Growing up in a small village in Westchester, New York, I’ve grown to see New York City through a very privileged lens, as well as that of a visitor or temporary observer in the bustling, gridded landscape. To explain my view of the city, I must start with what I love most about my town: it is quiet. Aside from the occasional church bells or lawnmowers, most sounds are birds, wind, rain, cicadas (in the summer), dogs, and occasionally wolves from the nearby conservation center. Most of the time, I commute to the city via train, which acts as a sort of portal into a polar-opposite landscape.
Ever since I can remember, I’ve made frequent trips into the city. As a child always accompanied by an adult, however, my view of the city was somewhat limited to the ways in which the adults around me interacted with the landscape. For example, with my dad, trips were characterized by a sense of haste, usually with a schedule to adhere to. Having lived in New York, my dad always insisted on walking, no matter the distance. Sounds of traffic, conversations, subway vents, and much more passed through my consciousness before I could process them. With our moms, my best friend and I explored museums and went for ice cream; our own laughter and hushed chatter characterized the otherwise quiet afternoons, with the nature of the museums preventing much of the noise from the outside world. With our grandparents, my sisters and I did “touristy” things, like seeing shows or seeing visiting Rockefeller Center during the holiday season. As a student, my class took trips to learn about the city’s history and systemic issues. However, a common thread between each experience was music: specifically, the way it was able to overpower many of the other sounds. It wasn’t until I was a teen that I began to piece together all of these fragments into one more cohesive view—and thus, my own unique way of interacting with the environment.
As we got older, my friends and I began to explore the city on our own. This often took the form of long walks with a vague sense of destination in mind. However, no matter how hard I tried, I often found myself unable to fully enjoy the landscape around me, except when in Central Park. I almost always generate a destination to head toward, even if I have no intention of actually getting there. This is partly because I have always felt that the fast pace of the city and the abundance of sensory stimuli are overwhelming (other pedestrians, cars, lights, sounds, smells, etc.).
Central Park has become my refuge and preferred travel route. Slightly quieter (usually), and generally separated from the constant onslaught of traffic, I find myself incorporating it into any route I take, even if it means going a great distance out of my way. I’ve come to see Central Park as both an oasis—a place that reminds me of home—and as a tool that allows me to navigate the city more comfortably.
^A quiet morning in Central Park (April 2021)
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