High Noon

It’s a joy to be in Bryant Park at high noon. Debonair and foreign gentlemen toss gleaming silver weights on the Bocce court; over faded gray pebbles at the west end. Before the crushing lunch rush, you can sit under the shade of trees and shadow of Tom Colicchio’s gourmet sandwich stand, ensconced at a painted table and chair, the smooth finish warm against the backs of knees and elbows, sipping ginger beer, turned towards the splash of the fountain and long of the meadowed lawn. A space to breathe; encircled by towers of steel, brick and mortar of banks and shops, and snaking lines of yellow cabs.

Slowly, as the crowds peter in, slim suits morph into separates as jackets are removed, then laid as impromptu picnic blankets, paper bags crunch open, napkins assemble and the seal of designer water bottles crack. The power lunch turns lazy under the sky, loafers and heels kicked off, freeing feet, now tickled by the cool blades. They face the heaving animals of the merry-go-round, the marble lip of the stairs, slipping colors and crawling clouds.

On the south side, flowering plants for sale are vibrant and rich, and priced for the vibrant and rich. On the north, the young and free attempt to continue their path to the library, veering off to lay their bags on sod for catnaps. Once on the field, stillness begins, the shine of light against closed eyelids feels heavy, and it seems as though anyone at all can capture the tranquility of the Far East right here in Midtown West.

An hour under the sun as reward for eight under cheap florescence. For a weekday, it’s not a bad trade at all.