Places of Love

Stuyvesant Park

The park is filled with calmness and the rustling of the trees. The paths are still empty, as the early hours roll in. The sun starts peaking in shyly through the foliage, and the head of Antoine Dvorak’s statue is starting to glisten in its rays. The benches are unoccupied at such an early time, and I can observe the entrance leading onto the main roundabout of the park. As I am resting, I see an old man striding into the park through the regal-looking gate. His body and posture indicate his old years, but his walk is still stiff and composed. You can see that his dignity is the only thing that keeps him going, yet his health is preventing him from being the man that he once was. His hand holds a wooden cane polished by years of use and the handle has been formed into an ideal shape of his palm. He carries himself with dignity through the struggles of old age, and as he enters the main park roundabout, I notice that he has a companion. An old Irish Setter is trundling along next to his feet. The once bright orange fur is now bleak, and the knees are trembling from old age. The man throws with difficulty a worn tennis ball, and the Setter slowly strides towards it.  He brings back the ball, and the owner bends over to pat the dog on the back, and they then proceed to the bench to rest. The pair gets down to rest, and as a man makes another physical effort in order to caress the dog, I notice that the way in which he does it, shows his deep love for this animal, and the bond that they have formed over the many years of life.

Union Square

The park is filled with protestors. There is a protest going on against the politics of the 45th president of the United States. Slogans, banners and flags are aplenty, and the faces of people are exerting discontent and anger. The crowd is loud. The crowd is fluid. The crowd is united. There is no love to be found in the crowd, only the negative emotions. I turn away, but as I am starting to walk away, I notice a pair sitting on a bench. They seem to be completely swallowed up by their feelings towards each other, that they did nit even notice what was going around them, as if they had a safety bubble around. The serenity of their postures, and the peacefulness of their expressions were in a great contrast to the red, angered faces in the mob. This iddilic image in the centre of such a social turmoil shocked me. The love that the pair had for each other was so strong that is showed in every bit of their appearance. The way that he looked at her, with a mist in his eyes, in the way that she held his hand, and how her other arm weaved around his neck. The way they sat on the bench expressed such a great amount of feelings, that I completely forgot about what was going on around me in the square.  The contrast of this scene is a mere reflection of the contrasts in New York City, one of the most multinational, multicultural cities in the world, and the love that lives in it is all-encompassing, just like the love of those two.

Washington Square Park

As I take my evening walk from the Elmer Bobst library towards my residence, I stroll through the open pathways around the central fountain of the park. The park is living its usual night life with the street performers and artists aplenty in the square. The people around me are enjoying their time, smiling and laughing, while others are enjoying their art. That is when I noticed an old man playing a banjo. He sits every day on the bench on the North-western side of the park, just next to the arch. He looks like he has been down on his luck lately, his shoes are dirty, his clothes are the same every day, and it seems like all of his belongings travel with him, due to a lack of place where he can store them. His eyes look like two little coals that have been cold for some time, no glow, no spark. But when he picks up his banjo, his spine miraculously stretches out, and his hands become two little doves, floating around the instrument, and producing the sound, that from the way the banjo looks, should resemble more a whale song, rather than the angelic piece that it makes. His eyes glow up, as if the wind in the air is blowing them brighter, and through the exterior of a fallen man shines the person he once was, as if his love to music helps him get through the day. His banjo is a child who he caresses with his arms, and with each stroke, sound comes from the old body of that banjo, announcing to the world the feelings of the man. This love is the love that keeps the man going, and this is one of the types of love that I  find most fascinating.

Madison Square Park

It is September 15th. I stroll towards uptown Manhattan on 5th avenue. It is the first month since I came to New York. I have never been in America before. I have only ever read about life in this city, and it was hard to imagine for me how it is. I was bewildered and bemused by what I saw here. Never in my life have I imagined that this city is so full of lively energy and people who are so invested into the city in which they reside. As I was walking up, I have reached Madison Square Park, a place which I have only ever imagined visiting before, let alone living only eight blocks away from. Even the concept of blocks was an absolutely alien thing before, as the cities where I have previously lived, did not even have streets arranged in such a way. The park is something that I have dreamed of seeing, as it is home ti the Flatiron building. It is the building that was on the front page of my history book. It is the building that I have studied in my IB Art class as a fine example of the US architectural style. It os the building that i fell in love with. The tall, brown shape streaming up into the skies is a visualisation of willpower and strength of mankind. It is a stepping stone that demonstrated that people can try to reach the stars even in their day to day lives. The shape of it makes me think of a front end of a battlecruiser ship, cutting through the water, just like this building cuts through the city, streamlined in its determination.

Bobst Library

Elmer Bobst library is not a place where I have expected to observe any love. Nor did I think that being there would ever be as interesting as I found it to be. As it turned out after my fifth or sixth visit, there is a section of Russian literature on the 8th floor, and as soon as I found out about that, I have headed straight there. When I arrived, I found large amounts of literature, both in English and Russian, and I became captivated by the vastness of the collection and the sheer amount of knowledge and culture encapsulated in one hall of a university library. That is when I was interrupted in my search for new linguistic features by a pair of a boy and a girl. They were both Russian, and they were here for the same reason as me, but they did not notice me. They were completely engulfed by their mutual love. They used this place as away of hiding from everyone. The boy sat on the floor with a book of Lermontov poetry, and was reading it out to the girl with such passion, that this cheeks started to blush. But it seemed that his efforts were heading him in the direction that was not so desired by him. The poetry was having a strange effect on the girl. Her attention was shifting from her partner to the beauty and intricacies of Russian poetry. The intricate weaving of the language made her amorous, but not with a human, but with a language.