hong-an tran

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I’m fairly certain that when my parents think of New York City, they imagine something like this: there are always already trashbags on the street, waiting to be — or, in my parent’s imaginations, never getting — picked up; there is a nonsensical collision of architectural styles (what is up with that pagoda roof on the right side?); strange doorways jut out from the sides of buildings; and people put the strangest things in their windows.  Oh, and there’s always a small puddle of murky, mosquito-y water.  And though you can’t see it, in my parents’ minds, there are always cars honking their horns, and — well, this is certainly true — the whole place smells a little funny.

This, however, is also New York City:
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Much more serene, except around 7:50 any weekday morning, when my alarm goes off and I moan to no one in particular about how I’d really rather not start my day.
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[Photos taken with my friend Jeffrey’s Rolleicord V, c.1954.  Jeffrey had asked me last year to do a test roll with the camera — I only just now got around to it.  Sorry, Jeffrey!  The camera works splendidly!  Mind if I hold onto it a little while longer?!]
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We watched the Euro 2012 quarterfinal match between Spain and France while perched on stools along the bar at Floyd, the room equally divided between spirited fans of La Roja and Les Bleus.  Afterwards we wandered down Henry Street, got a couple of slices from Francesco’s, and then resituated ourselves at Bar Bruno for some wine and reading — I mean, where else to follow up a soccer match than a soccer-paraphenalia-strewn bar?

We argued briefly on the (de)merits of Slavoj Zizek.

When the light got to that point nearish to the horizon, that lovely point where everything is ablaze but the shadows long and dark, we headed out to the nearby park to read a bit more.  The afternoon ended with the sounds of kids playing basketball in the adjacent courts, and the evening started with a simple meal at Frankies.

This light: it is perfect.   The Leica can’t get enough of it.
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We waited out the first of many flash thunderstorms last Friday at a bar in Williamsburg, wolfing down the fries that we ordered to stave off our hunger, then rushed over to the taqueria once the rain subsided.  When we peeked our heads outside after dinner to assess when the next storm would come through, we figured we had enough time for a stroll across the Williamsburg idea.  Capital idea, as J says, for everything came together perfectly: the skies was warm but the air relatively cool, and the light was bouncing off the slightly-slick paths, giving the ground a bit of a glow.

A gazillion photos were taken (oh, and we’d like to apologize to the cyclists for accidentally starting our walk on the bike side of the bridge; my bad!).  By the time we got to Manhattan, the skies were an otherworldly purple, a hue completely uncapturable by the Leica and Ektar 100 combination.  No matter.  We ducked into another bar for some glasses of wine and long conversation, toasting to the evening’s perfection.  When we finished up, the rains had started again, only this time we jumped into a cab and headed for home.
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Below: a mirror image of a shot I took this time last year, only this time on the other side of the bridge.
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Great day, crappy film.

Things seen:
1. Manhattan.
2. Wild pitch.  Watch out, batter!
3. Doorstep, Verandah Place.
4. Breakfast sandwich at Mile End.  (Seen and eaten!)
5. Jane’s Carousel, Dumbo.
6.  Great photo spread from an old soccer magazine on the 1970 World Cup teams, at Bar Bruno on the corner of Union & Henry Streets.
7. Backhoe and skyline.
8. Portal to a perfect view.

I love my borough.
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