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Author: Anne Cassidy

Manhattan Monochrome

Manhattan Monochrome

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The clouds moved in and gave the photos from Roosevelt Island a monochromatic moodiness. But they didn’t spoil the views of Manhattan, which are primo from this two-mile strip of land in the East River.

There’s the United Nations building on the left and the Chrysler Building and One Vanderbilt faint gray in the middle of the shot. There are skyscrapers made of steel and glass and masonry. There is the city in all of its heft and all of its of splendor.

I lived in New York City for five and a half years and never stepped foot on Roosevelt Island. I made up for it yesterday. 

Commuters’ Choreography

Commuters’ Choreography

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With all this energy and all these people, the question is why there are not more collisions. I’m not talking about people and automobiles, but about people and people. By what strange grace do pedestrians keep from running into each other?

I went to Grand Central Station to try and learn the answer. I observed commuters rushing to their trains, entering from 42nd Street or from the Met Life building, heading in scores of directions at once, never colliding. 

There’s an almost balletic precision to the movements, many narrow misses, but somehow people get where they’re going without rehearsing any of the bobs and weaves required to do it.

It’s worthy of Balanchine: the commuters’ choreography.

It’s Baaaack!

It’s Baaaack!

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Where to start, except to say that this place I once lived, this place I once feared had fallen prey to the emptiness and ennui that plagues many cities these days, has not only survived, it’s thrived. 

New York City is back … and it’s better than ever! Or at least that’s my humble opinion, influenced no doubt by a spot-on day of walking from east side to west side, uptown to down. Others might disagree, might say it’s dirtier, more crime-ridden. And I wouldn’t argue, given my tourist perspective. 

But as a place of great energy and drive, where people of all types rub shoulders with each other, where sirens blare, horns honk, street music sings, it cannot be beat.  

Big Apple Bound

Big Apple Bound

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It’s been a two years since I took in the Big Apple, so I’m heading up there today, to walk, visit with a dear friend, and soak up the big city vibe. 

Though I’ve traveled far and wide since then, it still seems like the place of places to me, where all roads lead. In my case, train tracks. But then, a lot of tracks lead there, too. 

I’ll do what I always do in any city, but especially this one — I’ll put as many miles on my old tennis shoes as I possibly can. I’ll become, at least for a few days, a walker in the city. 

Night and Day

Night and Day

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Last night, after the kiddos were rounded up and their weary parents pulled away from the house, heading home, I noted the miracle that’s so easy to ignore this time of year, the great gift of evening daylight. 

Family activities postponed my morning walk, but there was still (barely) enough light to take a late stroll. It had been awhile since I took this walk on the downwind side of the day, and I couldn’t help but notice how different it was. 

Yellow lamplight glowed through windows. Late birds rustled in the trees. Sprinklers made that tst, tst, tst sound. I was the only walker on the road. Houses and lawns that look ordinary at 8:30 a.m. look positively fetching 12 hours later. 

With walking, as with so much else, timing is key.

Dads and Babies

Dads and Babies

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On this day of dads, I’m thinking about babies, too, especially one particular baby who is napping upstairs. In fact, it’s only because she’s napping that I’m able to write this post.

On this day of all days, fathers and babies naturally belong together.  Dads (and grandpas) have a way of jostling, tossing, blowing on tummies and just generally making an infant’s day. 

I’m sure this infant would agree. 

Singing Chicken

Singing Chicken

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For years I stored my oldest journals in metal boxes tucked away on the highest shelf of my closet. I had to stand on a step ladder and move so much stuff out of the way to reach them that it was as if they didn’t exist. But now they’re placed spine-side-up in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet next to my desk, so they are ripe for exploration.

Before my discovery of Moleskine notebooks I gathered my thoughts in a hodgepodge of blank books bound in everything from leather to corduroy. The journals are a motley crew, but they served the purpose, which was connecting the dots, remembering, as Joan Didion wrote, “how it felt to be me.” 

Sometimes I dip into them for a fact: When exactly did I leave for that trip to Yugoslavia? How long did I work for the lovable but crazy family on West 94th Street? But I always read more than I intended. 

The other day, I discovered an encounter I had with a singing chicken. The “chicken” had been hired to serenade a friend and colleague on her birthday. My job was to meet the chicken and escort him to my friend’s desk. In his other life, the actor who took on this second job was playing Theseus in a production of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” Or at least that’s what he told us.

You can’t make this stuff up. But, if you’re lucky, sometimes you write it down. 

Stepping Up

Stepping Up

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I’ve never been a step counter, so the headline in yesterday’s newspaper, “New Walking Tips Drop the 10,000 Steps Goal,” wasn’t a disappointment. But given that the article was about walking, well, I had to read it. 

I learned some interesting facts: While experts have lowered the 10,000 steps goal— the number of steps doctors recommend we get each day for healthy living — they haven’t lowered it by all that much. For adults under 60 it’s 8,000 to 10,000 and for those over 60 it’s 6,000 to 8,000.

What I found especially useful were the equivalencies: 1,000 steps is approximately half a mile, and 3,000 steps represents about a half hour of walking. Helpful — to a point. I usually measure a walk by the number of ideas it inspires … and I’ve yet to see a scale for that. 

Fellow Travelers

Fellow Travelers

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Some emerge just past dawn for their morning stroll, eyes blinking, still taking in the light. They leave early for the office or they can’t sleep or they feel dutiful getting in their steps early. 

Others require a cup of tea or other sustenance, so you might find them in the 8 or 9 o’clock hours.

Still others just squeak by calling their daily perambulation a morning walk. They start at 11 a.m. and return just in time for lunch. 

What all of these people have in common, though, is that they are regulars. I see them most every day, depending on when I hit “the track” (also known as the main street of my neighborhood). Some of them I know well, others only by sight. But they are my companions, my fellow travelers, and I honor them all.

The Convert

The Convert

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The skin is an organ. But it’s an organ that blushes. No wonder, then, that we treat it differently than we do, say, our liver or spleen. Specifically — and especially at this time of year — we protect it from the sun. Or we don’t. 

For many years, I actively sought a tan. I was a member of the baby-oil-and-baking-on-a-beach crowd. I sunbathed on my towel in various parks in Chicago and New York City. I’d spend entire days outdoors daubing on only a little SPF 8. I even laid out on the hot tar roof of my Greenwich Village apartment. 

Tans made me look better, I thought. They evened out my skin tone, gave me a rosy glow. They also, through the years, damaged my skin. 

I converted to sunscreen years ago, 45 SPF or higher. But this summer, I’m redoubling my efforts. I reapply often. Sometimes, I even carry sunscreen around in my purse. I’ve become, if not fanatical, at least responsible.  And so, I enter the summer pasty and white — or make that pale and healthy.