(Taken from the Connie Converse fan page)

"Around 1949, Elizabeth “Connie” Converse dropped out of Mt. Holyoke College and moved to New York City to make her way as a musician. Over the course of the next decade, she wrote and recorded a body of truly unique, plaintive and haunting work. Some songs she recorded herself in her Greenwich Village apartment; some were recorded by friends enamored of her music, but almost none ever reached an audience wider than, as she once put it, “dozens of people all over the world.”

By the early 1960’s, despondent over the limited commercial success of her music, she decided to leave New York for Ann Arbor, Michigan where, in 1974, Connie wrote a series of goodbye letters to friends and family, packed up her Volkswagen and disappeared. She has not been heard from since."

Daniel is working very closely with Connie's family to restore and remaster this beautiful music to life, Click here to listen to some examples.

I had a meeting with the owner of a historic specialty coffee company, Mc Nulty's in Greenwich village tonight for their window display. As soon as I stepped into the shop, I fell in love with the great aroma of coffees & teas from around the world. The shop has been in business since 1895, and obviously had a great antique atmosphere, which I would love to carry into their window displays. Being a great coffee lover myself, this is going to be an exciting design project!

To coffee & tea lovers in New York City, you'll love Mc Nulty's.

www.mcnultys.com

So the swaying palm trees with that pretty sunset in the last post - it's a gigantic cliche, I know. I know! Taking the photo it was hard to shake the feeling that someone had stuck a large I'M A TOURIST sign to my back, but such are the sacrifices we make for bad photography.

But I swear that's it. Sure I'm a tourist, but I don't have to act like it all the time. For that reason my New York City photographs are few and far between. Really, does the world need another picture of a giant flashing M&M perched atop a Times Square billboard? Will your reading experience truly be made joyous by the addition of one more tourist-eye shot of the Empire State Building? Hardly.

I'm a tourist but I don't have to act like it all the time; if there's a phrase that sums travelling up for me, so far, it's that. I don't want to act all pretentious like and pretend that I wasn't struck by all the things that other travellers are stuck by. Times Square really was a sight to behold (and it's huge, by the way - not exactly a "square" but more a collection of intersections and lights and gaudy billboards and and people, so many, many people); Central Park as spectacular as it was enormous; and I won't pretend that, sitting in a cafe in Greenwich Village amongst hip NYU students and tweed-jacketed (really!) professors, I didn't for just a second wonder if Allen Ginsberg had once sat in the same spot.

But it's not about any of that, really. Travel is about the small stuff. If I want to know what the Empire State looks like from the ground or the top I'm sure Wikipedia or the latest Lonely Planet book have plenty of nice photographs. But New York isn't the Empire State Building or the Brooklyn Bridge or baseball or Central Park, amazing as those things are. It's bagels for breakfast, it's summer in Harlem - kids avoiding cops and appropriating fire hydrants as the water sprays everywhere but not one person is frowning (I wish I'd had my camera that day). And it's listening to that tweed-jacket wearing professor watching the half-his-age student because both of them have the sparkling eyes of youth (or is it just the caffeine?) because to them it's just a cafe and a brilliant conversation and the world's not always wise to that.

I never made it out of Manhattan in my four days of New York City and I'm not ashamed to say that I hardly saw a proper "sight". I saw the people of New York, and that was plenty.

A los apasionados de Dylan no hace falta que se les explique quién es Suze Rotolo. Para todos aquellos a los que les interese la figura del bardo de Duluth pero a los que no les suene este nombre quizás convenga aclarar que, según la mitología “Dylaniana”, Rotolo fue uno de los grandes amores del músico además de su pareja sentimental más o menos estable durante los trascendentales meses en los que Dylan -hasta aquel momento un joven cantante que gozaba de una cierta reputación en los cafés bohemios del Greenwich Village de Nueva York- pasó a disfrutar del “status” de estrella internacional y “guru” espiritual de toda una generación.

Sin duda, se trata de una narración que cuenta, de entrada, con el nada desdeñable atractivo que le confiere el ser realizada por una persona que vivió, en primera persona, lo que se narra en el libro. Y que no siempre es demasiado amable con el protagonista. Algunos de los episodios narrados demuestran claramente, por ejemplo, que la más que probada tendencia del músico durante aquellos años a disfrazar su pasado y mentir sobre su más que convencional familia (unos prósperos tenderos de clase media con establecimiento propio en Duluth, Minnessotta) alcanzaba incluso a sus seres más cercanos. Así, Rotolo confiesa que la primera vez que supo, después de meses de relación, que Bob Dylan se llamaba, en realidad, Robert Allen Zimmerman fue el día en que al artista, que llegaba a casa totalmente borracho después de una noche de jarana, se le cayó al suelo la cartera y con ella sus documentos de identidad.

El volumen, titulado “A Freewheelin’ Time: A Memoir of Greenwich Village In The Sixties” dedica, como es lógico, una especial atención a la historia de amor entre Dylan –que tenía veintiún años cuando se conocieron- y Rotolo, que tan sólo tenía diecisiete. Pero en sus páginas puede encontrarse también abundante información relativa a aquellos primeros y decisivos años de la trayectoria del músico. Una trayectoria que, poco después, estaría totalmente consolidada, gracias a discos hoy en día ya históricos como “The Freewheelin Bob Dylan”, en el que se incluyó nada más y nada menos que “Blowin In The Wind” y en cuya memorable y también ya clásica portada aparecían los dos amantes paseando por las calles de la Gran Manzana.

1) A handsome man did a double take even though it was first thing in the morning and I was without a trace of makeup.

2) I saw the delightful Carson Kressley shooting something in Central Park. He looks fantastic. His skin was glowing and all plump and smooth. I suppose it could have been makeup, but I'll give him the props anyway.

3) I got to the grocery store 4 minutes before they closed.

4) They let me in.

The sun finally peeped out late this afternoon and threw some fantastic light and shadows on the buildings I passed on my way out of the office. I got inspired to go for an urban ramble and went down to the Village.  I love these aimless walks; they're one of my new hobbies since moving to New York last year -- a good way to discover the city and feel more connected to it, I find. I sometimes just walk until I see something I want to walk toward, and then I use that as my turning point until I see something else. Today it was a little restaurant full of people with their heads close together, and the white arch in Washington Square Park looming up out of the NYU buildings, and a Shakespeare and Co. bookstore. While I was walking, I thought about a poem by Derek Walcott called Bleecker Street, Summer. Here's a bit of it:

When I press summer dusks together, it is
a month of street accordions and sprinklers
laying the dust, small shadows running from me.

It is music opening and closing, Italia mia, on Bleecker,
ciao, Antonio, and the water-cries of children
tearing the rose-coloured sky in streams of paper;
it is dusk in the nostrils and the smell of water
down littered streets that lead you to no water,
and gathering islands and lemons in the mind.

By Tina Kelley
NY Times

Nar vi kom till Ground Zero dar vi tankte titta pa halet i marken upptackte vi att de hade tackt for alla staket och man kunde foljdaktligen inte se nat. Pa nyheterna for en stund sen sag jag att man hade hittat nanting fran istiden pa platsen dar tornen hade statt, och det var antagligen darfor vi inte fick titta. Jallafall, innan vi skulle ta bussen hem fikade vi pa ett cafe ungefar sa langt soderut pa Greenwich Street som man kan komma. For att enklast ta sig till 42 street dar bussen gar ifran aker man bla linjen mot Harlem, och narmaste station dar den gar ifran lag pa 14th street. Sa vi borjade ga. Och pa sodra Manhattan ar gatsystemet lite mer komplicerat an vad det ar pa andra stallen, sa vi fick ga en bra bit innan vi antligen kom fram till stationen.

Nu har vi packat vaskorna och laddat iPodarna (?) och ar all set for incheckning imorn.

Sag forresten att dom hade andrat designen lite pa bloggen. Blev snyggt tycker jag.

/M

Dagen spenderades pa ons sydvastra del, och da framfor allt i Chelsea, Greenwich Village och lite i Soho. En hel del shopping, framst for mig faktiskt, men mestadelen av tiden agnade vi at att ga. Ga och ga och ga. Fram och tillbaka, upp och ner for gator och avenyer och forbi kiosker och boutiquer och loppmarknader.

The Village ar ett valdigt fint omrade med manga trad langs gatorna och de dar patenterade tegelhusen med svarta trappor.

Pa Bleecker Street gick vi forbi ett cafe som har vart med i Sex and the City och kon var sa lang att folk stod ute pa trottoaren och runt hornet pa byggnaden och vantade pa att fa komma in. Sofie tyckte att vi skulle ansluta. Jag sa nej. Nar vi satt i parken utanfor kom det forresten en tjej och satte sig pa banken bredvid oss med en tartbit fran bageriet. Hon at halva och slangde resten i papperskorgen. Vilket antiklimax.

Och imorn ska vi nog gora ungefar samma sak. Ga, dricka kaffe, ga, shoppa, ata lunch, ga, aka tunnelbana och ga.

Pa tisdag lamnar vi Jersey och bosatter oss pa Manhattan fram till pa fredag da vi aker hem, vilket ska bli valdigt skont (bade hotellvistelsen och hemresan, that is.)

Och jag ser fortfarande inte fram emot Marten, nej.

/M

Spent a long weekend in New York...sounds decadent but it was a definite budget trip. Here's how I roll...when my son is who lives in the West Village is out of town, and he was, we go to NY and stay in his apartment. Free lodging...kind of....we are expected to leave gifts in return. And for the first time ever, I took Megabus! Their buses leave hourly for NY from the White Marsh Park and Ride...and if you book relatively far ahead(a few weeks) you can get away with maybe, a 20 buck round trip. Not too bad. Here's what I learned about Megabus, for those of you who may consider a trip.

[caption id="" align="alignright" width="240" caption="Waiting on line for Megabus..bring something to read."][/caption]

#1.

Get there early. If you have a 9:30 am bus arrive by 9. Why? Because something I didn't know is that there may not always be room for you and it's first come first served. I truly assumed when you booked, you had a seat. Not so, at least not on this bus....some folks booked on the 8:25 (and the bus was a half hour late), didn't get on until the 9:25 came in. That was a little unsettling.

#2.They do have wifi, but there's no plug-in. So you better have a good battery for your computer.

#3. They do have bathrooms, but it's like a port-o-potty...just blue stuff in the bottom...no flush. That wasn't too bad, but there's also no sink to wash your hands, though they did have a limited supply of antiseptic wipes. Oh, and I had to ask the driver for toilet paper before we left as there was none. He did have a supply.

#4.Other than that, the ride was fine...we made good time...in NY by noonish. Dropped us off at Penn Station on 8th Avenue, and that was that. And compared to the stress of driving and the expense of Amtrak, it's a hassle free bargain.

No, I didn't see shows or sightsee or shop...just hung out in the village. Walked around, found a few really good and pretty inexpensive restaurants....you know, kind of like I live there. Only I don't. Recommendations for eats?  

Gottino...new wine bar on Greenwich Ave....very chic, small plates, great cheese, glasses of wine-good! Perilla  on Jones Street for brunch...again minimalist, good food(fabulous grilled-or as they called it "griddled" cheese). And it's Perilla soundingthe l's ....it's actually an herb...which I have never heard of!  And my favorite find, on Charles Ave just off Greenwich Ave...El Charro Espanol..small, intimate Spanish place with wonderful Sangria and Paella...and I'm pretty tough to please when it comes to that famous saffron, rice and seafood dish. Oh, and the place is a bargain. Jack's Coffee in the morning...very earthy but oh so fashionable and javalicious.  On the weekdays, you might see a movie star there, but they disappear on the weekends. Lots of beautiful skinny girls in summer dresses and fall boots...that was all the rage this weekend. But man, those boots looked hot, and I mean sweaty hot, when the temps got close to 90!

But it was also a quiet sober weekend in the Big Apple...that's where the economic debacle is hitting the hardest, at least for the moment. Lots of people worried about their jobs, their firms, how the whole mess may impact them. Of course, many people are feeling that same uncertainty right now. It's not a good feeling. Not at all.

The train chugged pitifully, it’s Amtrak counterparts would every so often rush by with lightening speed. This lowly bucket of bolts and metal we sat on didn’t move as fast. “Trains in Europe don’t have to deal with this. They have magnetic tracks, and all sorts of advanced technology. Japan is light years ahead in making commuter trains faster.” Said Dominic. I agreed, for a country so impressed by our glitzy ipods and designer handbags, you’d think a far better mode of transport would have been developed by now. I guess not, and so our old train chugged sadly into the north. Occasionally we’d mock the towns we’d pass by, noting the poverty stricken streets and the aching buildings, aged cement. Giant brick ovens they were, cooking these poor cities in the blazing sun. I felt kind of bad, they rotted. The rich lived not too far away, in the comfort of their suburbia. The beautiful gem of the Ivy League, triumphant Princeton, sat not too far from all this decay and ruin of the north. These battered New Brunswick avenues, these cracked Linden streets, these empty Edison lanes, these tragic Newark structures.

“You get way too down sometimes. I wish this train would hurry up. We’re gonna miss the show if we don’t get there in time.” Said Dom. Me and Dom were heading into Greenwich Village to see an off off Broadway production that his professor had written. Literally gay in every sense of the word, but I always wanted to see experimental theatre like this. Real beat, real run down, real unique and odd. It’s got to be worth something. I had walked to Greenwich Village two weeks previously to explore the great arch of Washington Square Park. What a foolish venture that was. Riddled with sweat in the New York sun, I had managed to walk to the park and stood in awe of the magnificent structure and the nearby fountain which shot great bursts of mist into the air. Refreshing but a great pain ached in my legs for walking so many blocks of pure old New York cement sidewalks. I wasn’t going to do that again, so we both opted for the tried and true subway. We left our old NJ-Transit claptrap of a train and proceeded into the unhappily modernized Penn Station. I’m no expert when it comes to subways though, but it couldn’t be that hard to get downtown.

I was wrong, me and Dom foolishly walked around Penn Station numerous times, taking the same flight of stairs twice, and getting nowhere. We walked around the massive post office that takes up it’s own block, and started right back where we were. We finally managed to find an entrance into the bowels of the subway. Dark, dank, and downtrodden. The gloomy passengers of the subways aren’t the happiest people in the world. They’re intent on getting somewhere, and if not, just getting away from these pipe-laden underground labyrinths of railways, and back onto the street. Dom meticulously looked over a giant map of the subway system on the wall. “Well, looks like Washington Square is a mandatory stop, so we should be fine.” I nodded. “I hope so, the Lafayette Street theatre shouldn’t be too hard to find. I bet NYU probably owns it.” We were a little too confident in getting to our destination. Our joking and loud talking between each other drowned out any other sound aside the distant hum and rattling of the trains. That whole platform of people seemed pretty sad. Perhaps they knew of the chaos Dom and I would soon be experiencing. We boarded, we seemed happy. Plenty of time till 3:45, I wanted to show Dom NYU in all it’s glory. Those big purple banners emblazoned with the name, NYU. Hanging in the air, they claimed their scholarly grounds in the city. Dom was considering attending there after community college. I told him all about my previous walk there to the central campus but mentioned how I preferred Fordham University in the Bronx for it’s gothic architecture. We talked, we thought all was well and we’d be in Greenwich Village in mere minutes. An elderly black man across from me dozed happily, he seemed content. Smooth easy trails on the subway or so I thought. I glanced outside the subway window as it eased into the next station. “Oh damn it.” The tiled and mosaic walls of the station we just passed read “42”. No, we couldn’t have made such a dim witted error. We were in Midtown going uptown, the exact opposite of the downtown Village. Complete fools. We had taken the wrong train. We scurried off at the next stop, 50. 50th street, a horrid number. Halfway between oblivion and paradise we stood, destination and disaster. “Don’t worry, there’s plenty of time but we’re going to have to run if we're gonna make it.” Said Dom, knowing the grim stretch of bustling Manhattan ahead. A mad dash, a mad epic dash. The big lights of Times Square, the taxis honking, the tourists crowding the streets. Two kids, scrambling as though we were evading heavy gunfire in some forsaken urban battlefield. A barrage of “Gap”, “Victoria’s Secret”, “Nike”, "Starbucks" blurred the edges of my vision. Advertisements were whirling by. We ran, we dashed past cops and food vendors, wildly intent on making it on time to see this play. Over freshly laid cement we leapt, into the throngs of passersby. 45th street, okay, a couple more blocks till we get to another subway station, there’s one near the police station. Hopping, jumping, sprinting for dear life. One of those giant tourist buses nearly ran me over, “Haha, fuck you bus,” I shouted with a stupid sense of glee and pride in my voice. Dom and I could make this sprint easily, just as long as our lungs didn’t burn out or our legs give way to fatigue.  We kept our insane run up, madmen trouncing through the streets of old Manhattan till we reached it, this hidden station. “Where is it? There’s gotta be a subway entrance around here!” Dom muttered. His anger was beginning to show as we stood on 42nd street, center of the world. “There,” I coughed, out of breath. In grand shiny sparkly lights, aged and weathered, it read “Subway” Glorious, we found it, now to continue our great rush in the underground rails yet again.

City living is so hectic, I don’t know how old men in suits and ties do it everyday. I love it though, gives you a sense of being alive. It’s living like you’re near death, a pounding pain bellows in your brain. There’s no stopping now kid, you have to run. Your legs demand rest, your tongue is dry. You’d love to stop and look at the sights, those doll faced girls walking by in their big bug-eye sunglasses, their midriffs exposed, sultry grins on their faces as they giggle into their cell-phones. But no, it’s a race. The clock is the enemy, these tired down streets are the obstacle, and Dom hates to be defeated. The surrounding tourists looked at us with odd stares. These fools, where are they rushing to? For truly nothing and nowhere, but it’s all about the process of getting there. Transient devils we are.

We caught our breath as we descended the stairs onto the next platform. A train, B train, 1 train, 3 train? Just get me downtown. Along with our confusion, the heat bakes you down in those railway tombs and you feel it. Dom and I asked a guy of perhaps Arabian descent in a pink shirt which way to go. He replied that both trains on each side of the platform headed downtown. Perfect. We’d succeed somehow or die from our impromptu marathon. The train took it’s time though, and I jokingly lamented by picking up a payphone and saying ‘I’m not really thrilled with you New York.” into the receiver. Dom chuckled. A girl nearby read Harry Potter, that thick zeitgeist hardback, she glanced up every so often to see us fools panting for air. Whoosh, the train arrived and we boarded again. It hurled itself forward and I lurched idiotically, had I more weight on my skinny bones I wouldn’t be at the mercy of these rollicking rails. But we zipped past several platforms. “Great, we’ve covered several blocks in less than 3 minutes.” Exclaimed Dom. ‘14th Street’ in it’s mosaic lettering flashed by, and I felt a bit more at ease. That tranquil second of contentment shattered. The train picked up speed, there goes Canal Street. “Chinatown. We’re below NYU.” We had messed up a second time and these cursed rails of the underworld had made victims of us again. The clock was winning and we had to get off now. We arrived at the last stop, Franklin street, time to depart and find another train going uptown again.

Wandering aimlessly but in a hurried rush as usual, we arrived at another platform going north. We asked yet another gentleman for some assistance, this guy was wearing sunglasses, bald. He seemed somewhat professional and directed us on the right path. We boarded yet again, keeping our eyes glued on the windows for our next destination. A saggy eyed black fellow standing not too far from us said which stop to exit on, Houston was his preferred choice for us. We listened and jumped off on the woeful platforms of Houston Street and emerged into the harsh sun again. “Where the hell are we?” I questioned. Bewildered, lost. We were in some offbeat section of SoHo, lower Manhattan’s No Man’s Land. But if you're a trendy boutique shopping darling, welcome to your steel laced paradise. But still far from Washington Square Park and wherever our mystery theatre was. Old brick buildings, giant billboards for liquor, and oddball New Yorkers walking about. Time to start our forsaken run again. My legs groaned, Dom kept a steady pace ahead of me, his camera bag slung over his shoulder hitting his back as he ran. Those big purple NYU banners hung in the distance, we kept our maniac marathon going. Panting, sweating, our chests swelling with the heat of a beat August afternoon. Profanity, anguish, angst, and loss took over our voices. The clock was going to beat us and we’d miss this stupid play. We had little idea where the theatre was. The great old structures of this former bohemia looked down at us. Surely, Dom asked everybody for directions. A punky Asian kid, a worn out black cop overlooking some construction area, a Latino cabbie, some old men in ties. Nobody was very helpful, and many of them kept sending us in the wrong direction. “Hey, what’s that over there.” I asked Dom. Could we have possibly found that damn theatre? The clock had nearly won. Run, don’t pant and cough, just run. Don’t let the streets get to you. My insides burned. Large, red, vertical banners hung before it, one of them read ‘Shakespeare’ in yellowing lettering. “Well obviously it’s a theatre.” I spat out. By now we were both stumbling to reach it, so out of breath. Lafayette Street Theatre stood there, the blue sky whipped clouds looming over it. We hurried inside.

A pleasant lobby greeted us but something seemed amiss. This place is far too nice to be deemed off off Broadway. A narrow opening in the wall led to the ticket booths. Dom walked up and asked that two tickets were reserved for us. The lady behind the counter looked perplexed, more so annoyed. We were at the wrong theatre.

The clock had won and Dom was more than aggravated. We were lost somewhere in SoHo, and we still had yet to find this theatre. It was past 3:45, but Dom was intent on finding it before calling this day a complete and utter defeat. We dashed across the street into another building, which also housed theatrical performances. It wasn’t really a theatre though, but more of a converted apartment building with performance spaces. Cramped, small, and beat. We took an elevator up and ended up in a hallway with flyers and programs tacked on and laid about the walls of the room. Still this wasn’t it either, and so we exited.

 We trotted through the lonesome SoHo, claiming we had gotten a great workout, courtesy of us being uninformed and our own lack of being prepared. My stomach ached, I hadn’t eaten much on this sun blasted day and the hard asphalt on my blistered soles wasn’t making things any better. I noticed a grim looking chain link fence, in-between some buildings adorned with gruesome barbed wire atop it. Dom asked yet another person for information, this guy was kind of fruity and a small jittery dog fidgeted in his hands. We turned back the way we were going. “Andrew?” “Dom.”

Apparently, the building right before that grim section of fence was the theatre. A plastic ‘FringeNYC’ sign was poorly taped to it, so easy to miss considering we had walked right by it. This was it though, and Dom lamented and apologized to Andrew, the writer of this play, on why we were late. Andrew was about our height, scraggly hair, a striped polo, jean shorts, and some sandals. A bit chubby but young, he was probably only a few years older than us, we ragged nineteen year olds. Andrew was gay, but not over the top. He was a professor at our local community college, but he didn’t seem like it. Dom had done some recording work for this production and promised he’d see it out of kindness here in this Manhattan badlands theatre, but that kindness was nearly gone. Dom was hoping his name would be in the playbill, which he thought would be made by the ‘PlayBill’ company. I kind of chuckled when Andrew gave us two flimsy paper programs, I expected that, Dom unhappily didn’t. To his greater displeasure, his name wasn’t in it. “So much for using that on your résumé.” I quipped.

Andrew said we could stay for the second act, and what did we have to lose. It only cost us five dollars and so we went inside. The place looked like some aborted apartment building that was turned later into some beatnik theatre last minute. The lobby was painted in oddly light, cheery colors. To the left were Andrew’s associates, they sat at a little folding table set up with programs, tickets, and other paperwork. Two females, one who was Asian, her eyes flickered unnaturally, the other was a slightly odd looking girl who appeared just as displeased to be sitting there. In-between was a concessions area, a little Italian man who talked happily on his cell-phone kept watch over a box of animal crackers, snickers, sodas and whatnot. To the other side stood another acting group behind a folding table, advertising their own play which performed later. A beautiful Hispanic girl, who apparently was with that other acting group talked quietly on her cell phone. She giggled occasionally, I tried not to stare at her, her tanned and pretty body, her charming face. “Not in your wildest dreams.” I thought to myself.

Exact change for a bottle of water, $1.50 and Dom got a Coke for the same price. The little Italian man seemed content to be making business, even though I still thought it was grossly overpriced. But I was dehydrated and the sweat of death begged me for water, so be it.  I gulped down my icy Poland Spring, and sat down. The lobby was our rest stop for awhile, and although Dom and I both needed to use a bathroom, the only one available was through the actual theatre itself and we couldn’t disturb the performance. I thumbed through the playbill. The play was entitled “To Be Loved” and was based on a Japanese Kabuki play but Andrew had customized it. The main character, a monk, was gay and his lover, a hustler kid, kills himself, but reincarnates into a girl later, causing the main character to make things right. I put the program down; I’d worry about the intricacies of reincarnated gay boys during the second act. Dom and I joked in the meantime, we observed the fresh blotches of cement on our shoes during the frantic dash we had in Times Square. “Hope that comes off.” Said Dom.

Meet Up at Washington Square Arch, Washington Square North @ Fifth Avenue ; $5 donation

Recommended! by Time Out NY: “In the 1950s, Jane Jacobs helped keep cars out of Washington Square. But a new redesign - which will entail dismantling the fountain, removing the chess tables and cutting down decades-old trees - puts the beloved green space in jeopardy all over again.” 7/24/08

Come on the tour (it's fun!) and see what the redesign of Washington Square Park really means, while learning some of the Park and neighborhood's illustrious history.

Presented by Washington Square Park Blog and Washington Square Community Improvement District(CID)

Trains: A,B,C,D,E,F to West 4th Street/Washington Square

Raindate: Saturday, September 27th, 1 p.m.

Community Improvement Districts(CID) are a new model organizing to promote the well being of the community. CIDs are distinguished from the Business Improvement Districts(BIDS), whose sole interest is promoting better business and an environment conducive to shopping. At Washington Square Park, the neighborhood BIDS, along with NYU, the Tisch Family, and Mayor Bloomberg have played a role in a redesign plan that is destroying the very heart of this renowned park.

More about Community Improvement Districts (CID) here.

What are New York City's plans? Click here.

I shared a spacious apartment on Christopher Street with three other girls (single women were still called girls then), and on a night out we might eat at the Waverly Inn where the ceilings were low, the fireplaces numerous and the comfort food cheap. Under new management, but still not officially opened after two years, the mac and cheese is $55, though it does come with truffles. Celebrities’ limos line up around the block.

Sometimes we went to Chumley’s on Bedford Street, a former speakeasy with an unmarked entrance. The atmosphere, tables carved with initials, walls covered with book covers and author photos, was better than the food. Ernest Hemingway hung out there, among other writers. Chumley’s has been closed since a wall collapsed last year, and renovations are still dragging along. The owners have stored all the furnishings and photos and say they will be open soon. Something tells me it won’t be the same.

The piers along the Hudson River were another favorite haunt. Even though they were mostly pilings then, we could smell the salt air and look at boats plowing past. Now the area has been reincarnated as Hudson River Park. With its bike paths and gardens and modernist gazebos it all sounds rather gentrified to me.

Besides the Christopher Street Pier, there was the Gansevoort Pier near the meatpacking district, where we stepped over gutters running with blood to watch ships leaving the harbor. For a 50 cent contribution to the Longshoremen’s Fund, we could join a bon voyage party when the Swedish or Dutch lines sailed. But we always checked in first with our dockworker friend Okie, who knew when the mob would be dumping bodies.

The meatpacking district then was the grittiest in the entire city. Now it is the trendiest. Uptowners and out-of-towners must enjoy slumming once the danger is gone, but I find the whole thing a pretentious bore.

There was no artificiality in the old Village, unless you count the fusty cobwebs sprayed on the exposed ceiling beams at Julius’s on West 10th. The White Horse Tavern on Hudson, site of Dylan Thomas’ fatal drinking spree, certainly put on no airs. Nor did the Old Homestead Restaurant with its fake cow out front.

I would leave my job on Madison Avenue, take the IRT subway to the Sheridan Square stop and head west on Christopher Street. I could smell the coffee roasting at McNulty’s Tea & Coffee. Next to it was the Theatre de Lys, where “The Three Penny Opera” seemed to run forever, then my building at 125.

This was the Village, and it was home.

Helen Bechdel

Centre Daily Times

Another mad week has gone by and I'm not sure if I'm the better or the worse for it! The week was spent preparing an intense beat report on Crown Heights, celebrating Katya's birthday, getting over the shock of Sarah Palin, going through the maddening process of registering for Obama / McCain lottery tix, thinking way too much about too few things, visiting Dali and Picasso at the MOMA, and getting lost amongst 3 million people at the Crown Heights West Indian-American Labor Day parade ...

Let's start at the very beginning shall we?

Monday was Labor Day, the culmination of a long weekend when 80% of New Yorkers go away for the weekend, and the other 20% visit the West Indian-American Labor Day parade which takes place in Crown Heights, Brooklyn. Seeing as Crown Heights is my beat, I thought it was in my best interests - in the name of journalistic research of course - to visit the parade, gawk at the women, eat unhealthy food and get lost in the crowd. I did that all ... and generally in that order.

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Yes, I'm going all techno-phile on you guys this week, with a slideshow to entertain you in case my words get boring! Hover over the pics to read the captions.

The parade rocked, but after three hours of being bombarded by food, colors, oddly dressed people, police baracades, music and lewd dancing manouvres, I decided to get horribly lost in the crowds and spend an hour looking for subway to get home. Bad move on my part, seeing as the others managed to use their CU press passes to get into the parade and dance with the floats. Journalists. Really.

The rest of the week was a mad rush to get information on crime, education, politics, social services, architecture and the location of a secret treasure buried in the 1600s in our beat, as well as an interview with a New York State Senator and a discovery of the existence of Elvis in Brooklyn - all in preparation for the beat report. With that harrowing assignment over, it was to class the next day! Only to get another assignment!

Luckily, this time the assignment was not to prove the existence of aliens in our community, but rather to write on immigration. In my opinion, aliens would've been easier. To get away from the horrors of our looming deadline, we decided to escape to the charming neighbourhood of Greenwich Village on Friday evening to celebrate Katya's birthday in an obscure but pretty awesome little bar called The Other Room. It was definitely a success, as evidenced by the fact that around 30 J-school students were persuaded to remain there until the early hours of the morning and not move onto other places, as is usually the case.

Me? I got sandwiched between Alex and Tim who promptly set about mocking my South African accent, buying me a glass of wine with my bag of Ziplocked quarters to spare me the embaressment, and generally being lewd and crude. It was great. We departed in the rain at roughly 2am - Zee, Tim and I, and proceeded to get rained out in the one hour trek to find a subway, discover it was locked, hail a taxi, negotiate with the driver and then walk home after being dropped off. My look was not meant to be "drowned rat", but somehow it ended up that way.

This afternoon, in another attempt to avoid my assignment / laundry / the gym and my thoughts, we went to visit Dali and Picasso at the MoMA, which was packed full of fawning art critics, and young kids, two of whom referred to Dali's work as "sloppy". Despite the violent urge to hurt some people, I was still deeply impressed by Dali's artwork - the great depth of color, the level of detail, the beautiful absurdity of it all. It was another shelf opened.

And that, is that ... for the moment. Don't ask me why I'm writing this at 11.38 on a Saturday night ... the tail end of hurricane weather has forced me inside to sit at my computer, organise my life and face school head on ... or at least until bedtime. Let's see what tomorrow brings. Below, a map of Crown Heights North for those interested ... I had to prepare it for the class website and I'm testing it here to see if it works.

View Larger Map

In 1987, I had the pleasure of listening to "The Goodtime Music Show" on terrestrial radio. Hosted by singer / songwriter / musician John Sebastian, he’d play great folk, blues, and early rock ’n’ roll sides. He made the music come to life for me with stories of the 60s Greenwich Village scene, his rooming with blues great Lightnin’ Hopkins, and his role within the Lovin’ Spoonful. He made a wonderful disc jockey, and a huge source of information regarding the pre-Beatles days of music.

My first memory of John Sebastian is "Welcome Back," the theme from the television show Welcome Back, Kotter. I hadn’t realized that he was also behind the music of the Spoonful. I also didn’t realize that I had been playing snippets of his songs on my clarinet while simultaneously watching television spots selling "The Best Of the Lovin’ Spoonful."

The connection came with my first viewing of the film, Woodstock. I finally put a face to the name. In the film, John sang "Younger Generation," one of the Spoonful’s melodies I learned to play on clarinet. At that instant, my mission was clear; I had to have Spoonful and solo Sebastian records.

Throughout junior high and high school, I was on the hunt for any Spoonful vinyl I could get my hands on. One of the first was a low priced "Best of," which included the big hits like "Do You Believe In Magic," "Daydream," "Summer In The City," and "Did You Ever Have To Make Up Your Mind." Beyond those great hits lay a fountain of beautiful songs that really got under my skin.

My personal favorite Spoonful songs:

• "Lovin’ You" from Hums Of The Lovin’ Spoonful. There’s just something about the complex simplicity of the song, message, and arrangements. It sounds like it should have been in a 30s musical, but with 60s country pop cool.
• "Younger Girl" from Do You Believe In Magic. Still one of the best acoustic songs ever written. Beautiful and tender in tone and lyric, you have to love the fact that the autoharp makes it sound like it was recorded in heaven.
• "Pow!" from the What’s Up, Tiger Lily soundtrack. There are enough interesting things going on in this song to keep you entertained even 42 years later. The playful lyrics show a side of John’s writing that no one else can do.
• "Beautiful Girl" from the You’re A Big Boy Now soundtrack is an overlooked pop / rock gem from the Spoonful catalog. Check out the film sometime; it marks the directorial debut of Francis Ford Coppola.
• "Six O’Clock" from Everything Playing is one of my favorite singles of all time. There is something very infectious about the double rhythm track, the instrumental arrangement, the driving harpsichord, and vocals that give me goose bumps when the band hits the spot "Now, I’m back alone."

For more of John’s music, check out his solo albums, especially John B. Sebastian. He gets to stretch his musical mind and experiment with rock, jazz, country, and folk. Dig "Red-Eye Express" for rockin’ out, or "I Had A Dream" for its lovely instrumentation (including a harp).

Anywho, Happy Birthday John. Thanks for the great music, and thanks for many hours of learning about the early folk and blues scenes. I’m glad you’re still here and performing. Please come back to Vegas soon; I want to put you in front of a microphone and onto a Poppermost recording!

Note: The date listed on the album shown below is for the remastered version. The original was released in March 1965.

Currently listening : Do You Believe in Magic By The Lovin' Spoonful Release date: 09 July, 2002

(Lex Neon is the musical mastermind behind the music of indie sunshine pop / rock band Poppermost.  For more info, go to http://www.poppermost.com)

The next morning I flew to visit a dear friend in Nashville, Tennessee -- Stacey from my book. We suffered and recovered together, and have remained close all these years. Four years ago she had breast cancer. The chemo, radiation and hormonal therapy have taken quite a toll on her, and many issues have come up. I'm hoping she will share some of her experience with you here soon as a guest writer. It was nice to catch up and laugh together. We went to the Grand Ole Opry and took the guided tour, which was a lot of fun. It's right across from the mall, where we also spent some time. There I bought myself a new book: Anna Karenina. I haven't had much time to read it yet, but got right into it. We went to the Hard Rock Café there. Here's a picture:

Back in New York City, I met up with another character from my book -- Emily. We decided to stay with an urban shaman friend of a friend in Exotic Brooklyn, and were not disappointed. It was a magical place. Although we only went there to sleep, it was a wonderful refuge to return to at the end of the day. We wandererd around the streets of our past and went out to the same Indian place we frequented back then. Only this time, instead of an $8 meal, we celebrated being able to afford the vegetarian meal for two. Thus we didn't have to pick one thing, but instead were able to enjoy soup, appetizers and main course -- a splendid array of colors and tastes, and absolutely delicious! Even though we didn't finish everything, we left the restaurant quite full. Here we are with the soup:

We wandered around some more and stopped in a few Tibet shops. In one of them I bought another book: Buddhism Through American Women's Eyes. I've been wanting to read something in this direction, and the book nearly jumped off the shelf into my hands.

Neither of us slept well that first night, as we were quite full. I lay there wondering if my tummy would ever go back to its regular size. But by the next day, we were back to normal and went out for a wonderful brunch with a friend at a place with a beautiful garden. We got there around 9.30 and were nearly the only guests. I guess people generally sleep longer there. I would too, but as a visitor, I had things to do! This will give you some idea of the place:

Afterwards we went to the Brooklyn Museum and saw "The Dinner Party" by Judy Chicago. That was impressive beyond words and I highly recommend it. Next door is the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, so we walked through there for a while and stopped for lunch. The guy was in such a hurry that he knocked my lemonade off the counter and it spilled all over my feet. Luckily I jumped back in reflex and didn't get it all over my skirt! The garden is beautiful...

In the afternoon we returned to Manhattan, making our way to Damrosch Park for a music festival at 4 pm, which had various performers playing country, folk and bluegrass. The closing act was Patti Smith and her band. Emily and I met back in the 80s when we went to see the Lenny Kaye Connection. We attended nearly every gig. It was the first time in 28 years for her to see Patti. Emily said Patti hasn't really changed, except that she's better. Patti is still authentic and right there. That's why we love and admire her so much. Afterwards we went to a diner for a snack and a glass of wine, then headed back to Exotic Brooklyn.

After a delicious breakfast with our host, Emily took the train back to her house with its white picket fence (what she always wanted), and I headed upstate to the house I grew up in. There I spent several days. Although I did spend some time with family, I sought quiet solitude to collect myself. In that home I feel so happy, that I truly belong somewhere. Hours were spent on the steps outside, sitting in the sun, writing, playing guitar and singing, listening to the wind in the trees, getting a good taste of the life I love and how I would like to live. Rather than retreat into the past, I enjoyed that energy and realized: I want to live here. So, lucky me. I have another long-term goal: I want to go home!

Funny how experiences enhance our perception. Suddenly I find myself paying more attention to the lyrics of various songs on the radio and in my memory: I wanna go home, the green green grass of home, homeward bound, leavin on a jet plane... The list goes on.

The last few days I also spent in New York City, visiting with my Aunt and my mother. Even then I managed to have time to wander around alone. That is the purest food for my soul: wandering. On the last day, I stopped at a little shop in the Village and dropped off a handful of my CDs to give away. Then I went to St. Mark's book store. I'd never been there before. It is a wonderful store, packed with world literature. I saw some of the authors I've read in German and found it tempting to "cheat" and read them in English. Well, when I live in the States again I can go there frequently and buy lots of books. It was there that I finally found "A Night of Serious Drinking" -- to my surprised delight. Lately I'd thought I ought to read some Walt Whitman, since so many people mention him. I happened to find "The Essential Walt Whitman" but put it back on the shelf, because I was running out of money. At the cash register, I realized I didn't even have enough for the first book, so I went to the ATM outside -- and decided to pick Walt Whitman back up from the shelf again. While paying, I asked if they sell books on consignment. They do! Two hours later my mother lugged down 3 copies of my book and we went to the store together and dropped them off. So if any of you happen to be in the area, there is the opportunity to look through the book without having to order it. I felt kind of funny asking, but decided if I want to live there I have to do something to promote my future! That's also why I dropped off the CDs. I'm leaving little marks behind me, to help pave the way for my return.

Why am I sharing all of this? For the usual reason: Because I want to share with you what it's like to be recovered. My idea of fun and adventure may be quite different from yours, but what I'm trying to show is that we can have fun and adventure when we recover. There is so much out there for us, just waiting to be explored and experienced. Today is as good a day as any to begin!

P.S. I hope I didn't overdo it with the pictures. It's meant as a special treat for SanityFound, since she's always asking me if I took pictures, and I generally forget my camera. I did this time, too. Luckily not everyone is as absentminded as I am! Anyway, what's a vacation report without pictures?!

In attempting to clarify a simple point of information from the NYC Parks Department Press Office last month, I first received a gracious response -- followed by a drop-off in communication.

Did I per chance hit upon something that the Parks Department does not want to admit or state publicly?

It's basic information contained within Phase I of the redesign work. The same work they state will be completed in November.

My curiously difficult-to-answer question to the NYC Parks Department? ... : What will the size of the Plaza area (the public space) surrounding the Washington Square Park Fountain be?

(As regular readers know, due to the Park's redesign, the famous fountain is now moved 23 feet east of its original location in the center of the Park to "align" with the Washington Square Arch.)

Jane Jacobs and the Fountain's Importance As a Public Space

Whether the fountain really needed to be moved, that's a question most people answer NO to. However, perhaps a bigger point of concern is the amount of public space around the Fountain -- the Plaza. As Jane Jacobs wrote about the Washington Square Park Fountain in 1971 in her renowned book, The Death and Life of Great American Cities: "In effect, this [fountain] is a circular arena, a theater in the round, and that is how it is used, with complete confusion as to who are spectators and who are the show."

WSP Blog and Parks Department Press Office Communication

I wrote to Jama Adams, the head of the Parks Department press department at the suggestion of Amy Freitag, #2 to NYC Parks Commissioner Benepe, in early August. Adams assigned Press Officer Cristina DeLuca to assist me.

I wrote the following on August 5th:

Hi Cristina,

Thank you for getting in contact.

I want to know from the Parks Department what the square footage of - what is usually termed - the “interior plaza area” or “inner circle” around the Fountain at Washington Square Park will be with the renovation of the Park.

The figure that I have is that the new interior plaza (which goes from outermost edge of fountain wall to innermost edge of any seating) will be 20,662 square feet.

In addition, the Entire Plaza Area around Fountain (which includes and goes beyond this area) will be 39,419 square feet.

Can you verify this?

Thank you.

Sincerely,

Cathryn.

On August 7th, this interchange occurred:

Hi Cathryn,

Hope to have this confirmed for you soon. Waiting on borough staff to give me the info. Just resubmitted request as a reminder.
Best,
Cristina

Sent: Thursday, August 07, 2008 4:41 PM
To: DeLuca, Cristina
Subject: Re: Washington Square Park

Hi Cristina,

When do you think you might have the information I requested ? It should be within Parks Department documentation for Phase I work of Washington Square Park.

Thanks for your help.

Sincerely,
Cathryn.

Then ... what happened?

Nothing. Since then, I've sent numerous emails, I've called and left messages. No response.

Is the New York City Parks Department is hiding something?

Could it be that this plaza area is going to be less than what was stated and stipulated ? *

Background on the Public Space issue around the Fountain

*The Gerson-Quinn Agreement (drafted October 2005), a mild (but weak) document, written to Parks Commissioner Adrian Benepe by NY City Council Speaker Christine Quinn and Council Member Alan Gerson, states its goal as: "a framework for resolving the outstanding major issues pertaining to the renovation of Washington Square Park." The G-Q Agreement did not in fact even attempt to resolve the major outstanding issues (NOTE: This has made close followers of the redesign question Gerson and Quinn's intention) but it did stipulate a few things that should nonetheless be adhered to.

One such stipulation: That the Fountain Plaza be no less than 90% of the current area.

In August 2007, The Washington Square Park Task Force issued a Report. It addressed the Plaza area and stated that: it "did not have enough information from the Parks Department to draw a clear conclusion on the size of the inner circle of the fountain plaza in the Plan. Rough calculations made by Task Force members of the total square footage of the inner circle ranged from 88% to 77% of the current area."

When I questioned WSP Task Force co-chair Brad Hoylman last month if this question was ever answered, he directed me to lawsuit documents* from which I obtained the figures above that I queried the Parks Department about.

(*If you hadn't heard, there were numerous lawsuits around Washington Square Park trying to stop the project from going forward and calling the Parks Department on its lack of transparency and accountability. They ultimately failed to stop the project from going forward.)

What is the Parks Department hiding?

It appears that the NYC Parks Department does not want to answer this basic - but important question - which impacts our public space. The Press Office is caught in the middle.

Perhaps the bigger question is...

Who is minding the store?



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Hint: Is it Community Board 2? The Washington Square Park Task Force? Community Groups? Alan Gerson? Christine Quinn? None of the above?

A building as rich in history as it is in style changed the personality of Greenwich Village in 1877.  Costing the city almost $360,000 at the time of its construction, the Courthouse is an interesting combination of Gothic, Victorian, and Venetian architectural styles.  Sitting on a triangular piece of land where 6th Avenue, Greenwich Avenue, and West 10th Street meet, the magnificent building even came equipped with a 100 ft high fire watchers balcony.

Among many other fascinating uses, the Courthouse was home to the Women's House of Detention beginning in 1929.  Different agencies were in and out of the epic building until 1959, when it was left abandoned.  The city made plans to destroy it and put an apartment building on that spot, but Greenwich Village residents put up a winning fight for the building's preservation.  In 1967, a branch of the public library opened and is still in operation.

A trip to this address must include a walk around the back side of the Courthouse for a visit to the breathtaking garden.  Great for a quiet stroll or a relaxing read, the gated area hosts community events and is even available to be booked for weddings (HBO used it for Steve and Miranda's Sex and the City nuptials).

More information about the Jefferson Market Courthouse can be found here.  The garden also has its own website that is updated regularly.

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Friday and Saturday night: the two nights of the week that J-schoolers ENSURE that they are out and about, stalking the streets of New York in an effort to keep the madness away.

For most, it's been a rough day after a rough night. I was up until about 3am doing a story on Brooklyn residents watching Obama's acceptance speech at Cafe Shanes in Crown Heights. With the story filed at around 2am (written in the subway and typed at a phenomenal speed), Friday has hit me at full force.  But after an extended nap I am ready to head out again ... another New York nights stretches out in front of us ...

And this is how it goes ...

7.45 PM: HOP STOPPING IT TO BROOKLYN

It's Franz's 24th birthday and he's planning one hell of an extravaganza, one that starts at 8pm at the Brooklyn Brewery with pizzas and, well beer, naturally.

Brooklyn is not entirely a hop, skip and a jump away from Morningside Heights. More like 45 minutes on the downtown 1 and the L, plus a few minutes walk. But it's made all the better by my lovely companion Katya, whose Australian accent I could listen to for hours (undeniable betrayal for the Saffers!)

Franz has garnered quite a crowd at the Brewery, who are made all the merrier by an assortment of beer at $4 a cup. Most who know me will also me know that beer is not my thing and so it's Diet Coke and pot shots about my acccent from Alex that keep the evening going.

11PM: ALL ABOARD MATEYS?

With a shut-down time of 11pm, Franz guides a straggling group out of the famed Brewery and shepherds us all through a walk, a subway ride, a walk and a taxi ride to the Frying Pan, a lightship boat docked at Chelsea Pier that hosts parties and other shenanigans. Tonight, the Frying Pan is sadly shut down inside (a tour through the bowels of the ship was enough to scare the living daylights out of me), but the barge next to the boat is pumping, and we sit upstairs and talk. I, for one, do not know where to look: out to the towering and blinding skyscrapers of Manhattan, or the docile riverside condos of New Jersey. In both directions, it's beautiful.

1.15 AM: TRAFFIC JAMS ON ROUTE TO GREENWICH

Off the  boat and onto dry land, it's another walk and taxi ride to Dell'Anima ("of the soul"), a restaurant owned by Franz's friend that sits happily on the corner of 8th Avenue and Jane in Greenwich Village. En route Laura and Alex try out their fiercest looks, and we argue with taxi drivers about the four passenger limit that taxi rules call for. Alex uses his charm to woo the taxi driver and all is forgotten as we wind our way through a major traffic jam on Riverside Boulevard.

Dell'Anima is alight with people, and host Joe is more than happy to oblige Franz's posse with some wine and champagne. It's a good place with a happy vibe, but at about 2.30am it's time for me to go.

Others will go onto their fourth and fifth destination for the evening ... it's not uncommon to visit multiple sites in one evening in Manhattan. With cabs and the subway at hand, why not? But sadly, for a girl with few pennies in her pocket (a dismal $15 dollars was spent the whole evening), it's more about conversation than partying at this point.

And there's plenty of that, with the J-schoolers offering points of view on pretty much anything you want to talk about: existentialism and loneliness, companionship and relationships, Plato and rock-climbing - whatever rocks your boat.

And if it's done while bobbing up and down on the Hudson River, or while standing outside the most famous chocalatier in Greenwich Village ... well, all the better!

3.30 am: Bed.

This South African girl disappoints miserably as she climbs into bed, exhausted and depleted at only 3.30am. Sacrilege in the eyes of a typical New Yorker. But it's been a good night - and like every night, it has opened my eyes a little bit more to the randomness of New York, to my own piece in this insane puzzle of a city, and to what's really important in life: seizing the moment and joining the tide, going with the flow without being scared of where it's going to take you.

Amen to that!

There's some interesting information in there (although right this minute, the story has the wrong title, something about a "mystery hotel") and interviews with some of the key players from the Community Board, the Task Force, the Parks Department*, and community members.  (*A Parks Department spokesperson says -- contrary to what was stated at the meeting -- a conservancy is not ruled out, citing the benefits of working with "community groups." Right.)

WSP Blog covered this, beginning last month, in a series (in 8 parts): Update on New York City's Redesign of Washington Square Park. If you missed it, begin here.

Knowing the fundamentals of Greenwich Village is a must if you want to comprehend the traditions related to gay culture in this part of the world. The village is better known as the home of gay and lesbian community of New York. The natives named it West Village. The finest gay tour to New York must include visits to West Village landmarks, like the residences of the great gay activist Bayard Rustin and the eminent lesbian writer Willa Cather. The visits will assist you in having a perfect notion of the gay history of New York.

West Village may be the most important destination for people in search of gay heritage, but the gay life is not just confined to this place. Some other dominant gay colonies have emerged in the East Village and the North Western part of New York. However, the North of West Village is known to host the most number of gay men.

You will have many other exquisite travel options like a visit to the Broadway musical, or a day out of watching melodramatic operas. But, the essence of traditional gay culture is predominantly found in the bars and clubs of New York.

If you are interested in having a closer look at the gay traditions, plan a New York vacation in the middle of June. This time is marked by a week of annual gay festival, which is scheduled from the 18th to 25th of the month. The festival includes a rally, pier-dance and a pride fest, all of which are organized by the gay communities. More than 650,000 people take part in this rally.

The march starts from the 5th Avenue and then moves to the right towards the Greenwich Avenue. The very next destination for the march is Christopher Street, from where it proceeds in the direction of Greenwich Village. Greenwich Village or West Village has observed many of the most determining events of cultural reorganization and growth of the gay communities of New York.

Another strong reason behind the occurrence of this festival in the month of June is the legendary riots of June 1969, better named as the Stonewall Riots. The riots occurred as a movement against the refusal of surrendering to bigotry and intolerance. This is considered as the most significant episode for gay civilrights community of United States of America. It has acted as a pillar to the growth of gay strength in this country.

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For more information, contact: Keira Kordowski (201) 748-6707 kkordows@wiley.com

Heaven and Hell: My Life in the Eagles (1974-2001) by Don Felder with Wendy Holden Wiley; April 2008; $25.95 978-0-470-28906-8; Hardcover

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Newly renovated studio apartment on Christopher St. in the heart of Greenwich Village. Did I mention this place has an amazing terrace view! Also, the building is fully equipped with doorman, elevator, and laundry room.

Let me know if you have any questions or would like to see more pics. As always I can show you more No Fee listings if interested. Enjoy the rest of your Labor Day.

Location is key in New York City. This elevator, doorman building is located in the heart of Greenwich Village with excellent restaurants and nightlife. The newly renovated apartment on a top floor boasts magnificent views of the city.

Once again this apartment is a No Fee listing meaning you do not pay me anything, the owner does. Let me know if you are interested in this or any other no fee listings I have available. Enjoy your Labor Day!