Clockwise Only, Please
By Martha Randolph Carr
Spring has finally arrived on the calendar, but if like me you live in the north, it hasn’t quite gotten here on the ground level. The trees in New York City are showing some signs of thinking about budding, but that’s about it. I spotted a few branches of forsythia with small yellow blooms but they were drooping from the cold so that doesn’t really count.
However, Easter has also gotten here, albeit very early with the new moon, and that has led to some very concerted efforts to embrace the season. Runners were out in Central Park in shorts and gloves and there were a few men in pale linen suits barely visible under their heavy overcoats. It was all a very mixed message.
I was observing all of them as I cut through the upper end of Central Park on my way to Easter services last Sunday. On a whim, yet again, I took the train that was already there and ended up on the upper east side of town. Church is on the upper west side, which I, yet again, remembered when everything looked so unfamiliar. I’ve finally been here long enough that some things do actually look familiar. But, it was Easter and a very clear day and a nice walk actually seemed like an added blessing so I set off down the street.
Halfway down the block though I doubted my sense of direction and stopped a stranger to see if I was really headed toward the park or would soon be staring at the Hudson River.
“Is this the way toward 6th Avenue?” I asked, very pleased with myself that I knew 6th was toward the park.
“Where are you trying to get to?” asked the young woman, adopting a very pleasant smile.
Now, there’s only one reason people ask this in reply to a directional question. It’s because you’ve either just given an address that couldn’t possible exist, like asking about 4th Avenue down in the Village or there is a certain air about you that just reeks of ‘I have no real idea of where I am’. I’m convinced this has become my permanent condition.
“I’m walking toward 96th and Broadway,” I said, a little embarrassed to even hint at the newby mistake of ending up at 96th and Lexington, which is exactly what I had done.
“Well, you’re headed the right way, but you’ll have to cross through the park,” she said, very nicely. “So, there’s no 6th Avenue…”
“Right!” I said, with way too much emphasis.
“Are you from here?” she asked, looking generally concerned about me.
“I moved here in August,” I said, “from Virginia.”
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