Make me whole again, open your eyes.
A malfunction in the afternoon had me outside in search of a barbershop that would be open on Sundays. Smooth's back in New Haven had this odd habit of being closed on Mondays instead of Sundays, implanting in me the idea that this was the habit of barbershops, to shift their Sabbath one day forward. Separate logic governs these places. A few blocks south, and the neighborhood changed. It was still Sugar Hill but it bore a closer resemblance to Washington Heights. Spanish became the lingua franca. Flags for the Dominican Republic proliferated. One had planted itself with no small degree of prominence in the place I'd eventually found. Puchungo, I think it was called, after "Puchu," the guy who ended up giving me my cut. Not until I got in my chair did I realize he spoke minimal English. That it was more difficult to explain the (simple) cut I wanted here than it was in Paris was the source of no small amount of rueful irony on my part.
I paid what struck me as entirely too much for the cut I'd long since gotten into the habit of getting and took my time getting back to the apartment, stopping to watch a game of basketball at a park right on the corner of 152nd and Amsterdam. Had the look of tradition. Summer tradition. The men on the court wore neighborhood t-shirts with their numbers on the back, and a ref in pinstripes officiated. Against a curb at the bottom of a fence lumbered two rows of men, some of them in tank tops, others shirtless, playing dice. One guy, torso barely contained by his tank top, constantly sorted through the bills in his hand. A spliff got passed around.
On the other side of the fence that blocked off the court sat older folks in lawn chairs.
Teenagers ambled in clusters, younger girls watching the guys who had aimlessness leaking from their pores.
On another court, separated from the first by a tall fence, a barbecue neared its end. Occasionally, folks would walk from it to toss their plates in a nearby trash barrel.
The day was heavenly, weather-wise, compared to what attended my arrival here. Breeze kissing the skin, caressing the face. I know where this park is, and the library, and on my street is a dance theater. Already, I'm picking up "spots," landmarks or totems that will slowly, over the course of the year, turn this place into "home." Maybe.
It's the thing I wanted, the place I wanted, when I imagined returning to live in this city.
Work on Wednesday will change things, locomotion shooting me through and to more parts of the City, parts I love and loathe, parts I'll likely do both to. But so far, right now, on the cusp of autumn, I think I can see myself passing seasons here, which is to say I think I'm coming to like it.
I paid what struck me as entirely too much for the cut I'd long since gotten into the habit of getting and took my time getting back to the apartment, stopping to watch a game of basketball at a park right on the corner of 152nd and Amsterdam. Had the look of tradition. Summer tradition. The men on the court wore neighborhood t-shirts with their numbers on the back, and a ref in pinstripes officiated. Against a curb at the bottom of a fence lumbered two rows of men, some of them in tank tops, others shirtless, playing dice. One guy, torso barely contained by his tank top, constantly sorted through the bills in his hand. A spliff got passed around.
On the other side of the fence that blocked off the court sat older folks in lawn chairs.
Teenagers ambled in clusters, younger girls watching the guys who had aimlessness leaking from their pores.
On another court, separated from the first by a tall fence, a barbecue neared its end. Occasionally, folks would walk from it to toss their plates in a nearby trash barrel.
The day was heavenly, weather-wise, compared to what attended my arrival here. Breeze kissing the skin, caressing the face. I know where this park is, and the library, and on my street is a dance theater. Already, I'm picking up "spots," landmarks or totems that will slowly, over the course of the year, turn this place into "home." Maybe.
It's the thing I wanted, the place I wanted, when I imagined returning to live in this city.
Work on Wednesday will change things, locomotion shooting me through and to more parts of the City, parts I love and loathe, parts I'll likely do both to. But so far, right now, on the cusp of autumn, I think I can see myself passing seasons here, which is to say I think I'm coming to like it.