The day is Wednesday, February 10 and the weather is a little less than beautiful. Cold, gusting winds bite my face as I head to the High Line down 9^th avenue to 15^th street. I see men and women of various age and race going about their daily lives; the smells of cigarette smoke and garbage engulf me. I pass the busy Chelsea Market, multiple stores, and signs related to meatpacking. Finally, I reach the staircase that ascends to the High Line that overlooks the city.

The first thing I notice after ascending is the affect that winter has had on the nature of the High Line: the barren trees and bushes that probably are beautiful in the spring, the desolation, the empty benches. Despite the cold, however, there are a couple of people standing around and walking slowly (possibly tourists). An older couple stroll slowly by, as well as a few women walking together.

I continue to walk down the path, noticing the buildings, the apartments, and the billboards all around me. The people who pass by are in hats and hoods. There are teenagers with headphones on or earbuds in their ears. There are people walking quickly or on the phone (these are probably natives with a destination in mind, not tourists). There are a few couples with big cameras who stop to take picture (definitely tourists). And there are older groups or couples strolling along (probably taking nature walks).

On 21^st street there is a massive construction site marring the not-so pleasant view. There are loud, irritating sound of cranes and drills. A few of us sit under a scaffolding and I feel drips of water falling from the scaffolding onto my numb hands. It is 2:40 PM. A few of us strike up a conversation with a man who tells us he is showing his brother around. We continue to walk and admire the artwork around us- the graffiti, a statue, a set of doors, and other beautiful 3D artworks.

As I walk with my friends, we come upon an older man sitting on a mat on the ground with a 3-D display of painted, cardboard squares set up, as well as paints, a pallet, and cups of water. He invites us to join, and we do.

We sit. We paint. We listen to Peter and the Wolf. As we paint, we talk. I learn that the man does this for a living, sits on the High Line each day for hours, painting cardboard squares. He says that he sells around 30 of them a day and that he’s been doing it for 3 and a half years. He tells us that even though he’s an art enthusiast and would love to do it for free he needs to charge a few dollars so he can make a living.

A middle aged woman sits with us. She tells us that she is from South America and describes her unique taste in music.

At around 3:15, we leave the high line on 23^rd street. This is my first time at the high line, and it is something I am glad I was able to experience.