’m scared to death of bridges and this town is littered with them. I cannot think of anything more terrifying than biking across a suspension bridge. Brooklyn Bridge, you are mine!
Life in New York is so stressful.
Well done Tom. When I see Stuff in New York, I'll just tell him I know Tom!
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