This past weekend, I traveled with my friend Hillary to take advantage of a seasonal spectacle: the homecoming of the giant green turtles. Every July, on the black sand beaches of the small barrier island of Tortuguero, massive female sea turtles arrive from all over the world to lay their eggs. Having been born in Tortuguero themselves, the turtles follow their internal GPS to deposit their eggs in nests that they themselves once crawled out of. It was a truly amazing sight.
After three busses and one boat ride (nine hours of travel) from my site, we finally arrived at Tortuguero. There are no cars allowed on the island, and none of the pathways are paved. The village is nothing more than a group of houses, restaurants and cabinas resting on foundations of sand. Without the drone of traffic, the crashing of the waves serenades the entire island. While a recent tourism boom has developed the village over the past decade, it remains fairly poor. For this reason, Ben and Millie, an older Peace Corps married couple, are stationed on the tiny island.
Feeling relaxed in the Caribbean atmosphere, Hillary and I enjoyed the traditional coconut flavored food, and took in the beauty of the Atlantic coast. Walking along the beach, we found giant depressions in the sand along the dunes. We were told by locals that these are the turtle nests, and not to disturb them. All around the nests we found empty eggshells; apparently the Leatherback turtles had already hatched and swam off into the open ocean. After checking out the beach in the afternoon, we headed back to our cabinas to meet our guide for a night tour.
Our guide was an affable native of Tortuguero. Before we got started, he explained to us the system that the conservation program had put in place for turtle viewing. The beach, he explained, we divided up into several sections. In each section, spotters cruised the beach searching for nesting turtles. On walkie-talkies, they informed the tour guides which section to go to. Once in our assigned section, we joined five other groups of about eight people. When the spotters gave us the okay, we got in line behind the other groups and approached the turtle.
The enormous shell was covered with sand from having dug a fifty centimeter deep hole in the sand for the eggs. She was illuminated by the special red flashlights the tour guides used. About a meter long and half a meter wide, the female hovered over the nest and laid several eggs at a time. She was calm, the guide explained, because turtles go into a trance-like state while depositing their eggs. After watching her for a minute or so, we stepped back so that other groups could sneak a peek.
Before our second viewing, we were led a few meters down the beach to see a different turtle heading back to sea. Having finished laying her eggs, she lumbered across the beach. Throwing one fin in front of the other, she inched her way to the water’s edge making tractor-like tracks in the sand. When the foamy water crashed into her face, she stopped for a few moments, as if to say “holy crap, am I tired.” After a few minutes, she disappeared into the dark sea. She will only return to lay more eggs, and will sadly never know her babies.
Returning to the first turtle, we found that she was already starting to cover up the nest. With great thrusts of her hind fins, she heaved sand into the hole. Her aim, I must say, was not impeccable; she flung sand all over us and our guide. With her nest buried, we left the giant creature to head back to sea alone.
In about two months, the eggs will hatch, and the little babies will make their instinctual race from their nest to the sea. This will be no easy task. Out of a nest of one hundred, only about two will return to lay their eggs. The little guys have to avoid attacks by dogs, birds and humans before even reaching the ocean. Once in the ocean, the babies have to make the long swim to the nourishing kelp forests offshore. Along the way, they are eaten by sharks and other fish. For this reason, the poor mother wears herself out by filling the large nests.
I was so glad that I had made the long trip from coast to coast to see such a beautiful natural wonder. I am forever in the dept of the turtle watcher program that organized the process so well. Before the program, I was told, the beaches were mayhem, and several poor members of the community would steal the eggs from their nests to sell. Since the program was started, turtle counts are up 300 percent. This just goes to show that while conservationists may be idealists, they can have a significant impact on the ground. In most cases, there is a direct conflict between conservation and local economies. However, because of the turtle conservation in Tortuguero, the local economy is booming with the eco-tourism industry. If only every conservation effort was so simple.
The next day, Hillary and I had dinner with Ben and Millie. They had been evacuated from Peace Corps Bolivia when the civil unrest started there. Over a good meal, they told us what it was like to be in such a complicated situation, and what life is like in their new site. I was thoroughly impressed with them. They were my parents’ age, yet seemed like my peers. Full of energy, they seemed to enjoy their life on the tranquil island. They gave me hope; perhaps I will feel that young when I am their age.
The turtle nesting at Tortuguero is a unique event that makes Costa Rica special. As I check months off the calendar, I realize that I only have about ten months left to see everything the country has to offer. This past weekend made me see that for certain Costa Rican highlights, a nine hour bus ride just may be worth it. If the turtles can swim hundreds of miles to Tortuguero, I can have the courtesy to take the bus.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
El Verano de San Juan
A few days ago, I co-facilitated the Second Annual PANI National Youth Congress. Co-sponsored by PANI and Peace Corps, each youth representative from every canton’s Junta de Protección (youth advocacy group) was brought from every corner of Costa Rica to participate in the three day convention. Each Peace Corps volunteer paired up with a PANI officer to represent their region and supervise their region’s youth representatives. In my case, I represented the Central Pacific Region, along with the Francis: a PANI social worker from the Oratina office. Having acquainted ourselves with the youth representatives at the regional pre-congress meeting (see June’s blog), we packed up the PANI van, jumped in, and headed for the cloud forests north of San Ramon.
Throughout the entire congress, my fellow PCVs and I referred to the event as “the all-star game.” We were taken aback by the intellect, creativity, character and radiance of the youth with which we worked. Each participant was eager to participate and learn. They immediately became best friends with each other, and exchanged songs played on their guitars. All high school aged, they were mature; they took the congress very seriously. As foreseen by PANI staff and PCVs, several romantic relationships sprung up within the first day. One PCV noted that we’d have to make an effort to keep them from running off into the bushes together at night. Another volunteer countered: “no way. The mixing of this gene pool is probably the best thing that could happen in Costa Rica right now.” After a good laugh, nobody really disagreed.
The camp site was particularly beautiful. High in the cloud forests, we were surrounded by natural wonders. Rolling hills covered by dense jungle could be seen from every area of the camp. The mollifying sounds of rivers and waterfalls could be heard in the dining hall as we took our first meal. Everyone seemed relaxed as the congress began, which made the meat and potatoes of the event come easily.
The first theme of the congress was networking. We emphasized that the youth representatives were the future leaders of Costa Rica and were the voice of Costa Rica’s youth. We encouraged them to stay in touch both on a regional and national level. Each group made a presentation to the entire group about their region. My group sang an original song, put on a skit and painted a poster. The group from Limon passed out gingerbread cookies and other local foods. It came as no surprise that they were the most popular. Once we finished, the camp opened its recreational activities to the kids. They spent the rest of their night roller-skating around the gym, playing ping-pong, wall climbing, and socializing.
The next morning, the group was offered an array of adventure activities. Split into four groups, we all competed in the highlight of the congress: Retoselva (jungle challenge). Retoselva was an army-like obstacle course through a muddy path in the jungle. Each team made their way through muddy bogs, ropes challenges, and other obstacles. By the end, everyone was covered in mud, and not a single article of clothing retained its original color. Having bonded via filth, we washed, changed and prepared for the afternoon workshops.
The second theme of the congress was participation. To illuminate the concept, we PCVs created a fun and engaging workshop. Our aim was to show the kids that they had the right to participate in the civic management of their communities. The voice of the youth, we emphasized, was to be heard and considered in the decision making process of Costa Rica as mandated by law. We had a few fun lessons, and found a way to make the reading and interpretation of the law enjoyable (cue creative presentations of each article). After the aforementioned and following activities, the conclusions and plans of the youth representatives were compiled and published. The report was the official recommendation of youth to be distributed to PANI and every other public organization in Costa Rica. I take great pride in knowing that Costa Rican policy regarding youth may have been influenced by the workshops that I planned and facilitated.
Heading home, I accompanied the youth representative from Paquera (on the Nicoya Peninsula) to the ferry terminal at the end of Puntarenas. Having left the damp gray of the cloud forest, I was lifted by the radiance of the Puerto sun. The sea shimmered in its five o’clock rays, making for a perfect Sunday evening. Riding home in the front seat with the van driver, I realized that something strange was going on: it wasn’t raining. Since the first day of the rainy season arrived in May, not one afternoon was spared a shower. I mentioned the rarity to the driver who I had been chatting with. He looked at me, patted me on the shoulder, and gave be a big grin. “Es el verano de San Juan” he said. I smiled too, and spent the rest of the ride watching the throngs of people walk through the Puerto sun toward the beach.
El verano de San Juan (summer of San Juan) is a hole in the rainy season. For a few weeks in July, the clouds hide, and let the beach goers get back to work. It is no coincidence that all students have a two week vacation during this time. It is also no surprise that it is this time of year that the city of Puntarenas puts on its annual festival: Las Fiestas Virgen del Mar.
The ten day long festival has served as a reminder for me of all that is good in Puntarenas. For these days, the heavily populated city of San José empties into the Puerto making for a raucous party. Glad to be away from the cold, damp Central Valley days, Ticos fill the Puerto’s beaches, waterfront cafes and hotels. All along the Paseo de las Touristas, booths line the walks; they offer everything from syrupy, icy granizados and carne asada to winged armchairs with ottomans. This past Sunday, I took the children from the albergue to the final day of the festival. It was an unforgettable day.
It was surely the best day I have ever had in which I was vomited on. The kids were wide eyed and excited as we stepped off the bus into the festival. I had never seen the streets of Puntarenas so full. It must have been the way Detroiters felt when the Super Bowl came to their city. Cafés that usually sit empty were packed to the brim. All along the beach, families had set up camp in the shade of trees. Babies slept in their mothers’ laps while they dished out homemade arroz con pollo to the rest of the family. Friends chatted in the sun while holding sweaty beers. Raisin-faced ladies sold vigarones from their stalls: sizzlin’, cracklin’ hot chicharones served on shredded cabbage, covered in chimmichuri and wrapped in an almond leaf. Holding hands as we walked, we stopped every so often to investigate one of these wonders. The kids were enticed by the cheap Chinese toys for sale; I couldn’t stop looking at the packs of scantily clad Ticas.
After making our way through the packed crowds and the pushy salesmen, we had found El Dorado: the rides. I thought that the kids’ eyes were going to pop out when they caught glimpses of the roaring rollercoasters. Each child grabbed and pulled at my clothing in sync and asked if they could go on (what seemed to be all of) the rides. With PANI money, the tia (literal translation: aunt (tio is uncle), PANI live-in albergue caretaker) and I paid for tickets. Excited as hell, we ran for the bumper cars and hopped in. Bairón and I shared a car and wasted no time in wasting our friends. Next, we mounted the haunted house ride, which was markedly tame. After the carousel, we concluded that we were done, and headed for the beach for the main attraction.
A boat’s whistle blew, and thus started the cruise of the Virgen del Mar. Making their way from the tip of the peninsula of Puntarenas toward the pier, dozens of boats held their annual parade. Each ponga, lancha or fishing boat was colorfully decorated. They all followed the lead boat which mounted Carmen: la virgin del mar (the virgin of the sea). Carmen is the patron saint of fishermen, and thus, Puntarenas. The hundreds of people packing the boats raised their glasses to her as their boats bounced along the ocean. The crowds of people lining the beach waved to them. They waved back.
With the parade over, we turned away from the beach and headed for a marisqueria for a lunch of seafood. It was when we made our first steps toward the restaurant that the vomit came. Bairón, hot in the sun and dizzy from the rides, unloaded the contents of his stomach onto the boardwalk. I asked him if he was okay, and he said that he had a stomachache. Needless to say, he did not order seafood when we sat down at the marisqueria. After taking a few sips of the ginger ale that we ordered him, he vomited two more times in the restaurant. Luckily, the waitress was a saint and helped the tia and I clean up while the other children enjoyed their arroz con camarones. Somehow, some way, none of the vomit had gotten on me.
After eating, we walked over to the beach where the kids played in the surf and I sat in the shade with the tia and the reposing Bairón. All around us were families laying together. There was a feeling of family in the air. This was a rare time that Tico dads could enjoy a touch of sun with their kids, and a spot of shade with their wives. Even the albergue kids felt it and treated each other like siblings. Bairón kept calling me “papa;” I continually corrected him. “Tio,” I would say while patting him on the back. “Soy su tio.”
When the kids had finished with the beach, we said goodbye to our neighbors and walked back to the bus stop. As we were walking, I thought about how much I missed my family. The authentically Tico nature of the festival would have been appreciated by my family. I then looked around at the sleeping albergue kids on the bus ride home and got chills. I realized that I had become their family. The tia smiled at me, looking a Bairón’s head resting on my side. I smiled back, feeling quite happy about the fantastic day we were ending. That was until I heard a familiar gurgle, and found my legs covered in puke.
Throughout the entire congress, my fellow PCVs and I referred to the event as “the all-star game.” We were taken aback by the intellect, creativity, character and radiance of the youth with which we worked. Each participant was eager to participate and learn. They immediately became best friends with each other, and exchanged songs played on their guitars. All high school aged, they were mature; they took the congress very seriously. As foreseen by PANI staff and PCVs, several romantic relationships sprung up within the first day. One PCV noted that we’d have to make an effort to keep them from running off into the bushes together at night. Another volunteer countered: “no way. The mixing of this gene pool is probably the best thing that could happen in Costa Rica right now.” After a good laugh, nobody really disagreed.
The camp site was particularly beautiful. High in the cloud forests, we were surrounded by natural wonders. Rolling hills covered by dense jungle could be seen from every area of the camp. The mollifying sounds of rivers and waterfalls could be heard in the dining hall as we took our first meal. Everyone seemed relaxed as the congress began, which made the meat and potatoes of the event come easily.
The first theme of the congress was networking. We emphasized that the youth representatives were the future leaders of Costa Rica and were the voice of Costa Rica’s youth. We encouraged them to stay in touch both on a regional and national level. Each group made a presentation to the entire group about their region. My group sang an original song, put on a skit and painted a poster. The group from Limon passed out gingerbread cookies and other local foods. It came as no surprise that they were the most popular. Once we finished, the camp opened its recreational activities to the kids. They spent the rest of their night roller-skating around the gym, playing ping-pong, wall climbing, and socializing.
The next morning, the group was offered an array of adventure activities. Split into four groups, we all competed in the highlight of the congress: Retoselva (jungle challenge). Retoselva was an army-like obstacle course through a muddy path in the jungle. Each team made their way through muddy bogs, ropes challenges, and other obstacles. By the end, everyone was covered in mud, and not a single article of clothing retained its original color. Having bonded via filth, we washed, changed and prepared for the afternoon workshops.
The second theme of the congress was participation. To illuminate the concept, we PCVs created a fun and engaging workshop. Our aim was to show the kids that they had the right to participate in the civic management of their communities. The voice of the youth, we emphasized, was to be heard and considered in the decision making process of Costa Rica as mandated by law. We had a few fun lessons, and found a way to make the reading and interpretation of the law enjoyable (cue creative presentations of each article). After the aforementioned and following activities, the conclusions and plans of the youth representatives were compiled and published. The report was the official recommendation of youth to be distributed to PANI and every other public organization in Costa Rica. I take great pride in knowing that Costa Rican policy regarding youth may have been influenced by the workshops that I planned and facilitated.
Heading home, I accompanied the youth representative from Paquera (on the Nicoya Peninsula) to the ferry terminal at the end of Puntarenas. Having left the damp gray of the cloud forest, I was lifted by the radiance of the Puerto sun. The sea shimmered in its five o’clock rays, making for a perfect Sunday evening. Riding home in the front seat with the van driver, I realized that something strange was going on: it wasn’t raining. Since the first day of the rainy season arrived in May, not one afternoon was spared a shower. I mentioned the rarity to the driver who I had been chatting with. He looked at me, patted me on the shoulder, and gave be a big grin. “Es el verano de San Juan” he said. I smiled too, and spent the rest of the ride watching the throngs of people walk through the Puerto sun toward the beach.
El verano de San Juan (summer of San Juan) is a hole in the rainy season. For a few weeks in July, the clouds hide, and let the beach goers get back to work. It is no coincidence that all students have a two week vacation during this time. It is also no surprise that it is this time of year that the city of Puntarenas puts on its annual festival: Las Fiestas Virgen del Mar.
The ten day long festival has served as a reminder for me of all that is good in Puntarenas. For these days, the heavily populated city of San José empties into the Puerto making for a raucous party. Glad to be away from the cold, damp Central Valley days, Ticos fill the Puerto’s beaches, waterfront cafes and hotels. All along the Paseo de las Touristas, booths line the walks; they offer everything from syrupy, icy granizados and carne asada to winged armchairs with ottomans. This past Sunday, I took the children from the albergue to the final day of the festival. It was an unforgettable day.
It was surely the best day I have ever had in which I was vomited on. The kids were wide eyed and excited as we stepped off the bus into the festival. I had never seen the streets of Puntarenas so full. It must have been the way Detroiters felt when the Super Bowl came to their city. Cafés that usually sit empty were packed to the brim. All along the beach, families had set up camp in the shade of trees. Babies slept in their mothers’ laps while they dished out homemade arroz con pollo to the rest of the family. Friends chatted in the sun while holding sweaty beers. Raisin-faced ladies sold vigarones from their stalls: sizzlin’, cracklin’ hot chicharones served on shredded cabbage, covered in chimmichuri and wrapped in an almond leaf. Holding hands as we walked, we stopped every so often to investigate one of these wonders. The kids were enticed by the cheap Chinese toys for sale; I couldn’t stop looking at the packs of scantily clad Ticas.
After making our way through the packed crowds and the pushy salesmen, we had found El Dorado: the rides. I thought that the kids’ eyes were going to pop out when they caught glimpses of the roaring rollercoasters. Each child grabbed and pulled at my clothing in sync and asked if they could go on (what seemed to be all of) the rides. With PANI money, the tia (literal translation: aunt (tio is uncle), PANI live-in albergue caretaker) and I paid for tickets. Excited as hell, we ran for the bumper cars and hopped in. Bairón and I shared a car and wasted no time in wasting our friends. Next, we mounted the haunted house ride, which was markedly tame. After the carousel, we concluded that we were done, and headed for the beach for the main attraction.
A boat’s whistle blew, and thus started the cruise of the Virgen del Mar. Making their way from the tip of the peninsula of Puntarenas toward the pier, dozens of boats held their annual parade. Each ponga, lancha or fishing boat was colorfully decorated. They all followed the lead boat which mounted Carmen: la virgin del mar (the virgin of the sea). Carmen is the patron saint of fishermen, and thus, Puntarenas. The hundreds of people packing the boats raised their glasses to her as their boats bounced along the ocean. The crowds of people lining the beach waved to them. They waved back.
With the parade over, we turned away from the beach and headed for a marisqueria for a lunch of seafood. It was when we made our first steps toward the restaurant that the vomit came. Bairón, hot in the sun and dizzy from the rides, unloaded the contents of his stomach onto the boardwalk. I asked him if he was okay, and he said that he had a stomachache. Needless to say, he did not order seafood when we sat down at the marisqueria. After taking a few sips of the ginger ale that we ordered him, he vomited two more times in the restaurant. Luckily, the waitress was a saint and helped the tia and I clean up while the other children enjoyed their arroz con camarones. Somehow, some way, none of the vomit had gotten on me.
After eating, we walked over to the beach where the kids played in the surf and I sat in the shade with the tia and the reposing Bairón. All around us were families laying together. There was a feeling of family in the air. This was a rare time that Tico dads could enjoy a touch of sun with their kids, and a spot of shade with their wives. Even the albergue kids felt it and treated each other like siblings. Bairón kept calling me “papa;” I continually corrected him. “Tio,” I would say while patting him on the back. “Soy su tio.”
When the kids had finished with the beach, we said goodbye to our neighbors and walked back to the bus stop. As we were walking, I thought about how much I missed my family. The authentically Tico nature of the festival would have been appreciated by my family. I then looked around at the sleeping albergue kids on the bus ride home and got chills. I realized that I had become their family. The tia smiled at me, looking a Bairón’s head resting on my side. I smiled back, feeling quite happy about the fantastic day we were ending. That was until I heard a familiar gurgle, and found my legs covered in puke.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Rhapsody in Blue
If a picture is worth a thousand words, then what might be the quantitative value of a song? I often find myself saying, “oh! I love this song; I’ve got great memories attached to it.” When this happens, I usually think of something that was playing at the end of a particularly successful date, or a poignant moment of triumph in my life. At this moment, I am listening to a particular piece that transcends all moments. For me, it has come to be the theme of my hometown of New York. I’m listening to Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue.
The piece is just so quintessentially New York. As the piano notes crescendo, Woody Allen’s voice takes over my inner monologue. Suddenly, I am trapped in the film Manhattan. I look at the New York themed photo collage that I have pasted to my wall, and enter a New York montage. Imagine myself on the Brooklyn Bridge, looking out on the skyline. I peek into a street where Gershwin himself may have walked down, and hummed the beginning of the jazz melody that would one day play here in this Costa Rican neighborhood. As I look through my photo album, I find myself in a ballfield in Central Park. I have just finished playing in a game in which my high school team has won. I grab a handful of infield dirt, smell the freshly cut grass, and look up at the stately towers of the Upper East Side.
I have always wanted to be like Woody Allen. He is an icon of New York, a man who appreciates its beauty, and works the city into his art. I guess that it doesn’t hurt that he is a short, bald man who consistently dates beautiful women in his films. Even though he is a famous writer/director/actor, and I am an anonymous New Yorker, I see myself in him.
Like Woody, I am a native New Yorker. I consider the city’s and my history to be shared. I have never become disappointed by or fed up with its spirit.
My friend Emile was with me every step of the way in my discovery of the city. Throughout adolescence, we embraced several parts of New York that had significant meaning for us: the gourmet food stores where we would gorge ourselves on free samples of high end cheese and olives on the way home from school; the BYOB jazz club that would turn a blind eye to minors enjoying forties while tapping their feet to the music. Certain sidewalks bled memories for us on streets where we had broken up with girlfriends, or made new ones. Emile always shared with me an unwavering adoration of the city that raised us.
Now, Emile is ready to leave New York. He feels betrayed by the way the city has changed. The gentrification began long before Emile and I began knowing the city’s jazz clubs and museums. However, as of late, it has reshaped the face of the neighborhood that we grew up in. Buildings that held the beloved barber shops, corner stores, and restaurants that shaped our identities have been bulldozed to make way for luxury high-rises. When we were kids, the neighborhood was strictly middle class. Now, one-bedroom apartments go for a million dollars.
While the transformation of my city saddens me at times, I feel that New York still has (and will never lose) the spirit that inspired Gershwin, Woody and me. It is still the pinnacle. If you want to be the best at anything, you’d better be ready to spend some time in New York. Art and creativity seep out of the city’s every pore. When places are gentrified, they are sometimes reborn: the nightlife scene that started in a reblushed Lower East Side has played a major role in the evolution of rock and roll. I am not saying that it is not a shame that thousands of people had to move out because they could not afford the astronomical rent hikes. I am saying that the spirit of New York would never allow its changing face to become boring. No matter what rents are like, the subway still shakes your feet, and the city still never sleeps.
I close my photo album, and the piece ends. I look out my window at my mango tree and smile. While I miss my city, I know it will be there waiting when my service ends. It is not perfect. It has probably changed a great deal in my absence. But I know that it will always be the place where Gershwin’s notes fall in harmony with the sounds and sights of the city. It will have the streets I know by heart. It will have Monet’s Water Lilies, and Van Gough’s Women Picking Olives. It will have my family; it will have my Yankees. It is my town, and it always will be.
The piece is just so quintessentially New York. As the piano notes crescendo, Woody Allen’s voice takes over my inner monologue. Suddenly, I am trapped in the film Manhattan. I look at the New York themed photo collage that I have pasted to my wall, and enter a New York montage. Imagine myself on the Brooklyn Bridge, looking out on the skyline. I peek into a street where Gershwin himself may have walked down, and hummed the beginning of the jazz melody that would one day play here in this Costa Rican neighborhood. As I look through my photo album, I find myself in a ballfield in Central Park. I have just finished playing in a game in which my high school team has won. I grab a handful of infield dirt, smell the freshly cut grass, and look up at the stately towers of the Upper East Side.
I have always wanted to be like Woody Allen. He is an icon of New York, a man who appreciates its beauty, and works the city into his art. I guess that it doesn’t hurt that he is a short, bald man who consistently dates beautiful women in his films. Even though he is a famous writer/director/actor, and I am an anonymous New Yorker, I see myself in him.
Like Woody, I am a native New Yorker. I consider the city’s and my history to be shared. I have never become disappointed by or fed up with its spirit.
My friend Emile was with me every step of the way in my discovery of the city. Throughout adolescence, we embraced several parts of New York that had significant meaning for us: the gourmet food stores where we would gorge ourselves on free samples of high end cheese and olives on the way home from school; the BYOB jazz club that would turn a blind eye to minors enjoying forties while tapping their feet to the music. Certain sidewalks bled memories for us on streets where we had broken up with girlfriends, or made new ones. Emile always shared with me an unwavering adoration of the city that raised us.
Now, Emile is ready to leave New York. He feels betrayed by the way the city has changed. The gentrification began long before Emile and I began knowing the city’s jazz clubs and museums. However, as of late, it has reshaped the face of the neighborhood that we grew up in. Buildings that held the beloved barber shops, corner stores, and restaurants that shaped our identities have been bulldozed to make way for luxury high-rises. When we were kids, the neighborhood was strictly middle class. Now, one-bedroom apartments go for a million dollars.
While the transformation of my city saddens me at times, I feel that New York still has (and will never lose) the spirit that inspired Gershwin, Woody and me. It is still the pinnacle. If you want to be the best at anything, you’d better be ready to spend some time in New York. Art and creativity seep out of the city’s every pore. When places are gentrified, they are sometimes reborn: the nightlife scene that started in a reblushed Lower East Side has played a major role in the evolution of rock and roll. I am not saying that it is not a shame that thousands of people had to move out because they could not afford the astronomical rent hikes. I am saying that the spirit of New York would never allow its changing face to become boring. No matter what rents are like, the subway still shakes your feet, and the city still never sleeps.
I close my photo album, and the piece ends. I look out my window at my mango tree and smile. While I miss my city, I know it will be there waiting when my service ends. It is not perfect. It has probably changed a great deal in my absence. But I know that it will always be the place where Gershwin’s notes fall in harmony with the sounds and sights of the city. It will have the streets I know by heart. It will have Monet’s Water Lilies, and Van Gough’s Women Picking Olives. It will have my family; it will have my Yankees. It is my town, and it always will be.
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