I am sitting at about 65th Street in the dead center middle of Central Park listening to a old man playing his saxophone under the bridge to my left. I am sitting on one of the many rock formations that seem to have had the park landscaped around them. There a families and couples and tourists playing with their dogs and snacking on their culinary treasures that they found in the cafe on the corner. Their are couples on their picnic blankets nessling and stealing kisses in between reading and sipping their iced lattes from Starbucks. Their are wannabe fashionistas carrying bags that reflect their destinations this afternoon; Ann Taylor, Bloomingdales, Gap, H&M.... and of course they have the latest issue of Glamour, Cosmopolitan, or Vogue tucked under their arm; their fashion Bible for the month. There are old men with suspenders and old ladies with cranes. I can hear English, Spanish, French, German, Portuguese, Russian, Norwegian, Chinese, Korean, and Indian being spoken with each new group of passersby.
And just beyond my foreground view of this beautiful melting pot of culture and nature, rises The City. Penthouses and projects, old architecture and new, offices and stores, stone and brick, each with its own style and story that most will never know. As the sunsets just to my right, the shadows of the towers and skyscrapers cast a muted darkness over their neighbors.
The City is alive and I am alive in it.