Today, I visited Staten Island, which, according to several, is far more Unionized than other places here. It has a bad rap, apparently, but the pace there is far closer to one I'm more familiar with and comfortable in. There was a lot more space too, and the people strolled as though they were unconcerned by being judged to be subpar to what the rest of the city had to offer.
My first view of the place came while on the ferry, complimentary of the city, which has, for whatever reason, decided to generously subsidize all ferry rides. More than likely, there are political and commercial reasons for the decision, but if it makes good financial and social sense, then all the better to eroding the face of a world turning inwards, into the private realm. One could see ships docking off of the immediate shores of the city, barges joined with various cruise ships, transit ships and other kinds of ships, assisting them in their complicated navigation of the heady, generally-occupied bay.
As we docked, I hurriedly escaped the hatches in a herd alongside hundreds of others, with the occasional 'subversive' trying to push their way ahead (for some inexplicable, largely un-explicable reason). From there, the ferry terminal opens to the main political buildings of the city, what here are called "Staten Island Borough Hall," and while I'm unclear of their specific political purview, the terminology nevertheless intrigues for its apt definitional precision; that is, because Staten Island is not a city, but a borough.
After walking solitarily behind one other girl for a few minutes, I readily found my bus stop but ambled around to search out a grocer that might have some rations, the likes of which I was low on myself. The one I found was modest but clean, a place where half of the things were still packaged, little reeking of the ready-to-please quality of the rest of the stores in the city (especially the Hipster ones).
Following a short wait, I boarded a bus bound for the other side of the island, crossing it through one of the main paths "Victory Boulevard," whatever that might have meant. Along the way, I saw various humble, honest storefronts, identified in English or Spanish, none of which stank of the pretentious perfidy of the high class places found in the rest of the Burroughs (although I'm sure they were there to be found). Columned, colonial villas and large, wooded parks disclosed themselves on the ride as well, and I was generally happy to experience a sense of peace that I haven't since departing the Valley.
As we neared the library, I queried the bus driver on the proximity of the stops to the only open library on the Island (on a Sunday afternoon, admittedly, but I'm incorrigible). Promptly, a fellow bus rider reported "Two stops down, you can take two more," for which I thanked her and seated myself again. The Island seemed to exude a different kind of warmness about it.
On my way home, after a trip to Starbucks and a visit to Adorno lane, I climbed up the next 62 once again, and sat next to an attractive girl who boldly sported sweat pants in broad, Sunday daylight. Oh how I wanted to know such a strong, uncompromising character. But like any good New Yorker (or tourist who's trying to fit in), I suppressed my inner desire to make contact and contentedly sat next her, making obligatory glances to my phone to indicate my level of competency with the social moreys of the day.
The ferry ride home happened in a similar way, but only after one of the most beautiful vistas opened up before me: the view of the city, and its surrounding metro areas. But then I thought to myself: was it monstrous or wonderous? And I settled on monstrous, but for the Marx in me: accumulated, extracted, stolen capital stored in concrete, metallic form to be lauded, shown and mindlessly strewn about town in innumerable postcards, paintings, posters and photos, reproduced in a spectral way probably incomparable to any other city in the world.
And so it is living in this city, or for the time being that I am. New York is no great place, but it is a place, and I am here. It terrifies me, strikes wonder into me, and is far bigger than anything I could really manage. But I will try to make do, as I always do.
Love,
Joe
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