Prospect: A Year in the Park

Shalom, Salaam

Returning to Brooklyn from peaceful, pristine Fort Collins, Colorado—consistently voted one of America's most "livable" cities—was hard enough; returning from bone-dry mountain sunshine to a suffocating blanket of New York humidity made it worse. But Prospect Park came through on my first full day back in town, delivering precisely the sort of acid-trip diversity you can't get in just any city, however livable: Arabs and Jews rocking out happily within earshot of each other.

The Arab-American Heritage Festival was everything street fairs should be and usually aren't, starting with the food. That bakhlava-like pastry with the dusting of fresh pistachio  was consumed by me seconds after being photographed; the custard filling was ethereal.

Grilling kebabs perfumed the air.

The Arabic culture on display was a mix of the exotic and the disarmingly assimilated. Bouncy castles and face-painting were familiar staples. 

 

  

An impromptu souk offered gauzy scarves and Chinese-made Nefertitis.

Families relaxed and socialized. The men sat in groups and smoked hookahs. (At folding tables, so did a few non-Arabic-looking women; were they rent-a-hookahs?) Young ladies displayed a spectrum of engagement with traditional Islamic dress; cell phones, giggling and gossip remain central with or without a headscarf.  

From the festival, I took a three-minute walk to another world in the Prospect Park bandshell to hear a "Celebrate Brooklyn!" program of recording artists for JDub, an indie Jewish music label. I missed Golem and their "gypsy folk rock," but caught two offbeat acts. One was Soulico, a Tel Aviv DJ crew who rapped electrifyingly in reggae-flavored Hebrew. (I think the guy on the right is Axum, an Ethiopian guest vocalist.)

Next came The Sway Machinery. They describe their music as "ritualistic Afro-pop and cantorial blues," which is to say, indescribable; the band, dressed like early Elvis Costello in dare-you-to-laugh suits and ties, blasts through frantic horn-laden tunes anchored by guitarist Jeremiah Lockwood (who, yes, sings like a cantor). Aside from one family in the audience, there wasn't a yarmulke in sight, just words and music emerging from the diaspora through surprising new voices.  

Even in a heat wave, it was good to be back home.

Defying the gloom

This view of Grand Army Plaza was dubbed "Impending Doom" by the Child.

But even when the weather scowls on a holiday weekend, it's hard to feel glum if the Greenmarket is kicking into High Peach Gear.

And red is always cheering, especially in rhubarb and the elusive red currant, a sour little ruby whose uses I have never explored.

       

Finally, there were cheerful strains from a folksy band. How many things can you spot in this picture that would qualify for this site?

GREENMARKET DOG OF THE WEEK

There are dogs, and then there are Babe Magnets. This is Maude, a 3 1/2-month-old Boston Terrier; her owner, a young graphic design fellow, was besieged by ladies of all ages yearning to snoodle his baby. (Who could resist?) I was reminded of the episode of Friends where Chandler and Joey "borrow" a baby to score with the ladies. Gentlemen, grab your puppies!

Groundswell

There are no bats visible overhead, but otherwise I can't fault this shot of Friday's Met concert in Prospect Park by Angela Gheorghiu and Roberto Alagna; thanks to the park's own Eugene Patron for the photo.

As it happened, I did make it over to the Long Meadow very briefly, after the Child's birthday dinner (the first event in a sort of extended festival that kept me away from the park for the rest of the weekend). It was almost 9 p.m. and still twilight on the longest night of the year. I entered the meadow from behind the giant stage, picking my way past parked charter buses and news vans on the periphery. The vocalists were not on stage, but the orchestra was playing something lovely (Verdi, I think, or Rossini?) Those bats were swooping overhead, skimming so low that I expected someone to start flailing.

But the crowd, which appeared vast, was peaceable and mostly hushed, attentive in that pleasantly indolent manner permitted by a picnic blanket instead of a concert hall. The tiny bluish glow of cell phones and other devices illuminated the dusk like digital fireflies. Unaccountably, I felt tears sting my eyes as a tender phrase pulsated across the night air from a single French horn. Vulnerable, receptive, convivial, there we sat, the people of the city of New York, bathing in rapturous music as the solstice turned us toward another summer. Seven summers ago, I do not think the scene would have touched me in this way. But I found myself thinking: This is what freedom looks like. This is what we safeguard, and why we stay. We still know what to treasure.

Thus satisfied that Western civilization still unironically and objectively kicks ass, I sprinted back to my family, waiting curbside in the car, and we went home to have birthday cake.

Awaiting Angela

Recipe for a Friday night classical blockbuster in the Long Meadow: Strain and remove dogs. Add one diva and her real-life husband. Turn lights and JumboTron screens to high. Serves 150,000.

Yes, all is in readiness for the Met concert by Angela Gheorghiu and Roberto Alagna tonight at 8. (We watched this set-up mushroom into existence on Monday.  The dainty soprano, shown here in La Rondine, should be shown to fine advantage with hubby.)  As I gazed over the scene, the first few zealots arrived with blankets to claim a spot. (Better come early!)

Speaking of female powerhouses, who should I come across but Prospect Park's administrator, Tupper Thomas, ranging over the choicest viewing area with a menacing work glove, all by herself, picking up litter. Some of it may have been dog-related, she said, enthusiastically adding, "That's the great thing about this job—you can just go out there anytime and pick up the garbage!"  I'm not sure what you call that ("hands-on management" doesn't begin to do the job...the old Catholic term "heroic virtue," a criterion for sainthood, comes to mind), but whatever it is, if we could bottle it and unleash it across the corporate and government sectors, we would finally get that new day for America we've been promised. TT and I had a fine chat about the Rose Garden and Vale of Cashmere (details to come), and as I left the park, I found myself picking up Gatorade bottles and firing them into garbage bins.

WANT TO GET ONLY VERY SLIGHTLY FAMOUS?
SUBMIT YOUR PIX OF TONIGHT'S CONCERT
AS A GUEST AYITP PHOTOBLOGGER!

Sadly, I will be missing tonight's extravaganza; it is Child's birthday, and strangely, she does not see an opera concert as an appropriate celebration of her 13th year. (Some things you can't argue, unless you're Felix Unger.) Submit your best opera shots to AYITP (send JPEG to "brenda at tenthleper.us" spelled with an @) and I'll run the Best of the Best, with full photo credit and not a penny's remuneration (unless the chance arises for inclusion in a book or other commercial venture some day, in which case we can negotiate then for a sum approximately equal to a good dinner out.)

And finally...
DEVIL DOG DIVERSION!
It has come to my attention that not everyone shares my delight in off-leash dog frolics on the Long Meadow. Despite the efforts of advocacy groups like FIDO, who plump for responsible behavior by dog owners (and hold cool events like "Coffee Bark" July 12 and  "Pupnic" on June 27), some folks furiously contend that the off-leash hours (currently from 9 p.m. to 9 a.m.) set free a pack of ravening beasts, terrorizing innocent parkgoers, alarming the horses, and befouling the greensward. 

So far, my few excursions into the park's morning canine carnival have been nothing but idyllic; I have missed the alleged maulings and marauding, it would seem. But today, as I foolishly sat on a rock under the elms to consume a cappuccino and Danish pastry, terror struck! I was victimized by one of these out-of-control pooches! A manic Boston Terrier named Rocco bowled me over, clambered upon me with muddy paws, shook pond water over me, and demanded my Danish! Although I am a cat person, I have seen "dog" spoken by others, and faking an authoritative tone, commanded him to "sit!", which he reluctantly did until his owner appeared to chastise him mildly. The final outrage: I decided to take the perpetrator's mug shot, whereupon he slobbered on my lens. My little Canon PowerShot seems to have survived a bath of dog spit, but I still shudder at the thought of Rocco's snapping jaws.

Sizzling

  The second suffocatingly hot and humid day in a row did not deter these Puerto Rican Day revelers in the Peristyle. The kids were dancing to salsa music on the lawn while the grown-ups kept the food coming, undeterred by an early evening thunderstorm playing around to the west. 

Just around the curve of the drive, the Drummers' Grove was in full groove. Dig this crazy white chick and the guy with dreadlocks turning it into a summer-stock "Hair."



 

No one seemed to mind the sweltering air, or notice that the thunder was rumbling a little louder while a few veins of lightning forked the leaden sky. I, on my bicycle (made of metal, under trees), turned swiftly for home.

Best carousel in the world

  Question: Why is life worth living?
  Answer: For lots of reasons, but if you need just one, there's the Prospect Park Carousel.

Emboldened by my new pass allowing unlimited rides, I tugged several actual children onto the gloriously restored 1912 masterpiece on a perfect late spring afternoon. Got a jumper, of course. (Who wants a horse that doesn't go up and down?) I was delighted to see that the gentle Lucio is still at the helm; he has been the master of these steeds since the carousel reopened in 1990, and I have never seen anyone so obviously in love with his job. (Lucio modestly declined to be photographed, but for a wonderful shot of him, go here.)

Now, "best carousel in the world" is quite a claim. On what do I base this bold pronouncement? Glad you asked. I happen to be a carousel wonk, with a life list stretching from Santa Cruz to Lake Compounce, Connecticut. (There is plenty of carousel wonkery to go around.) None can touch Prospect Park's gem, carved by the legendary "Coney Island style" carver Charles Carmel. (For the whole history, go here.) Many vintage carousels have some of these features, but ours combines them in a uniquely powerful and endorphin-flooding way:
* The carousel is relatively small, but seems to move very fast.
* There are some excellent non-horsies, like this deer.
* There is a real, honest-to-God calliope pounding out old-fashioned waltzes and Sousa marches. (I have ridden carousels playing Muzak, or worse yet, nothing at all.)
* Outside, the park zooms past in an emerald blur; it is set like a jewel in the park's "Children's Corner,"  across from a 200-year-old Dutch house, and if you could spin just a little faster, you would start time-traveling like Dr. Who.

And then there is the central structure itself, which has been fantastically adorned with paintings of vanished and still-standing Brooklyn landmarks, like the Botanic Garden, the monument to poet Thomas Moore, and the old  reservoir tower.




Oh, and did we mention a bare-breasted Coney Island mermaid? 

Unlimited rides, yes!

Honk if you love Mom

They are feathered vermin...an invasive army of foul-tempered poop machines. And, in a final coup of Darwinian brilliance, they have adorable fuzzy little babies.

Below, already goose-stepping in Mom's footsteps. Call it the Macaulay Culkin Conundrum: How can any juvenile this cute grow so rapidly into so distasteful an adult?

On this chilly Sunday afternoon, Drummers' Grove drew a small but energetic ensemble. The cool drumming dudes play for each other; a few free spirits play to the crowd.

 

Drumsticks, meat sticks...it's all smokin'.

Nearby, this family seemed to suffer from low-grade picnic anxiety.








Finally, the question of the day, pasted  onto the (by-then-empty) rustic shelter, begs for an answer. Did she say yes?

Radical brass

Eager and a tad apprehensive, I steered my brand-new bicycle into the park on a cold, grey afternoon that didn't feel much like May. (Here it is getting its kickstand installed at Sid's Bike Shop.) The new baby is a black "Sirrus" by the "Specialized" company, and I call it the Batbike. It is much lighter than its predecessor (which Child will now inherit), but has "flat" handlebars, not racing-style ones. It rides beautifully, and most important, there's less of it to bully up the Dreaded Hill.

With my Century ride approaching fast, I find myself focusing more on cycling anxiety than the glories of the park. Today, starting the East Drive climb, I heard a dazzling drum riff. Following the beat down to the Cleft Ridge Span, I fell in behind an impromptu parade of toddlers, parents and nannies in ragtag procession behind an absolutely rocking marching band.

I had stumbled upon the Friday-afternoon musical entertainment of the nearby Maple Street School, which must be the funkiest preschool on earth if it hires the Hungry March Band, described by Time Out New York as "New York City's finest guerrilla ambulatory music ensemble." A punk pastiche of Sergeant Pepper and the Mermaid Parade, they lifted my spirits enormously.  I'd needed a boost, and along came a parade.

Off they went into the park, as I veered back onto the East Drive. Later, on their website, I learned that "the HMB specializes in surprise radical encounters that transform the mundane into the miraculous." Roger that.

The site also yielded this unnerving bit of fortune-cookie serendipity:

"Fear shall lead you to the place you most need to be. When you arrive, dive into the sea of the unknown, we will be there cheering you on, furiously playing in a state of absolute delightful madness."

I wonder if they'd care to play along the route to Montauk?