Having grown up in a small town outside of New Haven, Connecticut, I used to be quite knowledgeable about city ways, but these days woodland trails are more to my liking. Stepping out of our comfort zone and onto the streets of Manhattan and Brooklyn this past weekend, I was sure I’d be a nervous wreck. The last time we’d ventured there, our sons were six and eight, and my knuckles white as I gripped their hands.
That was then. Maybe it was because we didn’t have young ones in tow, or because I decided to embrace the moment and smile at each person I was able to make eye contact with, this time was different. Even some cold rain didn’t stop us from enjoying the city’s vibe . . .
including all its colors and flavors.
On a new day, the autumnal tapestry was like deja vu all over again, since we’d already experienced fall foliage over a month ago at home.
Even tree bark displayed variations of color, some that I thought I knew, until I found one with a name plaque.
London Plane? Sycamore had been my first choice. It turns out that London Plane is a hybrid developed over 300 hundred years ago from the native sycamore and oriental planetree. And it was used as an ornamental to line streets . . . or park paths.
Its scientific name, acerifolia, came from its maple-like leaves. I knew I’d learn plenty in the Big Apple, but didn’t expect trees to be among the lessons.
As we walked through Central Park, street vendors displayed their works below, while American elms gracefully danced across the canopy above.
And buildings magically arose from the rocky substrate.
We zigged and zagged and made our way about, though I had to depend on my guy for directions. I can find my way out of the woods, but even though there were maps throughout the park and the city streets are set in a grid, I was completely disoriented at each intersection.
Perhaps it was because I was more taken with the little things. Even seeing house sparrows felt like a treat.
They were so tame.
I felt right at home among the Canada geese and . . .
We immediately recognized Stuart Little as he tacked back and forth.
And then we wound our way around again, pausing by Strawberry Fields–and imagined. If only.
Back on the streets, we were dazzled by snowflakes . . .
and Christmas lights.
And then it was time to cross over to Brooklyn where we found a tour guide stepping out of his brownstone.
Like others before us, with him we pounded miles and miles of pavement and left behind our own tracks.
He took us to the World Trade Center, which we viewed with awe . . .
and Ground Zero, where we felt the presence of so many as we remembered.
Soho was our next destination, and though we didn’t shop, the architecture was enough to fill our minds with abundance . . .
No visit to NYC is complete without taking in a performance and my guy, who is the world’s biggest fan of The Wizard of Oz, chose WICKED.
I won’t say it was my favorite show, but the set, costumes, acting, dancing, and singing were all well worth the experience. He thoroughly enjoyed it.
Another must do is Rockefeller Center–or at least the ice rink. We didn’t skate, but enjoyed watching people take a spin, some more agile than others.
Overlooking the rink, but encased in scaffolding stories high, a transformation was in the works . . .
from a Norway Spruce discovered in State College, Pennsylvania, to the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree.
Watching over all were the toy soldiers. And if you have ever wondered if they come alive after most of the world that gathers in New York goes to bed, they do. We know this first hand for we heard them. Our hotel room was located nearby and at about 2am we were awakened each night by an instrumental performance that had a symphonic sound. We couldn’t hear anyone in adjoining rooms. And we never heard a peep outside of Radio City Music Hall, so it had to be the toy soldiers and angels that surrounded the rink–and you have to become a believer.
At long last, it was Monday morning and time to head back through the terminal of Grand Central Station to make our way up the northeast corridor.
But . . . we left with fond memories and promises to return for somehow we who live in rural Maine raised a city boy.
Posing from left to right, my guy, our youngest and one of his roommates who also hails from Maine.
They’re both comfortable by nature in New York City.
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