After mass yesterday afternoon, I walked the few blocks from St. Patrick’s Cathedral to Central Park. St. Patrick’s and Central Park are, of course, main tourist attractions in New York. Hence, sidewalks were difficult to navigate as they were filled with tourists with their cameras and backpacks and shopping bags.
On my way to the park, I saw this white truck—ubiquitous in Brooklyn—and suddenly had an urge to have some soft ice cream on a cone. A picture of the chocolate twist flavor painted on the truck’s side looked promising but the vendor had run out of it, so I had to settle for the chocolate flavored one. I finished my ice cream quickly, and just as quickly got thirsty. So I had to buy a bottle of water from one of the numerous sidewalk vendors near the park. Ang mahal naman: $3 for a half-liter bottle! But this is New York, what was I thinking?
Lugging my precious bottle of water, I entered the southwest entrance to Central Park. Near the entrance were pretty horse-drawn carriages and the usual assortment of vendors—including portraitists who make your sketch on the spot and sellers of framed pictures of New York’s famous sights and of other memorabilia—catering to tourists. The air was rich with the smell of horse manure, but after some time one gets used to it. A few steps into the park and I was assaulted by another offensive smell. Mabang-ug an Central Park! May nag-uro sa ligid. Chaka!
Central Park is the proverbial melting pot, probably a reflection of New York’s undeniably international character. Sitting beside a group of scantily-clad Caucasian teenagers lying on the grass was a Middle Eastern family having a picnic. The mother and daughter in the picnicking family had traditional Islamic headdresses on, but the father was dressed in the quintessential American summer outfit—a t-shirt and cargo shorts. And as I walked farther, I heard familiar words from another group. A family was arguing rather loudly in Tagalog. Some family members wanted to go to the Rockefeller Center, while the others wanted to stay in the park longer. I was embarrassed by my eavesdropping, even though unintentional, so I moved away and didn’t wait for a resolution of the argument.
I ended up sitting on one of the numerous benches scattered throughout the park and watched a ballgame. I could have watched one of the softball matches going on, but I chose a game similar to one I’ve seen while jogging at the National Mall in DC. I never learned its name, but the game is similar to softball or baseball, except that the ball used here is a basketball (softened by letting some of the air out?) and there’s no bat. Instead, the ball is hit by the “batter’s” foot in a manner not unlike a soccer player executing a penalty kick. The difference, of course, is that there’s no goal here and that the direction and force of a kick are calculated based on whether or not there are players in any of the bases. As I watched, the number of onlookers swelled and in no time some of my fellow watchers started cheering for their favorite team.
As usual, I rooted for the underdog—the team whose pitcher was a woman of, shall we say, Rubenesque proportions. She moved rather slowly because of her prodigious bust and waist, but I thought she pitched beautifully. In contrast, the pitcher of the opposing team was a swaggering, big-muscled, and loudmouthed guy. So I rejoiced very much when the team I was rooting for won. Sometimes, you see, underdogs do win.
Towards the end of the game, I almost jumped out of my skin because a raccoon suddenly materialized near my seat. It was a big one, around two-feet in length, and I didn’t care very much for the dark rings around its eyes. Raccoons are a curious sort. They don’t seem afraid of humans—or, at least, this one wasn’t. It returned the nearby onlookers’ stare with unnerving nonchalance, even insolence, as if saying that it had as much right to be there as any of us. After ogling us for an uncomfortably long period, it went up one of the trees and, perched on a branch, joined us in watching the game.
It was already dusk when the game ended. Buoyed by the underdogs’ victory, I decided it was time to look for the nearest metro station. As I got up from my bench near the baseball diamond, I thought I saw some tiny flickering lights. The lights were weak—it was not yet fully dark—but clearly discernible. I walked to the bushes where the tiny flickering lights were more pronounced and saw that they were fireflies. My heart started to sing. There are fireflies in Central Park! New York may be the world’s greatest city, but it shares something in common with the Gamay of my childhood: fireflies. I guess this is just my roundabout way of saying: I miss home.
