Saturday in New York City. The sun is out; the Canadian-particle count is down; the humidity is low; and the air is comfortably warm. Let’s go for a walk.

While the weather has changed daily during the last five days, there has been one constant: Barbie Pink. And that continued to be the case today.

Is that pink an accident? Nope. Greta Gerwig’s Barbie opened nationwide yesterday.

As for Barbie Pink, in the Pantone color space, it is designated PMS 212 C. I am going to assume the ‘PMS’ prefix has no relation to premenstrual syndrome, but that’s a helluva coincidence.

Setting color theory aside, Barbie Pink dominated the city streets this week. The video panels in Times Square were filled with it, as were video sign boards around the city. Today I encountered PMS 212 C as I walked the streets, as well as when I stumbled onto the Barbie Cafe, and later when I encountered several punk rock bands in Washington Square Park.

But there is much more to today’s walk than just Barbie Pink. Here are the details:

Starting Solemnly. As is typical when I head south for a walk, I took the subway from 57th Street down to Canal Street, and then headed through Tribecca, ending up at the 9/11 complex, which is designed to spark solemn reflection. But like Presidents or Veterans Day, reflective moments in the United States are short-lived. The park-like area is Instagram ready, with statues designed for humorous photos and outdoor dining facilities playing up cocktails and beer.

I chose to head to the two pools that have replaced the foundations that once anchored the north and south towers of the World Trade Center. The metal plaques affixed to the perimeter of each pool contain the name of each person who perished. In the center of each pool there is a square cutout that carries the water further below surface level—what I think of as the abyss.

At ankle level, below the plaques bearing the names, there is an open cutout running the entire perimeter of each pool. Visible in that slit are the reflections of the nearby buildings and trees, all out-of-focus because the water is in constant motion. The slit functions just like a camera’s viewfinder, permitting the onlooker who is willing to bend down, the opportunity to isolate the abyss for more intense contemplation.

Following some reflection, I walked just to the south, where St. Nicholas Church is situated. The original was destroyed on 9/11 when the towers crashed to the ground, but “Upon This Rock I Will Rebuild My Church” reads the donor’s plague at the entrance of church’s rebuilt structure; quite modern, but retaining design elements typical of much older Greek Orthodox churches throughout the world.

Unlike some churches, this one is quite welcoming, with an attendant and a NYPD officer encouraging visitors to come in, look around, and even take photographs. I noticed the light—particularly white—as well as the hand painted images in the church’s archways and above the pulpit. Classic Byzantine iconography, but with a twist. The artists had worked the burning towers and responders into the paintings.

[Click on an Image to Enlarge It]

I stayed about 30 minutes, and then continued on my way, taking a jaunt through the financial district, with lunch at the Fraunces Tavern, which I assumed would be a tourist trap because it includes a museum. I was a pleasantly surprised: the food was excellent and relatively inexpensive. A tasty scrambled egg and smoke salmon sandwich came in at just over $15. While eating lunch, I thought of George Washington. The tavern is where he gave his farewell address to his troops.

After lunch, I added a twist to my route—I follow a basic path, but there is plenty of improvisation along the way. Today, I headed to the promenade that runs along the East River.

My first stop was Fulton Market, a complex that once housed a fish market, but that now is the location of a museum, retail shops, and some restaurants. As I walking into the open-air courtyard I saw the unexpected— Barbie pink adorning the Barbie Cafe. The staff refused entrance, even to the merch store, because the place was packed with Barbies eating lunch, snapping photographs, and lingering in the warm sun. I was the only Ken in sight.

When I used to explore lower Manhattan on a Saturday 15 or so years ago, the streets were empty. Not anymore. Much of the area now is heavily residential, which translates into families hanging out, plenty of bikers and runners, a plethora of open-air places to eat, and open-air tour buses everywhere. I stopped at the Tin Building, which houses a marketplace, grocery, and a number of eateries, including a Jean-Georges restaurant.

I happily stumbled upon the Yusuke Yamamoto Trio positioned adjacent to the building, playing absolutely terrific jazz—they would have been at home on any of Manfred Eicher’s ECM releases.

But I only lingered so long. Next up were the Brooklyn, Williamsburg, and Manhattan Bridges, which are architecturally magnificent structures. I soon found myself standing where John Wick sought the help of the Bowery King (Lawrence Fishburne) in John Wick, Chapter II, which is one of the greatest movies ever made. With the Yusuke Yamamoto Trio still resonating in my ears, I thought I heard the sounds of a solo saxophone wafting down from the Brooklyn Bridge. Sonny Rollins lives, but contrary to the legend, back in 1959, he practiced on the Williamsburg Bridge.

At an opening in the promenade, I decided to head west, entering the Lower East Side, where Chinatown continues its encroachment as it expands. Despite the Chinese laundries, hip eateries, and colorful signage, I could still hear the cry of the old pushcart peddlers echoing through the streets from long ago.

I never know what I will find in the East Village. Today, it was a conclave of trickster bicyclists, a woman enjoying tapas, some sort of biker bar, and reminder of Jordan Neely, the man who died on a subway train as a bystander restrained him in some sort of headlock. As I headed west, the shops became more elegant and pricey.

Eventually, I reached Washington Square Park, deciding today to skip some of the famous Village record stores, at least what is left of them. Several blocks away, I could hear loud punk music, which was enticing because the park normally hosts jazz and folk musicians busking on its walkways. Over the next two hours, I listened to three bands who will never get a record deal, if those even still exist. The musicians were seemingly inspired by the likes of Pavement, the Ramones, and the Tuff Darts, among others. Their high-energy made up for their absence of skill. With punk, it is all about the energy.

During one of the breaks between bands, I continued westward through the park, encountering the eccentrics who occupy the large fountain during the summer, a lone drummer accompanying recorded tracks, two couples Tangoing, and the speed-chess players who occupy the park’s southwest corner. No jazz musicians today.

After walking through the park, I always head one block further west to Fourth Street and Sixth Avenue where there are two pickup basketball courts. In recent years, the action has been formalized, with some sort of league play. There are refs, a hilarious play-by-play announcer who talks a little good-natured trash, and a DJ spinning Grandmaster Flash, old soul tunes, and assorted other lively cuts and scratches.

Normally I stand outside the court, poking my lens through the cyclone fencing. Today, I got lucky—the head guy invited me into the cage, and told me to take a position anywhere I wanted under the basket. Ah, such fun. I was fascinated by Uncle Drew, who was sometimes referred to as the Black Santa Claus. Someone told me he was in his mid-forties. The guy played liked he was 17.

Following the match, I headed back to Washington Square Park for more punk music. As I left, I noticed about 40 young people under the arch dancing K-Pop style. They did not compare to the group I saw there last Halloween—much less skill, poorly attired, and largely out of sync with each other. My images reflect all of that, so I will spare you.

I decided to head up to Union Square, but I was not surprised when I found no demonstrators. I usually do find them on Saturday afternoons—but it was now past 7 PM. I then headed up to the original Eataly in the Flatiron District for a quick dinner. The baked cod was piping hot, but still moist and tasty.

Headed out of Washington Square Park, I encountered a lone sidewalk demonstrator, so I got my fix for the day.

When I arrived back to the apartment, my watch showed that I had covered 10.35 miles. I also captured somewhere around 2,300 images.

Copyright 2023, Jack B. Siegel. All Rights Reserved. Do Not Alter, Copy, Display, Distribute, Download, Duplicate, or Reproduce Without the Prior Written Consent of the Copyright Holder.