After six months in the Berkshires, I have returned to the city — that’s unless another COVID-19 surge sends me scurrying toward isolation again. I haven’t yet left the confines of my neighborhood, but I have willed myself to hobble almost 2 miles back and forth to the venerable and dynamic Union Square Market. The market, where everybody is masked and social distancing is generally adhered to, is missing a few unique stands (e.g., heirloom apples) I once depended on. However, it seems to be doing relatively well, though it lacks the intensity that it had in pre-pandemic days when it was teeming with people and where, on weekends, there was barely space to walk.
I have also eaten at outdoor tables with friends at local restaurants (always with some lingering anxiety) and met with other friends, masked and sitting at a distance, in Washington Square Park. So far I haven’t ventured into museums like the Met or the Whitney or attempted to use mass transit, but I am tempted. One doesn’t want to be reckless and self-destructive but, at the same time, I don’t like the feeling of being constricted. I have no illusions at 81 about how long I can live an active life, but being trapped in one place watching Netflix and sports on television is not the way I want to end my days.
My first impression of the city, at least of the privileged parts of Manhattan, is that it has lost some of its energy and soul: It feels bare. There are too many stores for rent or boarded up; a few patches of scrawled graffiti have suddenly appeared; and homeless encampments have sprung up in pocket parks and in doorways, adding to the feel of decay. It’s clear the next few years will be economically difficult ones for many New Yorkers: It will take a while for office buildings to fill up, many small stores will never return and, with their disappearance, innumerable jobs.
I have sat and read in my local park — Washington Square — both mornings and weekend afternoons. In the mornings the park feels controlled and serene: nannies and mothers pushing baby carriages, New York University students preparing for classes, and grizzled old Village residents talking about politics and art. On the weekend there is cacophony and chaos — skateboarders, electric bike riders and even a motorcyclist — people acting out without an iota of concern for other park users. The park seems overcrowded, and at the moment there are no police to be seen to constrain the anarchy. Still, there is no hint of violence, but it’s no place to take refuge if you want to read or have a quiet talk with a friend.
Speaking to a neighborhood friend about the city, she argued that journalists often make the mistake of writing about the city as if it’s defined solely by Manhattan. And that in ethnic and immigrant neighborhoods, the streets are much livelier: “People take advantage of the Open Streets programs and children play on the streets, their parents are outside visiting with neighbors, and small stores are open, providing essential services.” She added that these neighborhoods offer a “sense of community and sharing, often providing food and caregiving for each other. These are the people without second homes, or the choice to work remotely, who provide essential services, and bore the brunt of the virus.”
Another friend, who has traveled around the city in recent weeks, has confirmed that a livelier street world and more active commercial life exists in some outer-borough ethnic neighborhoods than in Manhattan.
However, according to Mara Gay in a New York Times op-ed column, 1 million jobs have been lost; there are 114,000 homeless children who lack the means to learn remotely,; and many of the bodegas and small ethnic restaurants face extinction. She feels “New York isn’t dead, but its people are suffering.” So we can’t feel too confident that the life in the outer boroughs can be sustained. But at the moment, I am ready to embrace every bit of positive news I see and hear.
