02 Jun High Line for the Soul
I could barely see over the ferry railing at the age of 5 or 6 but I remember feeling the sense of freedom the Statue of Liberty represented as I gazed at her across wide-open water. Once on New York’s streets, I clung to my father’s hand, staring at a wall of legs as my younger brother perched on my father’s shoulders. There was something both thrilling and terrifying about being part of the crowd, feeling its restlessness as it waited for the crossing light, surging forward with it as the light changed. I stumbled slightly, then felt a steadying hand from somewhere in the sea of strangers. I turned to see a woman smiling down at me. She handed me two small “I Love NY” buttons, indicating one was for me and one for my brother before she melted back into the crowd.
I remember little more than that view of Lady Liberty and that street-side kindness from my first visit to NYC, but it felt like a peek into the soul of the city. I proudly displayed my “I Love NY” button in my bedroom for years, but my fondness faded with less positive glimpses from a subsequent visit in middle school. My view tarnished as I watched a woman plead with a cop to help her safely navigate through a gang stand-off. The stone-faced cop barely glanced in her direction.
“Lady,” he said, “If there’s no blood or a dead body, I don’t have time for it.”
Tarnish turned to fear hours later when a man in a downtown train station began yelling at my father, slamming him up against the wall for no apparent reason. The attack was short-lived and without bloodshed, but the damage was done. I took my button down. I avoided the City. On rare, required subsequent visits, I struggled to see past what I then perceived as crushing, pestering crowds, sooty cement, and energy-wasting billboards.
My mind raced with its usual negative NYC commentary as I emerged disoriented from Penn Station on my most recent visit. Bird conservation meetings had lured me back and I had vowed to be open-minded, but escaping the maze of the station had already set me back.
I braced myself for a hellish journey as I dragged my luggage onto the busy sidewalk. I stomped forward, prepared to defend myself against antagonistic crowds but to my surprise, the masses parted around me and my roller bags.
The next morning, alongside some of the world’s most distinguished bird conservationists, I experienced Central Park anew. Some had never been there before, some had spent a lifetime birding there, but we all seemed to gain appreciation for the place as one of our expert guides, a woman who had devoted years to introducing NY school children to the Park’s birds, described how Central Park was designed to be a nature oasis accessible to all.
Dogs frolicked down grassy hills, bikers and joggers filled their respective lanes, a couple sat on a bench sipping coffee, and deep in the heart of the forested Ramble, it was easy to forget we were surrounded by sky scrapers. We watched as Cape May, Canada, Black-throated Blue, Magnolia, and Blackpoll Warblers flitted through the trees, male Scarlet Tanagers appeared like rubies against the sky, and an American Robin, clearly accustomed to the crowds, sat on its eye-level nest. Was it that I was seeing this place through the eyes of New Yorkers, or from the perspective of birds? I wasn’t sure, but I felt my stance toward the city softening and decided to heed more advice from my companions –
“Visit the High Line, you’ll be in for a treat.”
They told me the High Line was a refurbished elevated rail line landscaped with native plants, but I had no real vision of it as I ventured out into the chilly rain. I could see the elevated platform of the former railroad track as I neared, but it took a bit of wandering through bleakness before I found my way up to the Hudson Yards entrance. The contrast, as I stepped from the plain street into this innovative park, was stunning. A section of former track glistened gold as puddles reflected landscaping lights. Native trees and grasses appeared lush against the gray sky, a Common Yellowthroat weaved its way through leaves. Rusted train equipment served as statues, old railroad ties as artistic features and, in one area, a children’s playground. I had only intended a quick visit, but I was drawn toward the bend overlooking the Hudson River and then, despite the cold rain, I decided to turn around and work my way toward the other end of the 1.45-mile park.
I’d imagined an old railroad track park might quickly become monotonous, but it did not. Plantings varied, structures ebbed and flowed, art installations appeared, a row of cafes here, theater seating there… I found myself riveted not just by the creative rebirth of this formerly decaying industrial skeleton, but also by its inspirational tendrils clearly spreading beyond the original bones. Surrounding patios and rooftops displayed similar plantings, artwork, and benches, a visual extension of the High Line itself. And at the opposite end, when I begrudgingly dismounted, I discovered another oasis along the shore of the Hudson River – ball fields surrounded by wetland restoration projects, an entire manmade island (Little Island) covered in hills of native plants, bike paths, restaurants, and more – another refreshing solution to a formerly dying industrial zone. As I worked my way back along the High Line, I could hear sirens roaring down the streets, but my attention was captured by a serenading catbird and an Ovenbird flipping through the leaf litter below. I once again glimpsed the city’s soul.
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