West 4th Street, Washington Square Park

West 4th Street, Washington Square Park, fifty streets, three avenues, and a bridge away, from where I laid my head to rest in a room without a door. My recollections of the previous year revolved around that park, anchored by its seasons. It was where my New York began and ended. Extended lunches accompanied by a breeze of Jazz, children frolicking and squabbling, parents with gentle smiles and concerned glances, couples on first and last dates, students studying and procrastinating. All activity flowed from the central fountain, showering droplets on all that passed, christening the grounds for the coming for spring. Safe from the spray, food carts and flea markets fought over the attention of tourists more concerned with finding a good frame; Street performers staked their claims for space with wild gesticulation, shouting, and too many backflips, while a man with the grand piano was asked repeatedly: How did you get the piano here?

Meanwhile, in the green spaces of the park, a war raged. True to their roots, New Yorkers with a penchant for sun and unwilling to travel to beaches a borough away came armed with mats, baskets of food, and bottles of wine, prepared for an ongoing skirmish with the native population of squirrels over green territory, hallowed picnicking ground. At every inch, pigeons strutted haughtily, indifferent to the chaos, secure in the knowledge that come winter – this park would be theirs.

While in New York, it was my park.

I arrived in early spring, unprepared and anxious. Lost my wallet on my first day over a ninety-nine cent of Arizona ice-tea and the promise of factually-accurate advertising. Moved into my apartment as the sole tenant without a room nor bed, slept on the floor for the first night, and started work the morning after. It was my fifth commute to Canal Street when I – plagued by fitful slumber, delayed delivery of mattresses, and attacks by roaches in the dead of night(I flattened some in retaliation) – fell asleep standing. It took an armpit in my face, screams of panic, and a collapse of commuters to wake me to the fact that I had missed my stop and was, at that point, in unfamiliar territory. "West 4th Street... I've never been north of Canal before".

Predictably, the trains broke down.

A disgruntled mob surged out of the carriage, given little choice, I was carried away by the crowd and deposited at the mouth of Washington Square Park. Technology informed me that cutting through the park was the shortest way to work, I could still be on time if I hurried. I obeyed partially, got distracted by the impossible ‘green-ness’ of budding shoots on bare trees; and then rebelled, entranced as signs of spring took hold, breathing life into dead bark.

I was late, public transit took the blame, everyone empathised.

After that visit, I took every opportunity to detour through the park, making up reasons to be in its vicinity. Had one too many slices Nonna Marias at Bleecker’s Street Pizza, a surplus of coffee beans from Puerto Rico Importing, and an inappropriate number of bagels at Bagel Bob’s. Rearranging my commute to afford some pre-workday peace, and designating every other lunch to be taken on its grounds, overstaying my lunch each time. There was nothing quite like spring.

Summer rolled around, I only remembered the heat. New Yorkers relented and retreated to the beaches, squirrels staked their claim in their absence, fortifying their positions, shoring up their defences, and resupplying their rations. Pigeons circled overhead.

Autumn were flecks of red and gold, waves of colour rippled through the park as trees began to forget how to exhale oxygen. Leaves dried and crunched underfoot, layering was in, scarves were an essential article of clothing. Trees were heading towards hibernation in a palette of warmth, beautiful in measured decay. Squirrels stashed their winter supplies and hid in their enclaves, New Yorkers visited but never stayed for long, pigeons sharpened their claws, swooped down in great number, and unchallenged – defecated freely.

My last day of work ended at 'The Bitter End', but was unlike anything the bar implied. Surrounded by colleagues, raucous jazz music, furious saxophonists, and liquid intoxicants; I recalled the whiff of a great night. Inevitably, I ended up in Washington Square Park. It was 1:15am on the first night of winter, a fresh coat snow the night before reminded me that snow was water and water, was indeed, wet. The man with the grand piano was packing up his set, I watched intently, aware of the rarity which I was witnessing. Noticing my presence, he invited me to lie under it. In no position to refuse, I collapsed as instructed. The composition that followed was not heard but felt with every inch of skin, pure frisson radiating through my being, an encounter with the sublime I abashedly drifted off under.

When I woke, it was the morning after. I was face-up in squirrel/pigeon territory and very, very cold. I wonder where the piano went.