The rain had finally abated and the evening enveloped the city in a mist so thick and buttery I could feel the dew forming on my cheeks the moment I stepped out onto the stern granite steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I sipped the sweet, cool air into my lungs and headed down 5th Ave without a destination in mind. A few blocks along, a break in the crumbling stone wall lining the avenue opened into Central Park, and, following an impetuous urge to ramble, I turned in, and set off walking along the sinewy paths. I must have wandered for hours, through the wide open expanse of the Great Lawn, past the Boat House and around to the winged Bethesda Fountain, through Strawberry Fields, climbing Vista Rock to sit on a parapet of the Belvedere Castle. As the night fell and the park emptied, I made my way north, past the reservoir bearing the name of my favorite first lady, towards my home on the northernmost edge of the park.
As the dark breeze sent my silk skirt a flutter, I caught a far away melody drifting towards me on the edge of the cool air. Drawing nearer, I recognized the smooth and haunting bellow of a tenor saxophone and the grind and tap of a single snare drum, playing a what seemed to be a call of some sorts, full of a melancholy longing, beaconing me to listen. I followed the sounds as if in a dream until I came to a dark little intersection, where two gravel paths merged; and there in the patch of grass at their crux stood the saxophonist, drummer, and a petit man behind an upright bass, shaking his head in utter agreement as he walked his fingers along the sinewy neck of his instrument.
They were not alone. A man in a precisely tailored suit and elegant wingtips and a woman in a dress as inky blue as the summer night were dancing, right there in the middle of the pathway, seemingly alone in the world, as the jazz trio entreated them with their song. I found a bench nearby in the darkness and watched this vision dance cheek to cheek, until, with a burst of laughter, the woman stepped back from her partner, grabbed him by the hand, tossed a dollar bill in the direction of the band, and they sauntered off into the night.
These are the moments the Central Park line was created for: the ambling, impetuous and spontaneous living inspired by America's greatest park. Bright and cheeky or soft and elegant, they embrace the living spirit and timelessness of a place so vibrant you cannot help your urge to dance with your sweetheart, cartwheel till you fall over, or simply take off your shoes, lie in the grass, and take it all in.
