The Travelling Fairy DancerAn Afternoon in Central Park
May 20th 2009 06:47
Grey, cold and starting to snow, New York showed us the bite in her tail on our last day. Having had tantalising glimpses of Central Park through double decker bus windows, or from across the street as Bloomingdales beckoned, we'd decided to save indepth exploration until our last day, to fully enjoy and relax among the acres of parkland and frolicking squirrels.
Naturally, the weather had been superb, although chilly, with the sun shining brightly every day for eight days. Yes, it was snowing, but not enough to create pictures of glowing, white splendour. The soft flakes simply melted into slippery mush that seeped into our non-waterproof shoes and created crusted patterns on the bottom of our jeans.
We stumbled upon the Terrace Bridge, facing the lake, and searched in vein for the men we'd seen ferrying tourists around on the back of a bike, desperate to catch a ride and see the sites, somewhat proctected from the elements. With not a soul in sight, we sat on the steps, gazing dejectedly at the falling snow.
Out of nowhere, huge bubbles floated across the lake, the kind that drift calmly on the breeze, multi-coloured patterns shining in the dimming light. A man, dressed entirely in black, strode across the bridge, his movements dictating the patterns of the bubbles he so skilfully blew from a giant wand.
We followed him through the park, meandering as he was among trees and darting squirrels, whistling old show tunes. Droplets of water were frozen on bare branches and mist was rising from the pond, shadowing floating ducks and the backdrop of New York highrises with its thick tendrils.
.
Central Park worked its magic - without the smell of Spring, flaming colours of Autumn or Winter wonderland sparkle - simply with a little help from one of its characters.
Naturally, the weather had been superb, although chilly, with the sun shining brightly every day for eight days. Yes, it was snowing, but not enough to create pictures of glowing, white splendour. The soft flakes simply melted into slippery mush that seeped into our non-waterproof shoes and created crusted patterns on the bottom of our jeans.
We stumbled upon the Terrace Bridge, facing the lake, and searched in vein for the men we'd seen ferrying tourists around on the back of a bike, desperate to catch a ride and see the sites, somewhat proctected from the elements. With not a soul in sight, we sat on the steps, gazing dejectedly at the falling snow.
Out of nowhere, huge bubbles floated across the lake, the kind that drift calmly on the breeze, multi-coloured patterns shining in the dimming light. A man, dressed entirely in black, strode across the bridge, his movements dictating the patterns of the bubbles he so skilfully blew from a giant wand.
We followed him through the park, meandering as he was among trees and darting squirrels, whistling old show tunes. Droplets of water were frozen on bare branches and mist was rising from the pond, shadowing floating ducks and the backdrop of New York highrises with its thick tendrils.
.
Central Park worked its magic - without the smell of Spring, flaming colours of Autumn or Winter wonderland sparkle - simply with a little help from one of its characters.
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Comment by Mountain Fog
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Comment by The Travelling Fairy Dancer
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