After the feedback from last week’s column, I decided to do what I perceived to be the classiest and most respectful move possible: I went to the exact opposite end of the island — Bowling Green, to be exact. Perhaps this way my vitriol will waft only as far as Midtown and won’t offend the delicate sensibilities of Nutella-breathed Columbia University undergraduates.
In any case, I felt burgeoned by the familiar feelings of adventure and discovery, as I was serenaded by a particularly enthusiastic subway musician accompanying himself with a bongo on Coldplay’s “Yellow.” Also, a baby on the 4 Train bit my finger while I was double-checking my route on a map, which I interpreted as a pointed (referring to the teeth) if not drooly (referring to the obvious) good-luck charm. I emerged to a post-apocalyptic scene of gray skies and construction sites, as well as swarming tourists who apparently were still under the impression that the Statue of Liberty was open. I heard more than one foreign-accented grumble of indignation as I passed statues chafed by decades of blue-jean-clad butts posing for a Christmas photo.
Following a chattery group of college kids from Austin, Texas, I made my way to a large crowd of laughing and cheering people that could only be surrounding street performers. I admired their timing. With no Statue of Liberty to tempt the wallets of out-of-towners, what could tourists really do at the base of the island besides take pictures of the squirrels? (Which, I might add, I saw several different people doing. Seriously? They are only a few small features away from being rats. Also, if you’re going to take so many pictures of them, they definitely deserve a tip, just like the guy spray-painted silver in Times Square.)
The only other entertainment available was, inevitably, street performers, and they were aware of the monopoly they had on the market. They were prepared to catch the windfall with tongue-in-cheek humor: “We will not rob you. We don’t do that anymore. We’re just two black guys. We can’t hurt everybody.” One of them sported a huge tattoo across his shoulders that read “Game Over.”
However, the real show was to be found at the Staten Island Ferry Terminal, which has single-handedly surpassed Washington Square Park, Kimmel Center Marketplace and the perch at my window as my favorite place from which to people watch. As everyone waited to board the giant boat, I saw a fascinating amalgamation (new vocabulary word I learned recently) of people from every corner of the five boroughs. Everyone I tried to interview rebuffed me, leaving me to scuttle around listening for snaps of conversation. I guess I was a little too fascinated, because a Hasidic Jewish man had to implore me to “stop taking pictures of my family!” I had honestly just liked his hat and wasn’t trying to be bothersome, but still, sorry dude. You were rocking that fur.
The juicy conversation was endless and hilarious: an irate security man relayed his dietary troubles to his friends: “I do 500 crunches a day. My belly won’t do down. What do you want me to do? My doctor’s a vegan. Friggin’ nerd. Fattest friggin’ vegan I’ve ever seen. I eat 3 or more heads a day of romaine lettuce. I’m still bigger than the ferry.”
A teenager rolled his eyes as he informed, “The ferry is not a boat tour, mom.”
On my way out, I paused to watch the advertisements scroll across big black message boards with measured precision: “Want More HD Channels?” “Carnival. Fun For All, All For Fun,” etc. I almost choked on my juice on that last one, given the fact that the last time I heard about a Carnival cruise it was that one that broke down and became a floating toilet. I almost missed when I paused to pet a dog (the guy holding him jerked the black lab away and told me he was a bomb-sniffing dog and couldn’t be touched — awkward). “Accidents happen and it could be you,” screamed the bright green letters of the final ad. Taking the hint, I went home, giggling.
Helen Holmes is deputy features editor. Email her at [email protected].
