Electric City: Independence Day
Seeing Red, Feeling Blue
We walk from our room in NYU's Weinstein Hall on University Place toward 23rd Street. There we can access FDR Drive and view the legendary Macy's Fourth of July Fireworks. The site was recommended over the additional barges around the Brooklyn Bridge and the Statue of Liberty (too many people, too far away, etc). The fireworks are set up on barges in the East River and can be seen from any point in Manhattan, Brooklyn and Queens with unobstructed views of the sky above the river.
I had been talking about seeing the fireworks for weeks now to my best friend. It's not that I love the holiday, I'd tell her. It's that I love any opportunity to attend such a spectacle. Considering that we're roommates for the summer, by July she can almost tell the story as if a member of my family. I also had recounted many times how my family has a yearly picnic and how my brother and uncle present an illegal fireworks show. They wear matching, personalized shirts that read "Belly Brothers' Fireworks" that my other uncle had made at the printing company where he works. I associate the Fourth with family and fun, but this year was going to present grander memories.
We have been planning to go together for weeks now. Her favorite parts of the Fourth are the barbeques and watermelons, so on our way we're supposed to stop and buy street-vendor hotdogs with yellow mustard and other picnic goodies. We decide to take blankets and books and leave around 3 p.m., originally planning to set up at Battery Park and lounge the afternoon and evening away while diligently protecting our spot. Her boyfriend is coming to visit from Utah over the holiday as well, and we figure he'll appreciate the huge display.
The day arrives, however, but nobody except me wants to go. I assume this is one of her mood swings she frequently gets before we go out. Usually when I act excited she snaps out of it or goes along to make me happy and we end up having a good time. If that doesn't work, I can guilt her with an not-so-indifferent "fine." I continue to get dressed and ready my camera. She's now reluctant to go downtown and says that her employees at Hollywood Video suggest FDR Drive for a clearer, less populated view. OK, neither of us enjoys crowds, so that sounds like a better plan. It's after 6 p.m., though, so we need to go. We leave, but I'm the only one who's excited.
As we walk uptown, more and more people surround us. I walk alongside strollers and couples and families and children -- all of different nationalities -- toward the elevated highway. My friends lag behind me, her complaining about how badly she has to go to the bathroom and him whining about the drive being so far away. I slow down every block or so, usually at crosswalks, to allow them to catch up. I'm frustrated because we now need to stop somewhere for her to use the restroom and we're already late. Where the fuck are all the McDonald's? There are four near our apartment alone but none here. Near 23rd Street, we find one, and the boyfriend and I wait outside for 20 minutes while she waits in a must-buy-food-in-order-to-pee line stretching to the restaurant's entrance.
When we reach the 23rd-street checkpoint, NYPD officers divert the crowd back towards 14th Street. It becomes apparent that something is happening ahead, and we soon discover that police are conducting a security check. We can't access the highway-entrance ramp unless they search us, and this sets my roommate into a tizzy. Not only does she feel as if she's a cattle, but she refuses to have her privacy invaded. I feel badly for her but try to explain it's because of 9/11 and we only have a camera and a blanket in the bag. It doesn't matter; she wants to leave. I tell her it will be just a few more minutes. No, she wants to go. I refuse. She starts to weave toward the back of the line. I cannot believe she's desserting me. She says she's hyperventillating and can't take the crowd. I look up at her, all five feet nine inches. Is she serious?
"Just go. I'll call later," I say.
They leave, and I continue to push past the waists and asses of pushy pedestrians. Some lady with a baby stroller purposefully bumps into me -- I know it's intentional because she doesn't say excuse me or acknowledge the collision -- and tries to get ahead as if I'm going to take her prime position on the miles of available highway. I inch ahead. A large, shirtless, black gentleman comes to my aide. His body is covered in tattoos and in the hand that he isn't using to clear an opening for me he carries a boom box. "Move ovah. Let da little lady through," he says. I thank him once past security and he asks if I'll be alright. I tell him yes, and he continues up the drive.
On the highway, it's easier to maneuver through the spectators. There is still an hour or more until the fireworks begin, so I walk the equivalent of a block south and find a more open area. I park beside a group of college students playing cards on a blanket. I notice all the families and couples and patriotic fun. Tourists and New Yorkers relax and wait for the show. I flip open my cell phone and dial my uncle's number. I snap it shut, though, before hitting send. My family would be outside now watching their fireworks show and rating each burst.
A mother visiting the city with her teenage daughter asks if the area next to me is saved. I say no, and eight people sit down. They came with a group of teenage girls that are studying dance at Julliard, and the girls and their mothers are staying in some hostel run by nuns downtown. That's what the woman explains to me. Her daughter is beautiful and appears to be in her late teens, but in actuality she is only 14. Mother chats about the museums that they have been to multiple times, and I suggest common touristy activities. Although I know of many more unique pastimes that I could suggest, I refrain because she's too unfamiliar with the city and I don't feel like talking.
I'm disappointed being there alone, and it saddens me to have to experience this one-in-a-lifetime event by myself. At the same time, though, I'm comforted knowing I don't have to worry about anyone but myself. I'm parked high on the FDR Drive and waiting to watch the Macy's Fireworks. As dusk falls, I turn around and face the Manhattan skyline -- the Empire State Building's top is illuminated in red, white and blue light, and slowly more and more lights turn on in people's windows. It gets darker, and I watch buildings' detailing fade to silhouettes. I hear a burst. Then another. The fireworks last about 20 or 30 minutes. They're impressive, but I miss my family's mini-spectacular. I zigzag through the crowd to get the best view.
Time to leave, and the thousands and I file down the ramp and back onto the city's streets. Orange light from street lamps bathes the crowd, which suddenly seems tired and anxious to get home. Vendors gather along the street corners hoping for one last sale, and litter flutters against the curbs.
I take what I think is a shortcut through a large apartment complex. It's very beautiful and well kempt. The buildings are tall and secure -- brick -- and in the center of the oasis is a park and large fountain. Single chess tables line the sidewalks. They're empty, though, unlike the ones I frequent in Washington Square Park. Round and round the complex's sidewalks I go, slowly realizing, as I pass the same couple with a baby on a bench to my left, that I'm lost and walking in circles. It also occurs to me that I cannot hear the city and that I'm in a place that the constant business and neon lights haven't permeated. I'd later discover that I am in Stuyvesant Town.
I eventually, with the help of a Latino woman's directions, emerge onto First Avenue. Bombarded with lights, traffic and chaos, I'm once again at ease, and I walk home for the next hour through the East Village. People spill onto the sidewalk from the bars and parties, and I weave through the crowd. A woman backs into me and trips. It bends my footplate and nearly breaks my right ankle. She gives me an irritated look and says something snotty, I assume about me, to the man with her.
The side streets are less crowded, so I stick to them and drive as fast as I can to Washington Square Park. I park at the north end of the fountain and gaze through the arch and up Fifth Avenue at the Empire State Building. Happy Independence Day.
I had been talking about seeing the fireworks for weeks now to my best friend. It's not that I love the holiday, I'd tell her. It's that I love any opportunity to attend such a spectacle. Considering that we're roommates for the summer, by July she can almost tell the story as if a member of my family. I also had recounted many times how my family has a yearly picnic and how my brother and uncle present an illegal fireworks show. They wear matching, personalized shirts that read "Belly Brothers' Fireworks" that my other uncle had made at the printing company where he works. I associate the Fourth with family and fun, but this year was going to present grander memories.
We have been planning to go together for weeks now. Her favorite parts of the Fourth are the barbeques and watermelons, so on our way we're supposed to stop and buy street-vendor hotdogs with yellow mustard and other picnic goodies. We decide to take blankets and books and leave around 3 p.m., originally planning to set up at Battery Park and lounge the afternoon and evening away while diligently protecting our spot. Her boyfriend is coming to visit from Utah over the holiday as well, and we figure he'll appreciate the huge display.
The day arrives, however, but nobody except me wants to go. I assume this is one of her mood swings she frequently gets before we go out. Usually when I act excited she snaps out of it or goes along to make me happy and we end up having a good time. If that doesn't work, I can guilt her with an not-so-indifferent "fine." I continue to get dressed and ready my camera. She's now reluctant to go downtown and says that her employees at Hollywood Video suggest FDR Drive for a clearer, less populated view. OK, neither of us enjoys crowds, so that sounds like a better plan. It's after 6 p.m., though, so we need to go. We leave, but I'm the only one who's excited.
As we walk uptown, more and more people surround us. I walk alongside strollers and couples and families and children -- all of different nationalities -- toward the elevated highway. My friends lag behind me, her complaining about how badly she has to go to the bathroom and him whining about the drive being so far away. I slow down every block or so, usually at crosswalks, to allow them to catch up. I'm frustrated because we now need to stop somewhere for her to use the restroom and we're already late. Where the fuck are all the McDonald's? There are four near our apartment alone but none here. Near 23rd Street, we find one, and the boyfriend and I wait outside for 20 minutes while she waits in a must-buy-food-in-order-to-pee line stretching to the restaurant's entrance.
When we reach the 23rd-street checkpoint, NYPD officers divert the crowd back towards 14th Street. It becomes apparent that something is happening ahead, and we soon discover that police are conducting a security check. We can't access the highway-entrance ramp unless they search us, and this sets my roommate into a tizzy. Not only does she feel as if she's a cattle, but she refuses to have her privacy invaded. I feel badly for her but try to explain it's because of 9/11 and we only have a camera and a blanket in the bag. It doesn't matter; she wants to leave. I tell her it will be just a few more minutes. No, she wants to go. I refuse. She starts to weave toward the back of the line. I cannot believe she's desserting me. She says she's hyperventillating and can't take the crowd. I look up at her, all five feet nine inches. Is she serious?
"Just go. I'll call later," I say.
They leave, and I continue to push past the waists and asses of pushy pedestrians. Some lady with a baby stroller purposefully bumps into me -- I know it's intentional because she doesn't say excuse me or acknowledge the collision -- and tries to get ahead as if I'm going to take her prime position on the miles of available highway. I inch ahead. A large, shirtless, black gentleman comes to my aide. His body is covered in tattoos and in the hand that he isn't using to clear an opening for me he carries a boom box. "Move ovah. Let da little lady through," he says. I thank him once past security and he asks if I'll be alright. I tell him yes, and he continues up the drive.
On the highway, it's easier to maneuver through the spectators. There is still an hour or more until the fireworks begin, so I walk the equivalent of a block south and find a more open area. I park beside a group of college students playing cards on a blanket. I notice all the families and couples and patriotic fun. Tourists and New Yorkers relax and wait for the show. I flip open my cell phone and dial my uncle's number. I snap it shut, though, before hitting send. My family would be outside now watching their fireworks show and rating each burst.
A mother visiting the city with her teenage daughter asks if the area next to me is saved. I say no, and eight people sit down. They came with a group of teenage girls that are studying dance at Julliard, and the girls and their mothers are staying in some hostel run by nuns downtown. That's what the woman explains to me. Her daughter is beautiful and appears to be in her late teens, but in actuality she is only 14. Mother chats about the museums that they have been to multiple times, and I suggest common touristy activities. Although I know of many more unique pastimes that I could suggest, I refrain because she's too unfamiliar with the city and I don't feel like talking.
I'm disappointed being there alone, and it saddens me to have to experience this one-in-a-lifetime event by myself. At the same time, though, I'm comforted knowing I don't have to worry about anyone but myself. I'm parked high on the FDR Drive and waiting to watch the Macy's Fireworks. As dusk falls, I turn around and face the Manhattan skyline -- the Empire State Building's top is illuminated in red, white and blue light, and slowly more and more lights turn on in people's windows. It gets darker, and I watch buildings' detailing fade to silhouettes. I hear a burst. Then another. The fireworks last about 20 or 30 minutes. They're impressive, but I miss my family's mini-spectacular. I zigzag through the crowd to get the best view.
Time to leave, and the thousands and I file down the ramp and back onto the city's streets. Orange light from street lamps bathes the crowd, which suddenly seems tired and anxious to get home. Vendors gather along the street corners hoping for one last sale, and litter flutters against the curbs.
I take what I think is a shortcut through a large apartment complex. It's very beautiful and well kempt. The buildings are tall and secure -- brick -- and in the center of the oasis is a park and large fountain. Single chess tables line the sidewalks. They're empty, though, unlike the ones I frequent in Washington Square Park. Round and round the complex's sidewalks I go, slowly realizing, as I pass the same couple with a baby on a bench to my left, that I'm lost and walking in circles. It also occurs to me that I cannot hear the city and that I'm in a place that the constant business and neon lights haven't permeated. I'd later discover that I am in Stuyvesant Town.
I eventually, with the help of a Latino woman's directions, emerge onto First Avenue. Bombarded with lights, traffic and chaos, I'm once again at ease, and I walk home for the next hour through the East Village. People spill onto the sidewalk from the bars and parties, and I weave through the crowd. A woman backs into me and trips. It bends my footplate and nearly breaks my right ankle. She gives me an irritated look and says something snotty, I assume about me, to the man with her.
The side streets are less crowded, so I stick to them and drive as fast as I can to Washington Square Park. I park at the north end of the fountain and gaze through the arch and up Fifth Avenue at the Empire State Building. Happy Independence Day.
posted by Claire C. Cake at 11:16 AM
1 Comments:
Now, having been there, I appreciate this so much more.
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