The thin screech of the old man’s violin cuts familiarly through the biting cold air, a cold metal blade on glassy ice—jarring, yet still somber and melancholy in the afternoon air—as I wonder for the umpteenth time if the notes emanating from his person resemble a song, or just resonate with the general atmosphere of the park around him. Always in the same corner, the same bend in the road immediately before (or after depending on whether one approaches from the East or West side) the dark, dank tunnel where we once set up a failed ambush of friends, and taught each other how to tie our shoes. I stare out at the old man, as he bends over to smile at a small child dropping a dollar into his black velvet-lined case. Sweet, courteous expressions of gratitude seem to pour from his mouth, each word tumbling from his lips as the child and her mother begin to walk away, a subtle change in the tune to acknowledge their departure. “No, it’s not just music. I think that time, it was ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.’”
Who would have thought, that an East Side-inclined person like myself would find my city solace in Central Park West? A place where I am at most ease with myself; a place where I can’t remember being without my best friends. A place where I can sit or lie down, and just stare at the white sky of an overcast winter’s day, pretending the haphazard black lines of the tree branches overhead resemble some great artwork yet undiscovered, while huddling in close with my friends beside me to make sure none of us freeze to death. A place where I can bury my worries in the snow as we sit on our favorite tire swing, or give the normal park swings another shot, the slippery ones, the ones that make us hope to god that this time we won’t slip off.
A park that offers a certain amount of the isolation, yet amidst one’s brethren of NYC; where one can be alone, yet hold the comfort of still being another piece of the New York City puzzle, of still being part of the city’s essential fabric. I don’t believe there to be many other places such as this one, that small chunk of park right around West 55th street, just next to Columbus Circle, where I can remember having a snowball stuffed right into my face, leaving the sweet taste of peace, serenity, and a touch of good fun on my tongue (strictly speaking though, it was just snow). Where I can remember feeding peanut brittle to stray squirrels while wondering how a squirrel’s digestive system will do with sugar. Where I can remember running at breakneck speed away from another snowball attack, while smiling both gleefully and sheepishly at passersby strangers, looking on with warmth, as opposed to the acrid judgment one might get on the elsewhere paved streets of NYC.
Truly, for me, Central Park is a place where strangers are no longer strangers, where a smile goes a long way in acknowledging the bright, adventurous spirits of the people around oneself, enjoying the same park they are in, yet ending up with this completely different story to tell.
