On the way to the High Line is Chelsea Market, an indoor gallery of stores. People whisked to and fro, in and out, buying lobsters, sandwiches, shirts, and more. The lighting is average, but the brown halls give off a dark feeling, like a portal to a new realm. A portal that included an energetic man with a tray of drinks, calling out to anyone who’d listen that the milkshake shop was giving out free samples.

I went up to him and asked what flavor they were.

“Strawberry,” he answered.

I apologized, slinking away.

I did however, walk into a small bakery with white walls and shelves of iced cookies. A salesman standing by the door was giving out samples, too, albeit without announcing it and dancing. I gladly took a piece. It was a chunk of a cookie with black and white icing. It tasted like cupcake, somehow. The vanilla wasn’t too strong, and the cookie was firm yet not dry. I ended up buying a tray of mini-cupcakes, both vanilla and chocolate, each with different colored icing and sprinkles. They’re sweet, but the sugar isn’t suffocating the other ingredients. They’re small, but are packed with flavor.

A diverse set of people walked around. A blonde girl looked at the wishing well. A middle aged woman with black hair had a small Shi Tzu in her bag. An Asian man walked into a store. Most shoppers spoke English, though the occasional Spanish or Chinese was heard. Due to the weather, everyone wore scarves, hats, and down coats. A woman with blonde hair held up a phone, looking at whomever she was FaceTime-ing. She recounted how she was in the Chelsea Market, and had just been to the High Line, her British accent giving away her motivations for braving the cold. I tried to tell where she was from. I guessed England, but it didn’t sound particularly Northern.

The High Line itself was across the street. The wait to get into the glass elevator that led to the place wasn’t crowded. Once to doors to the High Line opened, I realized that the elevator was a preview of the walkway.

February 15^th, 2016, was a frigid day. Despite it being a holiday afternoon, hardly anyone was there. It was a stark contrast to the warm, lively market. A group of Brits walked past, leaving the place. Another British woman asked my mother if Chelsea Market was downstairs. She also wasn’t Northern English, nor was she Scottish, and I doubt that she was Welsh.

“I’m hungry!” she laughed.

Some people gathered to a glass panel down a set of stairs, gazing at the cars whiz by. Snow had already started to fall, coating the light brown floorboards. Although some were fine, the main floorboards had become slick, and it took everything in my power not to fall. I nearly did, anyways, causing a man to call out, “Careful!”

Dead. That was what the place was. Despite the nice views of the skyline, everything was dead. The plants ere quite literally dead. Signs by the fenced off plants warned people to not trod on them, but to be honest, there wasn’t anything to trod on besides brown husks and wisps. Besides them, a metal fountain had a sign that said that it was off due to weather. It was strange to go from a place where people had to dodge each other, to a place where no one was to be seen for a few feet.

As for the skyline, the buildings looked as if they were made from anything but a conventional material. One looked like a mosaic made out of various blue and silver pieces of sea glass. Another was a frosty white, frostier than the air around it, frostier than the snow covered floorboards that waited for their next victim. It had blackish rings on it—black ice, I suppose? A smaller chestnut brown building was one of the few warm-colored buildings in a sea of greys and blacks and greens.

A walk to the left revealed an eatery, with tables set out. Green umbrellas shaded empty seats. The bright colors matched nearby windowpanes, that ranged from olive to peridot to sea foam green. According to a sign, the glass panes were each based on a pixel of a photograph of the Hudson River, arrange to look like the glittering waves. The piece is called, “The River that Flows Both Ways,” by Spencer Finch. However, there was no one feasting today, nor was there anyone besides myself and my family who was looking at the glass. The chairs waited for spring to come soon.