A violin song pulls us out of sleep, dreams of trains and pineapples, like a silk rope. He notices the morning light come to the wall. In the city we left only a few days ago, we learned about waking up before dawn, not to the light, but to the stirring that moves the blood in our thighs and hands. The morning was ancient before the sun even rose.
Rising early in New York City allows you to hear the birds on the street. When we emerged from the tight doorway leading out of the apartment, I saw that the color of the sidewalk and street matched the tone of the sky. A perfectly unassuming shade to provide backdrop for the yellow taxis and traffic signals. Scuff went out heels of our cowboy boots over the sparkling sidewalk. Sparkling with
…show more content…
Now, at this hour of the morning when most of the city is just turning in for the night, we are awake to witness the changing of traffic signals with no cars on the road. Just a couple in boots and a street full of birds and empty taxi cabs.
The city is awake inside Penn station. We sit down right in the middle of the platform and tell each other stories about trains. I want to sit down and talk all the lost history like that deserving lover, writes Michael Ondaatje. There is a lot of history to tell each other so we begin at haphazard places, bouncing off new scenes we stumble upon. Trains. I want him to know about how I visit my family in North Carolina by taking the train down from Union Station to Raleigh. Even the plastic cup of fresh squeezed orange juice we bought for breakfast reminds me of places I have been that I want to tell him. We stumble over our histories, not awkwardly, but with the kind of joyful clumsiness and fervor of having too many layers of clothing to take off.
Riding the train with my forehead pressed up against the window as we passed over the city from high up on a bridge, I thought about Mama's street in Bensenhurst. The city lay out beneath the railroad tacks in a limited palette of brown and gray. The first thing I noticed when we emerged from the apartment this morning were these dirt tones. When Mama told me about her neighborhood, I always pictured
The city always seemed to push the stars farther away from the world in the dead of night. Rain had begun to sprinkle downtown and it began to trickle across the top of the parked cars in the street. Vernon was sitting there silently listening to the drizzle outside that sounded like pebbles falling on a tin roof, still thinking about the dreams his been having. The Coffee Cup was like any other diner nestled between apartments and liquor stores. There was seven cut-up stools and behind them against the wall sat a cigarette machine and no smoking sign. The counter was worn from years of service. Two booths sat facing the storefront windows
To me being in a city like New York and going to the train station is something so far from nature. Loren has seen a different way of looking at this in a nature way, since he observes the crows and pigeons. Not only does Loren Eiseley talk bout New York but also his experiences in the forests of nature. He has said “You may put it that I had come over a mountain, that I had slogged through fern and pine needles for half a long day, and that on the edge of a little glade with one long, crooked branch extending across it, I had sat down to rest with my back against a stump. Through accident I was concealed from the glade, although I could see into it perfectly. The sun was warm there, and the murmurs of the forest life blurred softly into my sleep. When I awoke, dimly aware of some commotion and outcry in the clearing, the light was slanting down through the pines in such a way that the glade was lit like some vast cathedral. I could see the dust motes of the wood pollen in the long shaft of light, and there on the extended branch sat an enormous raven with red and squirming nestling in his beak.” In this passage Loren Eiseley was so descriptive I could imagine him trudging through the ferns and the pine forests falling asleep next to a
New York City is a very famous place all over the world. A lot of people think that it is the best place to live. However, some people have a different point of view. I think that New York City is a good place to live for two reasons.
On October 6th, 2016 at around 3 p.m. I rode the number 1 train from Van Courtlandt Park in the Bronx to South Ferry in lower Manhattan. The ride lasted about an hour. Like stated earlier, this should’ve been just another ride I had to take on the subway, but to my surprise it was a different experience. Without the disturbance of music and my phone, my senses were focused on everything in my surroundings and with that, the things I’ve observed on my ride were fascinating. This essay will focus on the observations I’ve made about the different riders
Amidst the swirling ripple of faceless people meandering around fire hydrants, pedestrian signs, and ragged newspaper stands, he stood; embedded within the relentless stream of continuous people trickling by him. The occasional nudge threatened to dislodge his balance as he gazed across the road where two buildings laden by carmine shaded bricks separated. The same two buildings he walked directly pass early in the dewy morning and late in the brisk evening weather everyday for the past two decades. Surely he knew every wondering power line and dimly lit alley of the surrounding neighborhood? Yet something glimmered from in between the impossibly small gap separating the buildings. His conscious turned from thought to action as he leapt from the scuffed curb and into the high voltage current of traffic without a second
Making her way toward the sidewalk, she turned right on Doveland Drive. Without a car, Anita must walk two and a half miles to reach Forest Creek Lane, the predominantly upper-class part of town. As she walked, her stomach turned as if she had ridden a fast carnival ride and no matter what she tried to calm her nerves, her attempts were futile. When she reached the street, she couldn't help but stare in awe at the beautiful houses that lined it. Some had the latest car park in front, others had empty spaces while the owner was at work. Anita imagined handsome doctors carrying briefcases and housewives wearing wearing the latest fashions. Anita, at 22, still lived with her parents in the not-so-nice part of town, where houses where becoming dalapitated and the roads and sidewalks were cracked and never fixed. Always feeling as if she didn't belong where she lived, she often imagianed what it would be like to live as other
As I lay in bed on a fall evening, an open window lets in a cool breeze accompanied with sounds of crickets and a faint train horn blare. As I peer out into the dark night sky I see an ebony sky glittered with stars. A sense of calm washes over me and I know I’m right where I’m meant to be! It’s a small town, Galt, with a population under 23,000. I didn’t grow up here, but it’s where I’ve lived for the past ten years, and it’s where I’ve chosen to raise my children. The town is a combination of city and farm living. Children from the same school either take a long bus ride through the desolate and diminishing backroads every morning, or a short walk through the peaceful and charming subdivisions to reach their destination. There is a mixture
Living in America is a fantasy for a lot of people, but living in New York City is something even better, and more magical than any fantasy.
New York is a city that works in mysterious ways, having a strong presence on those who walk its streets daily. It's a city with character, touching those who live there or taste its enigma and yearn for seconds after the moment is gone. Although the journeys this city can put at people’s feet can vary from person to person, in many cases the path that some walk can end up being very similar. This was the case after reading “Tehran to the B Train” by Roxana Sabari and “My First New York” by Colum McCann. These two articles are both taken place in the big city, and when compared side by side, it can be shown that they both show many qualities, such as the location, the struggle both authors go through during their time in the city, and the realization
Away is a documentary about the surfing subculture in New York City that is shown through three female surfers at Rockaway Beach.
It is early morning and the subway cars clang along the tracks, rocking rhythmically back and forth. The train sways from side to side, in New York City, causing people to drift off to sleep, while others sip their coffee and munch on their breakfasts, read the newspapers and engage in conversation. There are all different kinds of people, from all different locations.
The sounds of the city penetrated the walls of the cab as we drove through the streets of Manhattan. I could hardly wait to partake in the action that was happening outside. The buildings themselves were an amazing site to behold. The buildings took on personalities of their own. Each building was bigger and more graceful than the next. When lights were added to the mix it was a dazzling combination. The city itself felt like a great big hug, and I felt overwhelmed by its power. The city allowed me to become part of it just like many others many years ago who immigrated to this awesome city. As I was looking out of the cab I finally got to see in person the sight of all sights; Times Square. The main juncture of
The clicking of her black heels echoed loudly as they made contact with the worn-out cobble pathway. The dull coloured water from the river hit the rocks as the sound of the Big Ben rung, indicating that it was 10pm. Fog littered the poorly lit street and the winds nipped at her nose, only the sounds of her heels meeting the uneven stone could be heard throughout the empty streets of London. She fixed her grip on her newborn, bringing the fragile, olive-skinned baby girl flush against her wool coat. She kept her head down as the crisp breeze blew through her brown silky hair, reminding her of her husband’s fingers that once used to do the same. Her pale blue eyes pierced through the fog as the strong winds pulled back her hood, exposing her
He then traveled to Atlanta, Georgia. The Georgian dusk differed from the bright lights of New York City. This dusk was dark, but not in a chilling sense. The city was calm and relaxing. The darkness covered the streets like the blanket children pull over their eyes right as the morning glow begins to appear. The roadways were surrounded by acres of forestation; however, the forests were not quiet. These forests carried the sound of creatures large and small. The constant melodies of crickets sing through the night, while the bustling vibrations of dear and squirrels ring aloud.
When you mention New York to anyone, they automatically think about Times Square. This beautiful place with skyscrapers, Central Park, and a unique transportation system. However, if you were to ask me what I think about New York; I believe the skyscrapers block the sun, Central park is just a regular park for dogs, and the subway trains rarely run consistently especially in the mornings. I have lived in New York for 18 years, and I have yet to understand what everyone likes about the “ Big Red Apple.”