Like a shroud it covers Bleeker Street
I always hear people mention "The Village" as if it is an upscale kind of place--the place to go, the place to be. In the real estate ads, apartments in "The Village" are outrageously expensive. Anyone who lives there has to have quite a bit of money.
Last night, I went there with some friends. Three friends from my class, to be precise: last year, the four of us gradually solidified into a unified study group; we all happen to be a few years older than the other girls in our class. Our common attitude and point in life is a bit less "social/party," and a little more "professional/time to settle down." One of these girls is the first person I met from my class; she's actually been dating one of my college friends' brothers for about 4 years now!
We had a fantastic dinner at a place called Agave, which I would definitely recommend to anyone who is interested in gourmet Mexican food.
The girls dutifully showed me the point of the Empire State Building against the night sky. Then we walked aroung "The Village."
Fills the alleys where men sleep
Hides the shepherd from the sheep
I followed them up and down sidewalks, passing every kind of bar, restaurant, and cafe you can imagine. There were homeless men sitting in many doorways. Piles of trash lined the curbs. Apartment windows above were open and uncurtained. Dirt from the sidewalk cracks found its way onto my sandaled feet. I discreetly held my breath for every cigarette I passed, and soon found myself gasping for air that tasted only slightly cleaner.
Voices leaking from a sad cafe
Cars squeezed down narrow alleyways; taxis and buses never stopped honking. There was outdoor seating at many of the eating establishments; what view were these people enjoying?
"This certainly doesn't look anything like luxurious living to me!" I commented, only slightly concerned that I was talking to New Yorkers.
"Oh, but there's a park up here, and it's really nice. NYU is a few blocks that way, " came the reply.
"In the park there are chess boards, and people get possessive about the chess board that they use all the time--it becomes their chessboard," came the next explanation.
Smiling faces try to understand
I saw a shadow touch a shadow's hand
We finally entered a small, comfortable restaurant for some champagne. At this point I was completely disillusioned--and I realized fully that I am not a "city person." My innards turned over and I felt a little of what Meg felt in Little Women at Annie Moffat's coming out party. I glanced at my smiling friends' little black outfits, perfect make-up and styled hair. My white-and-pink sundress suddenly felt like "country linen," but I smiled as I tossed my head back and felt my soft, unstyled mane slide back down over my shoulders. I knew I did not understand how people could so carelessly enjoy themselves in such a crowded, polluted, trendy neighborhood--a neighborhood that also "houses" people suffering from extreme poverty in its doorways. But unlike Meg from Little Women, I did not want to understand. And I started to feel a dangerous pride in my country-like simplicity.
A poet reads his crooked rhyme
Holy, holy is his sacrament
Thirty dollars pays your rent
The rest of the evening, I watched people, determined to give them the benefit of the doubt. They must have some humanity. There's a smile. A genuine smile? Anyway, it's a smile.
While we waited on a corner for my friend's husband to pick us up, a man came over and with a lovely English accent, asked if we could tell him where The Village was.
"You're in it, dude," was my friend's answer.
"Am I really?" he said, in a tone of disbelief. I knew how he felt.
"Yeah. This is it," she said. "Where do you need to go?"
"Um, I'm not sure. A bar of some sort. I guess I assumed I would know when I got there," he said, a little absently.
"So, you don't know. [pause] You don't know anything?" my friend couldn't believe it. I started to feel bad for the guy. She was being a little harsh; the poor man was lost, for goodness' sake!
"I suppose you're right to put it like that," he laughed a little nervously. "Um, ...Greenwich Street?"
"Greenwich Street or Greenwich Avenue?" she asked.
"Greenwich Street, I think."
"I don't know of a Greenwich Street, only Greenwich Avenue." Gee whiz, girl! You grew up here! Couldn't you have handled it without the "Street" detail?
"Ok, where is Greenwich Avenue?"
"Well, where do you need to be on Greenwich Ave?" she said.
He thought for a few seconds, then pulled a street name from the back porch of his memory.
She directed him 5 blocks east of our corner.
"Five blocks in that direction?" he asked.
"Yes!" she answered, just a tad too impatiently.
As he walked away, I wondered out loud where he was from.
"He's from somewhere," she said. I pointed out to her then that she was rather abrupt with the gentleman, and was contributing to the reason why people think New Yorkers are nasty.
"You're right," she admitted. "I was a bit rough on him, I guess. But how can you not even know where you're going?"
I heard a church bell softly chime
In a melody sustainin'
On our way out of The Village, we passed Our Lady of Guadalupe Church, tightly wedged into a row of apartments and shops. I crossed myself and said a prayer.
It's a long road to Caanan
Little Maria Philippa is a beautiful baby--even the nurses say how perfectly formed she is. 
Frank and Sharon were smiling when I arrived at the hospital, and haven't stopped yet! Praise God for the happy, healthy baby and mother. 
