What kind of person goes to a factory after work? (No, I'm not talking about The Factory!)
Better yet: What kind of person rides her bike to a factory in a skirt and heels?
All right, you know the answer to the second question. And if you know that, you know the answer to the first question, too.
Today, after work, I got on Marianela and didn't give a thought to anything else besides riding home. However, as they say in the old country, a funny thing happened along the way. I made a couple of "wrong" turns but still ended up within a few blocks of my place. But I wouldn't get there for another couple of hours.
The next thing I knew, I was climbing the stairs to the concrete ribbon that parallels the Randalls Island-bound traffic lanes on the RFK/Triborough Bridge. From there, I pedalled the asphalt and concrete maze to the Bronx-bound spur of the bridge, where I rode along the metallic-hued water and through a couple of parks that were more crowded than they normally are on a weekday, even at this time of year.
Somehow or another, I ended up at the Concrete Plant Park. I didn't object, even though I had no say in it. You see, Marianela wanted to go there. I don't take her on such long rides very often, but I know that her primary motive wasn't to stretch her downtube and spokes. Instead, I think she listened to Arielle, Helene and Tosca talk about the rides they took there, with me. Marianela knows that they're all really pretty in their Mercian paint color number 57 with white lug striping. But she was convinced, I think, that she would look even better than they did by the old concrete plant:
She may just be right. (Did I actually say that?) At any rate, it is one place where, I believe, she looks good.
If your navigational skills are anything like mine, even rides in familiar territory become adventures. Of course, I don't share that "dirty little secret" about myself when people tell me I have a sense of adventure.
The malfunction of my mental GPS came when I was trying to bring Lakythia to the promenade by the World's Fair Marina. I sometimes ride it on my way home from work. But we were approaching it from the opposite direction from my commutes. So, after a couple of wrong turns, we were riding in front of the Delta and American Airlines terminals at LaGuardia Airport.
We finally got to that promenade, though. And, at the end of it, we pedalled over a bridge that spans one of those bodies of water where a body or two might've been dumped among old car parts and wastes from the small factories along that body of water.
At least the bridge ends in Flushing, where there might be more good Asian food than in any other place in North America or, at any rate, the East Coast.
We shared a Korean hot pot containing, as you can see, lots of vegetables and some seafood. I found myself thinking about having fondues and raclettes at the ends of days spent cycling in the Alps. I saw two women, who appeared to be a mother and daughter, dipping pieces of vegetables and meat into the roiling stock.
The restaurant was not shy about using spices. That was fine with both Lakythia and me. Actually, at first I found myself complaining that the food was too hot--temperature-wise, not in terms of spices. But she pointed out something it doesn't take a college instructor to figure out (ha, ha): If you let the food cool a bit, eating it becomes easier. And the food is actually tastier.
My only complaint is that the sauce spattered on my tank top that matches the colors of my Mercians:
Well, that's what it looked like before it got spattered. Hopefully, the spots will come out in the wash. If they don't, I guess I'll have to go to Old Navy and hope they have another of these tops.
I'm not sure whether Lakythia didn't get spattered or was simply smarter in choosing the T-shirt she wore:
Have you ever had your ride interrupted--or detoured--by some chance event?
I'm not talking about bike breakdowns, injuries or other emergencies. Rather, I'm thinking about more serendipitous--or at least pleasant--happenings.
Today I stopped at Parisi's Bakery as I embarked on my ride. I'd bought a couple of sfogliatelle, figuring that I could eat one as a snack during my ride or save them for later. I also figured that by the time I got back from wherever I rode, they might be closed or not have much left.
As I exited the bakery (Yes, they let me bring my bike in!), I looked to my left and saw a rainbow flag flying. Seeing a rainbow flag wasn't itself so unusual, especially on the day after same-sex marriages were legalized in New York. However, the flag I saw seemed especially prominent and conspicuous, especially given that it's on a rather drab block:
I couldn't get a better photo of the house because it's on a street underneath elevated train tracks. That means, among other things, that traffic is usually fairly congested on that street because the posts of the train trestles take up a lot of space on that street.
I've cycled or walked that street only a few times, even though I've been living in the neighborhood for more than eight years and I don't know how many times I've boarded that train. Living in New York is funny that way: Lots of people have lived even longer in one neighborhood, even in one apartment or house, than I've lived here. Yet they, too, haven't walked, and may never walk, down some streets near them.
Perhaps I can rationalize not cycling or walking that street because it's not along any route I normally take for work or pleasure, and, as I've mentioned, it's not a particularly attractive street. But today I decided to take a look at that house:
I'd never seen the "Religion ruled during the Dark Ages" and "Atheism is myth understood" stickers anywhere else. The others, I'd seen in one version or another. How many people would line their houses with bumper stickers of any sort, much less ones that so proclaimed their beliefs?
As I snapped those photos, the owner poked her head out of a window. "Whose side are you on?" I could just barely hear her over the clatter of an approaching train.
I pointed to the train. She held out her hand. I waited; just after the train passed, she opened her door and poked her head out.
"You look like a friend," she said.
"Perhaps."
"Bring your bike in."
We sipped iced tea while we waited for a friend to meet her for a night out. I'd had the impression that she was either a hippie or a dancer. Turns out, she was both. "Now I'm just a senior citizen with a tenant from hell. But I need her if I'm going to keep this house."
"That's too bad..."
"What's the use of complaining?"
Then we had one of those conversations that veered into more topics than it seemed possible to discuss in a short time. Not surprisingly, we talked about gay marriage, Stonewall (She wasn't there, but friends of hers were) and about the prejudices and hate some of us still experience. "I've known people who were beaten up, fired, kicked out of apartments for being gay."
"People have been killed for it," I reminded her.
"My brother was."
I clasped her hand. "I'm so sorry..."
"Thank you. It was a long time ago, but it never leaves you."
"Well, I can understand. There's no shame in that."
"My brother is Julio Rivera."
"The one who was killed in Jackson Heights twenty years ago?"
She nodded. I remember his killing, in part, because of things that were going on in my life at that time. But it was also one of the events that led to the passage of "hate crime" legislation in New York. It seemed that around that time, there were a number of crimes committed out of one kind of bigotry or another. As an example, less than a year before Rivera's murder, Yusef Hawkins was beaten to death by a group of white teenagers when he went to look at a used car in Brooklyn.
She reminisced about Julio and showed me some photos of him and other members of her family. Then her friend arrived. We exchanged phone numbers and I left.
"Enjoy your ride. And be safe."
