Late Night Strolling Down Manhattan

A short nostalgic essay about experiencing New York

In the middle of summer, I was already making plans for what I would do for ten days in New York. Nothing dramatic, nothing touristy, nothing that would excite me too much. Something for the soul, as they say.
Reminiscing about the years before, when I wandered those endless streets of New York. In one of my first articles in Mladina magazine, I called them the canyons of the metropolis. When I circled Fifth Avenue in the early hours of Sunday morning, windy and lonely. When I played scenes from Antonioni’s film Red Desert in my mind. Because I was looking for lonely, alienated moments of the metropolis.
When I walked along 42nd Street after midnight in the early eighties and watched prostitutes and pimps. And the situation became tense when they realized that I was just a rude observer.
When Alta-Ann and Alan wouldn’t let you go home alone in the middle of the night, because that’s not how it’s done in New York. In the days before Rudy G. was mayor.
When, in the late seventies, various groups of Yugoslav emigrants cursed at each other across the street on the corner of 42nd and Broadway.
And when, after a Broadway show, you could sit upstairs at the Times Square Brewery with a glass of beer.
And because, in the seventies, as a smoker, I discovered an old wooden tobacconist’s shop at the beginning of Times Square where they also sold Yugoslav cigarettes.
And when, long ago, around midnight in the main lobby of Grand Central, I saw a policeman on horseback beating a black man to the ground with a baton.
And when you know where the bathroom is in Macy’s.
And I absorbed all the quiet cries of the side streets of the city that never sleeps.
New York, as if it no longer exists.

And so, last September, after many years, I was in New York again.
I knew that the New York City Opera would be performing Georges Bizet’s Carmen in Bryant Park that day. I definitely had to see it. And hear it.
A bit unusual for me. An open-air opera performance, without evening gowns and ties. I manage to grab a chair, sit down, and observe the crowd around me. People on the lawn with glasses in their hands. Some with takeaway food. People in relaxed anticipation, smiling, talking. The sky is cloudy, with isolated flashes of lightning and a slight rumble of thunder dangerously approaching.
The crowd falls silent in anticipation. As a result, the thunder becomes even more noticeable. Despite the threat of rain, the performance begins. Minimalist music and singing. No set design, a bare stage. Just a few spotlights.
A good half hour later, it starts to rain lightly. The crowd persists, but the rain gets heavier. Of course, I don’t have an umbrella. And I’m worried about my expensive camera. I slowly decide to leave the venue. I haven’t even left yet when I hear that the performance is being interrupted. People have started leaving.
Since it still isn’t raining too hard, and because I’m stubborn, I set off on foot towards the East Village.
I walk south along Broadway. It’s not late yet, but the rain is emptying the streets. I jump over puddles. I pull up my jacket collar and imagine that I’m James Dean in that Robert Capa photo from Times Square. Well, apart from the rain in the photo and a bit of rebellion, we don’t have much in common.

The Flatiron is still surrounded by scaffolding. I remember the building because I drew its floor plan when I was studying architecture. Every now and then there are strange dark passages where I wonder whether I should move to the opposite side of the street. I can hear noise from the bars and the clinking of glasses. There are fewer neon lights than I imagine for a big city. The darkness feels strange and unsettling.
I cross Union Square. The open space of the square breaks the anxiety of the empty streets. I hear fire trucks and police sirens. An ambulance drives past me.
The rain is falling less and less. As they say, if you’re wet outside, you’re wet inside. And right before I get home, I make a point of stopping by my favorite place, McSorley’s on 7th Street, for a beer. As always, when I order a beer, I get two small mugs. Because they don’t have big ones. I stand at the bar, and in my mind I see Woody G. playing guitar in the corner by the stove. That famous guitar of his with the inscription This machine kills fascists. I treat myself to a hamburger, with onions, of course.

Slowly, tired from all the impressions, I head home to St. Marks Place. Tadej is still awake, reviewing his students’ assignments. He takes some time for me. As we process the current state of the world and solve global problems, I slowly head upstairs to my room.

Tired, I fall asleep.