These clogs are made for walking, and that’s just what they did over the random downtime over the past few days. On Friday between emails, I wandered 7.5 miles from my hotel in Tribeca through Central Park to Columbia University. I skipped breakfast, so I made due with a packet of candied peanuts from one of the licensed carts in the park. Bumbling tourists were thick on the south side of the park, but by the 79th Street Transverse (know in New York as the “79th Tranny”) had been replaced by ambitious wanderers, pigeon feeders, and the lost.
Treelined promenade in Central Park.
The lone skaters.
Nap time for Fatty.
A slumbering embrace.
Air conditioner of the park.
Grasses at the Jacky Kennedy Reservoir.
Blossoms and lamp.
Saint John the Divine.
After eating a Columbia-style burrito the size of a small dog, I took the subway back to the hotel. Though with no pressing work needs, I decided shoot the tubes again towards Far Rockaway.
Far Rockaway is the end of the line for the A train. It’s at the base of a peninsula bordered by Jamaica Bay, JFK, and the mighty Atlantic. The train was an interesting mix of people that after the airport had thinned to only weirdos and nogoodniks. I disembarked at Broad Channel Station onto a marshy island peppered with crusty boats and wood sided homes. I followed Cross Bay Boulevard to Rockaway. The beach town was bleak and rough, full of weathered looking homes and chipped condo towers, and empty white sand.
In the late afternoon, tough-looking kids had emptied out of hidden schools to loiter in the streets. I caught the shuttle train back to Broad Channel to catch the A back.
A loud couple talked to each other for the entire ride, eating chips, playing with their phones, showcasing their ignorance to a group of French girls that boarded at the airport stop. In Manhattan, the guy left to find his son. In his place, two prophets entered and preached for salvation and money.
Walkway into the marsh.
Large mouth mailbox.
Liquid metal sign.
Cross Bay Boulevard Bridge.
A view towards the A Train and JFK.
Under the tracks and dreaming.
Rockaway Beach and the mighty Atlantic.
On Saturday afternoon, I met and old friend for tea and dim sum in Chinatown. While waiting in a park, I saw my first urban ninja.
The ninja scattered bread crumbs on the sidewalk and a flock of pigeons began to eat. Suddenly, he swooped down and grabbed two pigeons—one in each hand—and slipped them into a cardboard box under his arm. The man walked away. I looked up and saw a teenage boy staring at the empty spot where the two pigeons had been. Had he just seen the same thing? Had I even seen it?
Short stack of bikes.
Fire stoppers, twisted fire stoppers.
A case of BSB.
The lady in pink.
Catfish heads ONE DOLLAR!
Confucius Tower of sadness.
An awning by name only.
Useful map inside the weird stores under the Manhattan Bridge.
Troll fruit stands.
French woman and mattress.
Dumplings and buns
On Sunday, I went over to Williamsburg for another bike ride with D and K. Our mission was to drop of a broken printer at a recycling center in Queens. Mission accomplished, we took a detour around the bleak and empty island of Roosevelt.
Bike with spare tires.
Crossing into Queens.
Specializing in green paint.
Remember the bathroom.
Some crazy stuff is going on behind this door.
Low income, low speed.
D. scouts our route.
In Queens, we patch our metal fences with wood.
The lighthouse of Roosevelt Island.
A fence made from leftover sidewalk vents.
Petals and promenade.
The remains of the small pox hospital.
Ed Koch Queensboro Bridge in hospital beige.
Plastics, my boy! Plastics are where it’s at!
The crowds of Canal Street.
On Sunday night, my buddy A arrived to crash at the hotel. This set off multiple nights of Shanghai reunions involving an unlikely number of people that all found themselves in New York at the same time.
My social calendar is fuller than ever, and I’ve been dropping Jacksons like I treat life: limitless.
I roll in New York like I’m in the Tile District: Mo’ money. Mo’ bitches. Mosaics.