I set out from my apartment on 34th Street off 30th Avenue in Astoria, Queens around 6:30 pm. It’s Sunday, and after a leisurely afternoon spent at home I’m headed for Astoria Park, the jewel of the neighborhood. It’s a 60 acre oasis of tranquility amid the noise and honking horns of Astoria, and it’s one of the largest open spaces in Queens. It’s also home to New York City’s oldest and largest swimming pool.
I head west on 30th Avenue, making my way past outdoor Greek cafes, Indian restaurants, hipster cookie and ice cream joints, and old time pizza places. Astoria is a rapidly changing, aka gentrifying, neighborhood in Queens. Its proximity to midtown Manhattan and the Upper East Side makes it a hot destination for young people who never could afford Manhattan and now can’t afford Brooklyn either.
I’ve lived her for nine years now, and it’s been an interesting time. I grew up on the Upper West Side, lived in Morningside Heights by Columbia for a long time, and then settled in Astoria. I’m still partial to my home neighborhood of the Upper West, but unless you’re a successful trial lawyer or a vice-president at an investment bank, you can’t really afford to live on the Upper West Side anymore.
Astoria has grown on me over the years. First off, it’s in Queens, which is the most diverse country in the U S of A. There are people from literally everywhere here. Greece. Check. Italy. Check. Mexico. Check. South Asia. Check. Brazil. Check. The Middle East. Check. The Balkans. Check. It’s a veritable United Nations, is what it is.
The cool thing is that everyone mostly gets along and coexists, from the old-timey Italian guys in the pizza joint to the Greek cafe owner to the Middle Eastern bodega owner to the South Asian Dunkin Donuts staff to the hipster owners of the crepe place.
There is some tension among groups, on the margins, but for the most part it’s live and let live. Which is pretty cool, given the state of the country these days and the divisions we face.
At 32nd Street I stop in to Dunkin Donuts to get an iced coffee and something to eat. I order my usual large cold brew and add a ham, egg and cheese sandwich on an English Muffin. I could make this myself at home about a million times better than the machine-processed egg and cheap ham Dunkin serves, but there’s something really satisfying about having fast food every once in a while.
The South Asian ladies who work at DD smile at me, and one asks if I want a medium or large, since she already knows I drink cold brew. I tell her large and say thanks. I’ve noticed that sometimes some of the women have henna tattoos on their arms and hands, and I’ve always found the intricate designs and colorful dyes to be beautiful.
I pick up my coffee and sandwich, take a seat, and eat. There are a few other people here, including an East Asian mother with her two daughters. I’ve lived in Japan and traveled throughout Asia, and if I had to guess I would say they’re Korean. But they could be Chinese. The young girls are speaking English, though, so I guess they’re really just American.
What the girls really are is exceptionally cute. They’re both enjoying large ice cream cones, and the look of glee and excitement on their faces is something to behold. They’re speaking in high-pitched, energized voices in the way that only a sugar rush can do for kids.
I watch them for a minute, then finish my sandwich and keep heading west.
At 31st Street I cross under the elevated tracks of the N/W subway line. The tracks are hard up against the entrance to the Triborough Bridge and the Grand Central Parkway. It’s definitely not a scenic spot.
But I console myself with the thought that about fifteen minutes from now I’ll be in the park.
I stop at the bodega run by a nice Middle Eastern man on the other side of 31st Street, and I buy a 50 ounce bottle of Poland Spring water and a Blueberry Crisp Clif Bar. The water is a necessity, since the round trip to the park and back is about 5 miles. The Clif Bar is just for insurance, in case I get hungry at some point.
I head west some more and reach 21st Street and turn north toward 28th Avenue. The numbers for the avenues and streets in Astoria are crazy, so I won’t even try and explain them. It’s enough to tell you that I keep heading west on 23rd street, and ten minutes later I’m at the southeast tip of the park.
It’s about 7pm now, and there’s still plenty of daylight since it’s August. I enter the park and take a seat on a bench by the running track. I sit there for a good few minutes just watching the walkers, joggers and runners go by, self-assured in their quest for health and wholesomeness.
I keep walking, and I cross underneath the Triborough Bridge by the skate park. There’s a bunch of teenagers skating in the park and doing crazy tricks off obstacles and heights. They seem like a mellow bunch, and everyone seems to be having a good time.
I keep walking, cross the street that runs North-South along the East River, and then begin my stroll northward along the riverfront to the end of the park.
It’s beautiful here, it really is. You’re right up against the East River, with Randall’s island across the way and Manhattan just a little further south across the river. Everything is calm, tranquil, and serene. You really feel like you’re not in New York City, which is a great feeling to have for us nature-deprived concrete jungle dwellers.
I walk along the river heading north and pass couples, families, and teenagers of every race and nationality under the sun. Everyone is just chilling, either leaning up against the handrail looking out over the river, or else sitting on benches under the railing.
There are seagulls nesting out on the rocks in the river, and they take flight at random intervals. They’re pretty cool birds to watch. I’ve also seen hawks in the park, as well as lots of squirrels and small creatures.
There’s an ice cream truck with a dude selling snow cones, strawberry shortcake ice cream bars and toasted almond ice cream bars, just like when I was a kid in Riverside Park on the Upper West 30 years ago.
I keep walking, and as I walk I make sure to breath in the air deeply. There’s a scent of the river and the water that is pleasant and uplifting. The city has really cleaned up the East River since the dark days of the 70’s and 80’s when it was so polluted, and you can tell when you walk by it now.
I pass under the Hell Gate Bridge, which is a 1,000 foot railroad bridge that connects Astoria with Randall’s and Wards’ Islands. Amtrak trains regularly rumble across the bridge on their way from New York to Boston, and the New York’s Metro North Service also runs trains across it to the New York Giants football games in East Rutherford, New Jersey.
The bridge itself has some pretty cool architecture. It’s filled with geometric patterns and sweeping arches, and it’s designed in a classic early 20th century modernist style.
I continue walking north, and now in addition to the river there are a lot of trees to my right. This is a particularly leafy stretch of the park. Every twenty feet or so I walk by a bench where someone from Bosnia, or Mexico, or Egypt, or Pakistan, sits contentedly looking out at the trees and the river. It’s a really nice spot, and the whole world comes out to enjoy it.
I keep walking and eventually Astoria Park turns into Ralph Demarco Park, a narrow strip of grass, benches and trees about ¾ of a mile long by the river. The park has no Wikipedia page, which is absolutely tragic since it’s such a beautiful strip of land.
So I turn to the NYC Department of Parks website, which tells me that Ralph Demarco was an immigrant from Calabria, Italy, who was born in 1908, immigrated to America in 1911, and settled in Astoria. He served as Deputy Commissioner of the NYC Sanitation Department, which incidentally is known as “New York’s Strongest,” and he was also a prominent community and political leader.
Ralph’s dream was to build the park because he believed it would improve the quality of life for Astorians and give them a place to relax enjoy the incredible river and Manhattan views. I guess I owe him a debt of gratitude, because I’ve been enjoying the park for nearly a decade now. So thanks Ralph. You did right by your fellow Astoria residents.
As I walk along the narrow strip of park by the river, I pass joggers, runners, and bikers. There’s a young couple from Eastern Europe, I would guess Croatia, sitting on a bench and nuzzling each other. There’s a middle-aged Italian guy listening to music on giant headphones as we pass each other. There’s a Mexican guy jogginh. And there’s a large black guy in a tracksuit having a phone conversation with someone on his Blueteotooth. All and all, it’s a good cross-section of Astoria, and of the world.
I finally reach the end of Ralph Demarco Park at about 7:45pm. I climb over one of the guardrails, plop myself down under a tree overlooking the river, and chill the hell out. I lie on my back staring up at the trees and the sky, and I use my backpack as a pillow.
For the next two hours I lay there, just relaxing, slowing down, and contemplating life, love, and the world. I check my phone a few times, see what’s cooking on Facebook, are there any new emails, did a text come in, and etc.
But mostly I just chill. Around 8:30 it starts to get dark, and by 9:00 it’s fully nighttime. It’s very quiet in the spot where I’m lying. I can hear crickets chirping away, and there are fireflies in the air around me. It really is almost like being in the country.
About thirty feet away there’s a Middle Eastern family grilling sausages on a grill, the women wearing hijabs. In the other direction is a large group of Mexican folks listening to music and enjoying food too.
Everyone is just catching the vibe of the river and the trees, and we’re about as far from Times Square as you can be while still in New York City.
At some point I pull out my water and take a few big swigs, and later I eat the Cliff bar. Everything is moving in slow motion now. It’s like time has ceased to exist, or at least to hold me down within its strict confines. I’m at peace, and peace is a wonderful thing.
Around 10pm I start to get a little hungry, since I haven’t had a proper dinner, and the mosquitos are starting to get a little more aggressive too. So I pick up my backpack, step back over the rail, and start walking south back to my home.
There are still plenty of people in the park, even at this hour. And that’s the great thing about it. It’s beautiful, it’s full of community, and it’s safe at any hour.
Because when I was a kid you could get jumped and robbed in a NYC park in a heartbeat. But times have changed, and the city is a lot mellower now. Which is a good thing, even if that makes it a little less interesting.
As I cross the dividing line back into Astoria Park, I rejoin the path I was on before. The same ice cream truck is in place, making parents and especially their children very happy on this cool and pleasant summer evening.
I stop at a particularly picturesque part of the riverfront, just north of the Triborough Bridge, and gaze at the lights of Manhattan, with the Empire State Building illuminated off in the distance.
Ah, Manhattan. You truly are a fantastic island. You make dreams, you break dreams, and you do it all with a style and flair unseen anywhere else in the world. Maybe someday I’ll live on your island again. But for now Queens is my home, and it’s not a bad place to be.
I keep on walking, and now it’s about 10:30 pm. I pass by groups of teenagers of various ethnicities, from Middle Eastern to Hispanic to southern European, all of them huddled together laughing, yelling, being rowdy, basically just being teenagers.
Some of them have parked their cars by the riverfront, opened the passenger side door, and are blasting music into the park. I hear everything from hip hop to Mexican narcocorridos to Arab electronic music to good old American rock n’ roll. One dude even brought out a giant speaker that he’s ‘leaned against his car to shoot his music to the heavens. Because it’s loud enough to get up there, that’s for sure.
This is one of the later times I’ve been in the park, and I have a feeling if you’re here at 3am the teenagers are really getting down to their music and their hormones. But right now it’s still relatively early, so the kids are mellow.
I reach the running track again at the southeast edge of the park, and I take a seat on the same bench I was on roughly 3 ½ hours ago. The joggers are mostly gone, and there are some Brazilian teenagers playing soccer on the track now. I watch them play for a few minutes, drink a little more water, and then I set off for home.
Just as I stand up from the bench, the lights illuminating the track go dark. Is this a sign? And if it is, what the hell is it a sign of? Maybe the gods know I’m leaving the park and want to wish me well. Who knows? But the timing is definitely a little weird.
I check my watch, and it’s 10:40 pm. My phone only has 1% juice left, so I shut it off a while ago. Besides, I’m so chill right now the last thing I want to do is enter the world of digital idiocy and texts and news and social media and all the crap that messes up our brains and turns our attention span into jelly.
I exit the park and head east along Astoria Boulevard. It’s pretty quiet now, and even though we’re parallel to the Grand Central Parkway, I don’t hear too much noise. I keep walking and then cross under the elevated subway tracks at 31st street.
It’s 10:50 pm now, and my plan is to head to the Key Food supermarket on 33rd Street and 30th Avenue to get some diet soda for sure, and maybe some food to cook up for dinner.
But when I get to Key Food the gate is already pulled down and they’re closed. Darn. I thought they closed at eleven on weekends, but maybe it’s ten.
I cross 30th Avenue instead and hit the bodega, where I buy a two-liter of Coke Zero and a two-liter of diet Ginger Ale. The bodega owner smiles at me and I smile back. He’s a friendly South Asian dude who likes to chat up his customers, and he always seems to be in a good mood.
I pay for my soda, exit the store, cross 30th Avenue again, and head north down 34th street. I pass Ovelia, a Greek restaurant on the corner of my block that always has overflowing outdoor tables in the summer. I’ve eaten there a few times, and personally I don’t think it’s all that great, but then again I’m not a huge Greek food fan. I’m more of a Japanese food fan.
I reach my building, climb the two flights to my third floor walk-up, put the key in the lock, open the door, and I’m home.
I put the soda in the fridge and head straight for the bedroom, where I collapse on the bed. That was a great excursion, and I tell myself I have to hang out in Astoria Park at night more often.
I charge my phone on the bedside table, then check messages, texts, and all that other stuff. What it comes down to is that at 11pm on a Sunday night there’s just nothing urgent I need to attend to. I just need to keep chilling and being at peace.
I pet my cat Copper for a few minutes, and then I head into the living room, where I pop on some Bluegrass music videos on YouTube. I grew up on pop, classic rock, and hip hop, but lately I’ve been on a Bluegrass kick. Those dudes can really do some cool stuff with their guitars.
I’m hungry now, so I grab my phone from the bedroom, head back into the living room, and assess my options on the Seamless app.
There’s not much open at this hour. It’s mainly pizza and diners. But there is one Chinese restaurant, Hong Kong Restaurant, that’s still delivering.
I order a large wonton soup, and I’m about to order Shrimp with Cashew Nuts to go with it when I think, hey, why not try something different? Then I remember how my Dad used to love ordering the whole fish in hunan sauce from a Chinese restaurant on the Upper West Side when I was a kid.
So it’s settled, I tell myself. The wonton soup and the hunan fish.
After I place my order, I kick back on the couch and just relax. I listen to some Bluegrass, and a few minutes later I pour myself a whiskey on the rocks. It’s just cooler than a cucumber in my place tonight, what with my head, heart and soul all chilled out from the park and in alignment with the universe.
Fifteen minutes later the food arrives, and I dig in. It’s pretty good but not great. I don’t care though, I’m just happy to have fairly tasty food to sustain my body. I feel about as Zen-ed out as I have in a long time, and I tell myself once again to go to the park more, especially at night.
I finish my food, clear the dishes, and just unwind with my whiskey and the music.
All in all, it was a pretty great evening. Here’s to Astoria, and here’s to New York City public parks. It’s not the Big Sky Country of Montana, but for a large urban megalopolis, our parks pretty much rock. You can get lost in them and completely forget you’re even in the city.
So thank you to New York’s urban planners for carving out the green spaces you did, and thank you to Astoria Park for providing me with a fantastic evening.
See you again soon.
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