An Advertisement For Old Weeksville?

One thing I love about pedaling through neighborhoods tourists don't visit is the glimpses I get of the city as it was-- and still is, in the memories of people who've been in it for a long time.

Once upon a time--actually, when I was growing up and even during the years just after I moved back to New York--signs painted on the sides of buildings were abundant.  One thing the remaining signs tell us is, of course, that there was once a time--not so long ago--when there was enough space between buildings for such signs to be seen.  They also remind us of a time when most of buildings and businesses in this city--even large ones--were owned and operated by the families that originally founded or funded them.  

I found myself thinking about who might have been behind this mural advertisement:

Cardinal Realty Company was registered with the city on 22 June 1951.  It grew to include, as the sign attests, auto insurance and other services before its dissolution on 19 December 1984.  At least, that's the date on which it's listed as "Inactive-Dissolution."  

I don't know when the sign, on the side of an apartment building on St. John's Place, just off Troy Avenue, was painted.  The telephone number shown is NE(vins) 8-9000.  Telephone exchanges were converted from numbers to letters during the 1960's, but telephone numbers were listed in the old way until the 1980s.

The neighborhood in which I saw that sign also is, in its own way, a remnant of an old Brooklyn.  It's usually identified as part of Crown Heights or Bedford-Stuyvesant, but it's actually part of Weeksville, one of the first communities founded in New York by freed and escaped slaves.  Some farmed the land; others started businesses or trained in trades and professions.  Thus, the neighborhood became one of the first middle-class black communities, a status it held well into the 20th Century.  It's still a mostly-black (a mixture of American and Caribbean) neighborhood. Although it's not as prosperous as it once was, it's retained a kind of worn-but-not-shabby working-class dignity reflected in the peeling paint of that sign--and the bricks, smoldering in the light of the setting sun, surrounding it.

Perhaps Cardinal was founded by a descendant of someone who lived out his or her freedom in old Weeksville.

 

Blaming Ian

As you've heard by now, Hurricane Ian trashed parts of Florida's west coast and did a lot of damage elsewhere.  Here in New York, we escaped the vice of his grip, but his sleeve brushed us, if you will.  So, while no part of Long Island resembles Sanibel Island, we were tossed and drenched as if we were passengers on an unstable ship.

Fortunately for us, there wasn't much damage and I didn't hear about any power outages.  But, from Friday evening through this morning, enough fell from the sky, and the wind was strong to keep me off my bike for the weekend.

I think the last time I went a whole weekend without riding at this time of year was when I was "doored" two years ago.  At least I had an excuse then:  thirty stitches and a torn muscle.  I suppose that to someone who's not a dedicated cyclist, I had an excuse this weekend. I don't mind wind or rain, up to a point.  If precipitation turns into a cataract and I can't see more than a few bike lengths in front of me, or if I can barely make headway against the wind, I won't ride unless I must.  

Even if I had an "excuse," I feel like a bit of a wimp.  But, I tell myself, I'll ride again and I didn't see carbon lycra crowd in the bike lane outside my apartment.  Not that I think they're any standard of a "dedicated cyclist," but I feel somehow vindicated.  They'll ride, and I'll ride.  I like to think that even if I don't have a lot of years left, I expect to continue riding, however slowly, long after they've moved on to other things.  And I was cycling before they were born.

All right, you didn't read this to hear me being smug and self-righteous.  So I'll leave you with something I saw while riding home late Thursday, before Ian came knocking.

Survivors

Yesterday and the day before, I continued my recent pattern of riding early to beat the heat.  There wasn't quite as much heat yesterday, though, so I rode a bit longer than I'd been riding during the past week.

Once again, I zigged and zagged through Queens and Brooklyn, albeit through different neighborhoods, along different streets.  If you grew up in the same Brooklyn neighborhoods where I spent my childhood, you think of the borough as a working-class enclave full of brick rowhouses and tenements inhabited by families of your ethnic group.  If you lived in some of the neighborhoods in which I rode yesterday, it was a much tougher place.  But if your acquaintance with the "Borough of Churches" or "Borough of Homes" is more recent--or if you are simply younger, whiter or more affluent--your image of Brooklyn could include brownstones or self-consciously trendy cafes where the tatooed, the bearded, the pink-haired and the Doc Maartens-wearing spend $40 to wash down a slice of advocado toast with a craft cocktail.

But another, older Brooklyn sometimes makes a surprise appearance. I hadn't ridden or walked by the intersection of Bushwick Avenue and Kossuth Place in a while and I'd all but forgotten about the church that graces it:

In a borough of brick and brownstone--and, increasingly, glass and steel-- only a few wooden buildings of any kind remain.  They were more common before Brooklyn became part of New York City and much of the borough beyond the waterfront was still rural.  At that time, the Dutch influence was still strong--hence the Reformed church.

It will be interesting to see what the building looks like when it's restored.  I love "survivor" buildings:  the ones that remain after everything else around it has been destroyed and replaced.  They look different, but not out-of-place because survivors are never out of place. At least that's what I tell myself:  I might be slower than I was, but I am still cycling and have no plans to stop.

A Message From Exotic Poetry

Maybe it has to do with the Supreme Court being up to no good.  Lately, it seems, I am seeing political and social messages everywhere.

I've passed this place many times.  It's just off Woodhaven Boulevard:  Cyndi Lauper's old stomping grounds.  The neighborhood has long been mainly blue-collar.  Some relatives of mine lived in and around it, among other Italian-Americans and children and grandchildren of Irish and German immigrants.  Some of those families remain, but many Indian, Pakistani and Central Americans have moved into the neighborhood--as well as some young LGBTQ people, no doubt because it's still relatively affordable.

Knowing all of that, I didn't think "ROE" meant the place serves caviar. Even if it does, I don't think I'd order it.  When I do stop there--which I intend to do on some near-future ride--I'll probably order something like the chicken, rice and beans dish listed on their blackboard.  Or perhaps I'll just have something to drink.

I can't believe I've passed that place so many times, usually on rides to the Rockaways and Point Lookout, where I rode yesterday.  Usually, it's closed when I ride by:  I suspect that it doesn't open until suppertime, or close to it.  Perhaps I'll catch it on my way back, or take a different ride that takes me in that direction.

After all, how can I resist a place called "Exotic Poetry?" Maybe I'll read some of my stuff, or attempt to launch a stand-up career.  (You think a transgender cyclist in, ahem, late middle age can't make people laugh--without even trying?)  One thing, I promise, though:  I won't do karaoke, even if it includes the letters "R," "O" and "E!"

A Ride To The Truth?

The other day, on a pleasant summer afternoon, I was riding back from a trek to Westchester County.  I couldn't help but to notice more work crews than I normally see on the streets.  Some came from ConEd or Verizon, others from the city's transportation department.  They confirm one of my from-the-saddle observations:  streets and roads are in worse shape than I've seen in some time.  Whether it's a result of the weather (climate change?) or simply deferred maintenance, I don't know.

One detour led me down Prospect Avenue in the South Bronx.  I actually didn't mind:  The stretch south of the number 2 and 5 elevated train lines has some rather nice old row houses, and the people seemed to be in a rather relaxed mood.  

Occasionally, I'll stop if a building or detail looks interesting. But I never expected to see, anywhere, something that sums up so many of the truths I hold to be self-evident, to paraphrase the Declaration of Independence.  

Within the past two weeks, the Supreme Court has voted to curtail a woman's right to her own body and, possibly, a bunch of other rights-- but not the one to carry a gun with you.  Why can't they support the simple truths expressed in that sign?  

  

Beauty Or Taste?

When I recall the places where I've stopped to eat or drink during a ride, I wonder just how good the food or beverages actually were.  Cycling heightens all of the body's and mind's functions, including the senses.  So the fruit and cheese from a roadside market, or the baguette or pastry from a little bakery after a few hours of pedaling is the best I've ever tasted.

So I wonder what how good lunch, or a snack, would have been had I stopped on a recent ride:

I was tempted to stop for the name alone.  The Miss America Diner's sign says it's been in business, on the west side of Jersey City, since 1942. Is the food really that good--or as good as I would remember after a long day's ride?

 

Or would it be beautiful?  Hmm...In other restaurants, the waiters sing and dance.  Does the diner have a talent competition?

I haven't followed the Miss America pageant in a while, but I hear that they it away with the swimsuit competition a few years ago.  Somehow I don't think it would work very well in an eatery.

In the not-too-distant future, I'll ride down that way again. Maybe I'll stop in the Miss America diner.  Will I remember the food the way I remember all of those things I've eaten at the end of a long ride?  Or will it just be beautiful?

Late Afternoon Ride, Early Spring

Bare branches veil

late afternoon windows

before they open

 

early Spring 

red buds 

pink blossoms

my ride ahead

opens

late afternoon 

early Spring.

An Early Sign?

Under a canopy of wizened limbs

They rise from catacombs of winter horizons

Is That All They Want?

One thing I notice while cycling is that signs and billboards don't always convey the intended messages. 

I saw an example last week, as I crossed the Northern Boulevard Bridge into Flushing:

Is this billboard telling us that if Morgan & Morgan wins your case, all they want is for you to pay?  I mean, I could understand if they feel that way: I've felt the same way about jobs I've done.  

Or should they reverse the order of "Only" and "Pay?" Somehow I think that would entice more would-be clients:  If the lawyer doesn't win, you don't pay.

One would think that in a firm of lawyers, at least one of them would have thought about how they phrase their pitches. 

WWMS: What Would Marshall Say?

 Marshall McLuhan famously said, “The medium is the message.” 

What would he have thought of this?:

I encountered it while riding down Driggs Avenue, one of the north-south thoroughfares of northern Brooklyn. The corner gifted with that message is South 2nd Street, just a couple of blocks from the bridge named for the neighborhood.

Given that Williamsburg, Brooklyn (at least the part north of the bridge) is the world’s capital of trust fund kids posing as hipsters, I have to wonder whether it’s one of their lame attempts at being “ironic.”

Entry, Late In The Day

Yesterday, for the first time in a week, we had more than a couple of hours with temperatures above freezing (0C or 32F).  Breezy still, the day refracted hues of sea and sun stretching into, and stretching, the end of the day.

A late afternoon ride along the North Shore meant riding home into the sunset along the Malcolm X pier between Flushing and LaGuardia Airport.  I think of passengers on descending flights and how some of them are coming to this city for the first time--and how the skyline they've seen in countless images is so close, but is still so far away--something as clear yet impenetrable as the window of a plane keeps it all even more distant from them, at least for the time being, than the lattice of tree limbs along the cold gray water.

Do they get to see the skyline as a reflection of the water that channeled all of us--from the Maspeth tribe to Milennial tech workers--into streets where we can get lost, or find ourselves?

My First View, From A Bike

Yesterday I rode Zebbie, my 1984 Mercian King of Mercia, through the brownstones and rowhouses of Queens and Brooklyn.  Such a ride could easily involve a trip across the Kosciuszko Bridge, now that it has one of the better bike-pedestrian lanes in this city.

And so it was yesterday.  Tourists on Citibikes almost always ride across the Brooklyn Bridge for the views.  But no longtime New York resident does that.  Rather, in-the-know Big Apple cyclists opt for the Williamsburg Bridge or, if we simply want a visually interesting ride, the Kosciuszko.

In the spring and summer, the view consists mainly of skyscrapers foregrounded by trees and the factories and warehouses along Newtown Creek.  But the denuded limbs of winter reveal a landscape of differing verticalities. (Does that sound like a geeky phrase or what?)

When I lived in Manhattan and Brooklyn, one of my worst fears was--moving to Queens.  Mind you, I took many good rides, and enjoyed other activities, in "the world's borough."  But my first glimpse of it came from my family's car, en route to visit relatives:

Tell me, how would you feel about a place if the first thing you saw in it was a cemetery?  I'm guessing that I probably saw it for the first time on a winter day like yesterday, with leafless trees screening, but not shielding, the tombstones.  

But I did eventually move to Queens--to Long Island City, not far from where I live now.  Since then, I've visited Calvary Cemetery.  I know that there are tours of some of this city's necropoli, like Greenwood and Woodlawn.  Anyone who has a taste for such things (which I do, sometimes) should also go to Calvary.  Largely before of it, there are--wait for it--more dead than living people in Queens. (Thomas Wolfe once claimed, "Only the dead know Brooklyn."  What would he have said about Queens?)  In fact, more people are buried in Calvary than in any other American cemetery--or than live in Chicago!

Like Greenwood and Woodlawn, Calvary is the final resting place for some famous and infamous people, as well as everyday New Yorkers.  Also in common with them, Calvary began after the 1840s cholera epidemic: At that time, most of Queens and the farther reaches of Brooklyn and the Bronx (the locations of Greenwood and Woodlawn, respectively) were rural. And there wasn't enough room left in Manhattan to bury the victims of that epidemic, so the city mandated that they be interred elsewhere. 

All of those cemeteries have chapels large enough for masses or services.  But Calvary has a full-blown cathedral (not visible in these photos) at least somewhat reminiscent of the Sacre Coeur in Paris.

It's ironic that those same trees I saw yesterday obscure the tombstones in spring and summer.  Could their lush leafage during those seasons be nourished by the "residents" of Calvary?

Egyptian Art Deco Catholic In Jackson Heights

 Jackson Heights is five to six kilometers from my apartment.  I have ridden through it, many times, along various routes.  Still, a ride can lead me to some interesting corner or structure I’d never seen or noticed before.

This is one such building.  At first glance, it doesn’t seem out of place: Like most of what is now in the neighborhood, it was built during the late 1920s:  around the same time as the Empire State and Chrysler Buildings. Also, many palatial movie theatres were constructed during that time, just when movies were becoming the most popular form of popular entertainment.  So it would be easy to take this building for a Loews or RKO cinema, especially when you look up.

Those “movie houses” often combined the line structures and geometric shapes of Art Deco with Egyptian motifs. They sound like an odd pairing until you look at them—and you realize that Howard Carter discovered King Tutankhamen’s tomb in the early 1920s, setting off a fad for all things Egyptian just as Art Deco was becoming the most influential style in architecture and design.

That is why this building doesn’t look out of place in Jackson Heights and would look right in parts of the Bronx or Miami Beach, which were also developed around the same time.

What makes this building so unusual, is this:

I grew up Catholic and have entered all sorts of church buildings and cathedrals here, in Europe and Asia.  I can’t say, however, that I’ve seen any other Catholic Church building—or, for that matter, any other house of worship—that looks quite like this one. 

And to think:  I came across it just because I decided to make a turn, and ride down a street, I hadn’t before.  That is one of the joys of cycling!

There's No College There, But There's An Education

This weekend included a change of seasons and cultures--and rides.

While, officially, we're deep into Fall, from Thursday through the middle of Saturday, it felt more like early summer.  I took Friday's ride, to Connecticut, in what I might wear around Memorial Day or Labor Day--a pair of shorts and a fluorescent green T-shirt.  The breeze took some of the edge off the humidity.

Saturday morning, I pedaled out to Kesso's for some fresh Greek yogurt.  Alas, they were closed.  I hope everything is OK there: Perhaps they, like so many other shops--and people--couldn't get some thing or another they needed because of the interrupted supply chains that have emptied store shelves.  Later in the day, wind drove hard rain against leaves, windows and faces.

Yesterday, the wind let up--for a little while--and temperatures were more fall-like.  I took a spin along the North Shore of Queens and western Nassau County, which took me into a neighborhood frequented by almost nobody who doesn't live there--in spite of its proximity to a mecca for in-the-know food enthusiasts.

On a map, College Point is next to Flushing.  But the two neighborhoods could just as well be on diffeent planets.  The latter neighborhood, one of the city's most crowded, has been known as the "Queens Chinatown" for the past three decades or so.  There are dozens of places where one can sample a variety of regional cuisines, and have everything from a formal dining experience to chow on the run.  Those places are centered around Roosevelt Avenue and Main Street, at the end of the 7 line of the New York subway system--and one stop away from Citi Field, the home of the New York Mets, and the US Tennis Center, site of the US Open and other events.

College Point is "off the grid," if you will--away from the city's transit systems and accessible only by winding, narrow streets that dead-end in inconvenient places or truck-trodden throughfares that, at times, resemble a moonscape, that weave through industrial parks, insular blue-collar communities and views of LaGuardia Airport and the Manhattan skyline one doesn't see in guidebooks.

Until recently, College Point--which, pervesely, includes no college--was populated mostly by the children and  Irish, German and Italian construction workers and city employees who were the children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren of Irish, German and Italian construction workers and city employees.  Their houses were smaller versions of the nearby factories and warehouses: squat brick structures framed by latticeworks of steel or wooden trellises, cornices  and fences.

In that sense, this place fits right in:

The New York Hua Lian Tsu Hui Temple is--you guessed it--a square brick building framed with wooden cornices and a steel fence.  The cornices,  though, are different:  They signal the purpose of the building, and signify other things.  Apparently, Chinese and Korean people who needed more space to raise their kids--or simply wanted to escape the crowding of Flushing--have "discovered" the neighborhood.  

Some have families and pets:

Marlee, though, was not impressed!  All she knows is that when I'm on my bike (or doing anything outside the apartment), I'm not there for her to curl up on.

Going With The Flow?

 I wonder who named this street

and what they were thinking when they named it.

I wonder whether or not that name is a disincentive to buy any of the properties that line it.

An Oracle?

Yesterday, I "outed" all of those cyclists--which includes nearly all, myself included--who've stopped for Dunkin' Donuts or other sweets during a ride.

With that in mind, I'll expose another cyclists' vice. If you haven't eaten it during a ride, you've almost certainly indulged in it apres randonee.  And if you've worked in a bike shop, it's almost certainly been your lunch (or dinner or midnight snack). Why else would Park make its PZT-2?

So, while taking another late-day ride yesterday, I wasn't sure of whether to tremble with fear or to be thankful for good luck (or genes) when I saw this:

How I Don't Want It To End

In my will (yes, I have one of those), I have specified, among other things, that I want my body used for medical or scientific research. Beyond that, I don't care what happens to me or how anyone chooses to memorialize me.

Well, all right, I don't care much.  There are some things, though, I don't want:

I mean, I like sports as much as the next person.  But a funeral party in a sports bar?   People actually do such things?  

You learn all kinds of things while bike riding! 

Timing

Yesterday, Connecticut.  Today, Point Lookout. Sensing a pattern?

I'll bet they did

though it's not the same as mine.  How else could they time their feeding to the receding tide?

These folks, on the other hand, know only that it's a summer day:

Social Distancing In The Sky

Lately, on bike rides, I've been noticing unusual cloud patterns.

Perhaps the endorphins cycling releases is causing me to see more.  Or is something unusual going in the environment?

I mean, for a moment, I thought those clouds were practicing  social distancing.

The rest of my ride was fabulous.  And, yes, I practiced social distancing. You never know who's watching.