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What has happened to the brisk urban pace and small courtesies of street life?
By Susan S. Szenasy
Editor In Chief
June 2002
A million new daffodils bloomed this spring in the city. The bulbs were
a gift to New York, sent by the Dutch to commemorate those who died here
on September 11 and to remind us that hope, renewal, and beauty can ease
despair, death, and horror. In small parks near fire stations in the
outer boroughs, as well as on Manhattan's patches of green, the delicate
yellow flowers nod in the balmy breezes.
On a lovely Saturday afternoon I take a walk on Central Park West to inspect
the pastel blossoms and budding foliage, and to join Manhattan's endlessly
fascinating street life. But as I walk up the avenue I hear a weary young
boy in high-design athletic shoes whine, "Why are we walking?"
His companion, perhaps an aunt being visited for Easter or Passover, answers:
"That's what we do here. We walk."
Yes, that's what city folks do; others seem confused about what the street
is for. In Chicago, Boston, San Francisco, and New York--all great walking
cities--visitors seem to amble, doing the "mall walk," as I like
to call the sluggish meander observed in suburban malls, in pairs and fours
and larger groups, moving listlessly like people did in those old "tired
blood" commercials.
On Central Park West a lanky young woman with thirst and hunger etched on
her face asks, "Where's McDonald's?" My answer, "There isn't
one in this neighborhood," seems to shock her. A group of twenty-something
men in baseball caps, jeans, and T-shirts makes barking noises, just like
on the Jerry Springer show. On the crosstown bus, several pairs of sneakers
stick out into the central isle tripping unobservant passengers.
By the time we reach Fifth Avenue, I'm boiling. In fact, I start to behave
like those women who used to scare me when I first moved into the city.
"Jerk," I mumble to myself, "haven't you been on a bus before?
Don't you know that you share this coach with others, who also paid for
their ride?" I catch my hostile sneer in the bus window. Luckily, I
also spy a batch of daffodils and begin to calm down. Like the perennial
bulbs that will bloom for many springs to come, our urban rhythms and values
will surely flourish, if cultivated. The street teaches us to navigate
at our own pace while leaving room for others; it gives us a crash course
on how to be private citizens in public spaces. The daffodils teach us to
respect the vitality of life and to believe in the possibility of renewal.
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