Everyone talks about Central Park like it's the only green Manhattan has. But this week I took the A train all the way up to Fort Tryon Park, and I want to tell you a secret: this is the good one.
A Sunday alone in Fort Tryon Park is about as far as you can get from the noise while still technically being on the island. The A train climbs up to 190th Street, you take that ancient elevator out of the station, and suddenly you're standing somewhere that feels like it was airlifted from a different country.
The Heather Garden was still going, late-summer stubborn, all purples and dusty greens. From the overlooks you can see the Hudson wide and grey-blue, the cliffs of New Jersey on the other side, the George Washington Bridge stretched out like it's showing off.
I'd brought a book and read maybe four pages of it. Mostly I just sat. A Sunday alone in Fort Tryon Park is the kind of alone that fills you up instead of hollowing you out.
I used to be scared of doing things solo here. Eating alone, walking alone, sitting on a bench alone like some tragic film heroine. Now I crave it. Kabhi kabhi you have to be your own company. Nobody to perform for. Nobody to keep pace with.
An old couple was slow-dancing to no music near the pergola. A kid was aggressively feeding a squirrel against his parents' clear wishes. I ate a peach I'd bought at the bodega by the station and let the juice run down my wrist and did not care.
A Sunday alone in Fort Tryon Park is my new favorite prescription for a too-loud week. Take the A train. Go far. Sit still.
Solitude, it turns out, tastes a little like a bodega peach.
Love,