When we took a two-year New York City hiatus, back in the Nineties, more than anything else, I missed our weekend hikes through Central Park. Not the great theatre, the bustling streets, the food and not the energy.
I missed Central Park, and I find now, it’s one thing the coronavirus seasons can’t take from me. Let me share some pictures.
On the walk from the Roosevelt Island Tram to Fifth Avenue, we passed a lot of folks out walking. All New Yorkers. No tourists pausing at corners, orienting themselves, figuring out how to get into Bloomingdales.
Neighbors wearing every variety face mask. Distancing, mostly, 90% or so, but you never get 100% of people to go along with anything. 90% of New Yorkers complying, I believe, is a miracle about the magnitude of the fishes and loaves.
Off to the Meadows, Central Park, April 25th, 2020
Trees and flowers breaking into spring gave us all the breathes of fresh air we crave. And peace. Tranquility.
Someday soon, we’ll grab a bench by the water again, not as concerned about how close our nearest neighbor is. Kids will hold remote controls, pointing into the water, while their boats skitter over the surface.
That’ll be Central Park, but it won’t be April. Or May. Or even June. And it won’t be the coronavirus year of 2020.