A day in New York: Checkmate

Who I am
Joel Fulleda

wikipedia.org, lonelyplanet.com

Author and references

New York ? was the beginning of a trip to the USA, from there? then we went down to the southeast, in the meantime let's enjoy a few days in the big apple.

1 day

I let my eyes climb up the iron stairs until they touch the blue sky, while I walk in the tree-lined avenue of Edgecombe, between those who ride bicycles and those who run with the dog at the side.
Haven't got to the subway that I already have yet? returned many of those smiles and greetings ...
I linger at each block before crossing the street so as not to miss a single window, a cornice of the red brick houses of Harlem.
I go down into the hot undergrounds of the metro and abandon myself to the frantic horde of passengers who join and divide on the stairs like a school of fish among the corals.
At each station I pause to listen to the musicians' notes, to look at the tiled walls, to think how the metropolitan vortex has swallowed me quickly.
I emerge in the air, and feel like a gnome in the woods, NY? a giant, pi? great of the great seen so far!
Amazed, I look around and am kidnapped by an uncontrollable feeling of well-being, that satisfaction that a work of art can convey, yes, New York for me? a work of art where opposing elements manage to coexist in harmony.
Futuristic skyscrapers and Victorian buildings wink at each other among the sunny avenues, trees and traffic lights oxygenate the streets, squirrels and artists animate the squares and I, tireless, continue my wandering to notice how many suggestive glimpses remain dormant waiting for a glance , a photo that makes them protagonists.
In the variegated Union Square I move among pumpkins and organic potatoes, among fortune tellers and chess players and, just like the king on the chessboard, I study the opponent, certain that I cannot avoid the checkmate, the giant will eat me? in two steps.
From a bench, the savior of my exhausted feet, I like to lose count of the impressive number of ethnic groups that pass me by, I believe that the whole world converges here in New York!
The sun's rays pierce the windows of the skyscrapers whose shapes chase each other until they overlap, a game of reflected clouds and set only for a moment.
The Statue of Liberty, the undisputed symbol of NY and the United States, even if I see it from Battery Park, certainly does not leave me indifferent, it will be? also for the Hudson bay that embraces Manhattan, but what I have in front of my eyes I feel it on me, I will hardly be able to? forget.
Strong ? the sound of water pouring into the tub, every drop? a heartbreaking scream before falling into the hole there? at the bottom and find the end.
My hand caresses the names carved in bronze, I can't imagine what that 11th September must have been like when everything was submerged in debris, dust, death.
My thoughts nestle among the petals of the white rose placed on the name of the one who would have celebrated his birthday today.
The squirrel stares at me while he munches his peanut and with a snap he stands in front of me, standing on his hind legs, stretches his neck sniffing, but I have nothing to offer him, yet he remains there motionless staring at me with those two round magnets.
Then with a sweep of the tail he greets me and goes away.
A muffin and a cappuccino, strictly on the way as the Americans do ... I admit, they are a landslide, the pigeons have eaten more? muffin me!
Sowing crumbs and followed by pigeons, I throw one foot ahead of the other to arrive at Brooklyn Bridge Park, a magical, romantic, movie-like place.
Powerful and of a disarming beauty, the Brooklyn Bridge is strong-willed and, without foreplay, points straight to my heart, hit and sunk.
I could stay here forever and, while I'm still on my legs, my fantasy flies like the helicopter that passes over my head.
Dazed by the beauties, I look for something bad to see, just to wake up from the enchantment and see what I find ... the luminous sign of San Gennaro that protects the tourists who venture into the tricolor bailamme of Little Italy.
I slip into the crush between pizza and bab ?, between Murano glass and Vietri ceramics ...
But yes, taken with the right spirit, in the end, even this neighborhood I don't mind and I feel Pinocchio in the land of toys.
Peace of mind, here, now? there? I need and in New York c '? a little place where I could find her, maybe sitting by the lake watching the boats slide on the water towards the skyscrapers.
The amazement of a child in front of soap bubbles, the notes of a cello in the background, the dancer dressed in pink standing on her toes, being in Central Park? like being in a theater and I, a spectator, enjoy the wonder of this unexpected moment.
Embraced by the beauty of such an explosive nature, I abandon myself satisfied on the soft green carpet and my gaze caresses the mighty trunk of the ancient oak right up to the foliage in the wind.
Do I dream or am I awake?
I take a trip back in time, in the 70s, 60s and 50s ... in a location like the neighborhoods of Brooklyn, where neo-classical, gothic and modern mix.
I stroll along the tree-lined avenues lined with red brick houses, on the sidewalks there are old furniture and furnishings.
Everyone, in front of their home, sets up a sort of banquet, sometimes using the stairs directly in front of the door, to display the merchandise.
Sophia Loren smiles at me from the cover of a magazine.
Suitcases, clothing and accessories steeped in hopes and dreams made in old America now? precious commodity for collectors, willing to pay for a piece of history to take home by weight in gold.
And from Brooklyn I'm getting ready to watch the sunset over Manhattan.
Hundreds of people arrive in dribs and drabs with tripods and cameras, look for the right angle, and aim the lens at the glitter that magically emerges from the water.
I too am ready to impress the film of my life with another precious frame.
Dear New York, I thought it was my infatuation, but more? time takes me away from you, more? I feel you close.

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