No tourists visiting the city that never sleeps adventure themselves into Washington Heights unless getting terribly lost or confused by the callous New York City subway system. Presided by the most unnoticed bridge in Manhattan, Washington Heights stockpiles uneven rows of mucky brown buildings crowded with insignificant brown souls who can’t afford the promises of the city of dreams.
There are no luxury boats docked at the shores of this part of the Hudson River. Some guides for bold travelers advertise a picturesque red lighthouse under the bridge that happens to be an old worn-off cylinder of oxidated metal sitting on a pile of garbage left behind by ungrateful locals. On the other side of the neighborhood, the East River is now the less fashionable Harlem River, and the riverwalk turns into a poorly maintained park mantled with used syringes.
Two centuries ago, Washington Heights was a green retreat for wealthy new yorkers. That was before the invention of the American dream, which came with brownstone construction for Europeans first, and Dominicans later. Now the same summer sun that glitters on the windows of the buildings downtown where the Europeans moved to crushes the suffocated inhabitants of Washington Heights. Those are the same dwellers that swarm the streets loudly trying to ignore the sour pestilence emanating from the black plastic bags permanently stacked up on the sidewalk, or the stench caused by a drunkard’s vomit the night before, or the cockroaches feasting on filthy water and takeaway leftovers.
There’s a green hill at the northeast of Washington Heights where the breeze is cooler, and the sun kinder. The trees aim higher than the buildings below and the only swarm comes from the dense foliage that whispers calmly as the wind swirls in. Fort Tryon Park hosts a flower garden where is impossible to take a picture that doesn’t look stunning, and next to it a massive natural balcony from where the George Washington Bridge majestically connects New Jersey with Manhattan. Colorful groups of people gather at the meadow nearby to celebrate weddings, birthdays, and graduations, and continue the party at the stylish restaurant hidden in the forest and built as if it was an Italian villa.
Tourists do adventure into Fort Tryon Park, but only after guides insist that is perfectly safe to go north of 96th street and assure them that the walk from the train station to their destination is short and scenic. Their goal in their museum haul is The Cloisters, where rocks and art from the European middle ages tactfully assemble to form a peaceful oasis. Patrons go from praising French tapestries hanging on ancient walls of silent rooms to resting in the herb garden admiring the water fountain in the middle of it.
The vibrant blues and greens from the top of Fort Tryon Park gradually transform into darker tones when descending to the reality of the city. The radiant person that minutes ago was enjoying the aroma of the flowers and the fresh breeze will carry some of the blue and green with them while navigating the uninviting streets of Washington Heights in the summer. The illusion will end when the dusty browns and greys kill the blues and the greens because Washington Heights inhabitants can only visit Fort Tryon Park as guests.
%20Heights){kind=link}