It’s true.
The only reason why I’m awake right now is because my neighbors are playing the hottest hits in da club. Normally, I wouldn’t be home to ecoute such traumatic reggaeton but I’ve had to curtail my downtown nightlife given my recent swap to uptown accommodations. Now when I say uptown, I mean all the way up there in Harlem -ahem-”Hamilton Heights” as the real estate urchins are calling it.
To be honest, I quite like this nabe. The residents are mostly families who contribute to the community vibrations; people know each other and they actually say ‘hi.’ During the day, old men sit on folding stools before a speckled array of storefronts, some tattered and some oddly pristine. Women bustle and pour over fruit stands while herding small children out of the sidewalk. People go into the corner deli with exact change and come out with their morning cuppa. I’m still getting used to the pulse of this place, which is usually the prescribed baseline of a radio hit, blasted through a car stereo.
When I first moved in, the shallow three-stair “stoop” of my building was occupied by four guys and two girls (nay, young adults), all of whom were already drunk on Coronas by 10:30AM. “I’ll hold the door for you, mami,” said the Hagrid of Hamilton Heights. Arms quivering under the weight of my luggage, I was grateful for the gesture. Then concern usurped relief and I wondered how I would function in a place where people are likely to be drunk before noon. Then I remembered Newman’s Day at Princeton and I realized that the only noticeable difference is that my neighbors speak primarily in Spanish. There’s absolutely no pretense here either.
Given this “realness,” I feel grateful for having the opportunity to see this side of New York’s dodecahedron (and counting). Foursquare even gave me the “Far Far Away” badge when I checked into a nearby market, hailing me for my efforts to go above 59th Street. First of all, yes, I did actually sign up for Foursquare two weeks ago. Secondly, when did 59th Street become such an important delineation? The latter question highlights the fact that many New Yorkers still view the northern regions of Manhattan as foreign territory; no one gets a Foursquare badge for going to Red Hook.
Perhaps this ‘attitude of the Orient’ is due to the fact that gentrification has only just begun in Hamilton Heights. Instead of the Mi Pais grocery store, you may labor over neat stacks of fruit at Fairway nearby. If you can’t find anything to suit you at Las Americas Bakery, no sweat because we all know “America Runs on Dunkin.” Occasionally, I see a dude of pale persuasion power-walk his way through the sidewalk menagerie and I wonder if he has ever stopped to take in this masterful organism of a community. Maybe his pioneering spirit goaded him to move to the Heights so he can tell future generations of gentrifiers that he was here “way back when.”
As I become increasingly obsessed with the preservation of culture (via language, music, and culinary efforts), I wonder what will happen to Hamilton Heights in a year, or two, or ten. Will the chinos and starched polos do an Extreme Makeover on the community, bringing with them fair-trade organic coffee shops and artisanal sushi? To be honest, I’m more excited that the cafe con leche is a buck and that no one tells the old guy on the corner to do something else besides chew a toothpick for hours.
So in the name of homeostasis and preservation, I’ll just submit to the reggaeton and let it lull me to sleep because one day, we’ll have to rely on the musical.
Piragua?
