Washington Square Park is Coming Alive

As the transition from a harsh winter to a still reluctant-to-appear spring is on the works, I feel the need to visit Washington Square Park. The park is the Village’s lung, its historic frame of reference, a tourists’ Mecca, a place of encounter for lovers, musicians, gymnasts and equilibrists.

In the center of the square, where there is a water fountain, now dry, a group of energetic black men are performing their show. They are not only excellent gymnasts but they are first class showmen. For a bit less than half an hour they have onlookers glued to their show. They mimic, tease each other and toss puns to the spectators to the show while they prepare the public for the grand finale. When the appropriate time comes, one of them jumps over several people who are bent over, a true show of timing and physical dexterity.

Sitting next to me is a middle age woman and her teenage daughter, to whom she is explaining the need everybody has for taking vitamin D. While looking at the great number of dogs in the park, the woman tells her daughter, “Today, we humans are outnumbered by dogs.” As soon as she finishes saying that, two very young, very tall, very strong men walk by, each one holding a little dog in his arm.

I hear the sounds of a piano, and find a young fellow playing a Mozart piece in an upright piano. He is part of a program the city has to encourage piano playing in public spaces. I come closer and I am witness to an unusual sight. A middle age man, tall and slightly overweight, is seated on a bench with a bag on his side full of pigeon food. He is completely covered by pigeons and, as he feeds them, he talks to them, pats them on the wings. His face is covered by patches of dry skin probably left by an eczema, which contributes to his unusual looks.

I move away from him and close by I find a quintet of jazz musicians playing wonderful music. On the right, there is a Chinese-looking man playing trumpet. He is a short, thin man, with a boater hat, the trademark of the famous late French singer Maurice Chevalier. Behind him, a base, a young, earnest player. A very thin Vietnamese young woman plays the battery and a stocky short man with a beard is playing saxophone. Next to him a tall black man in a rumpled suit and a hat that seems too small for him also plays trumpet.

I am sitting next to a Japanese woman, young, thin, with a pleasant smile. I learn from her that the black man is not part of the group; he was just walking by and joined it. She is talking to a 7-year-old child, a beautiful girl in curls who moves in sync with the music, totally absorbed by it. His father, the black trumpet player, looks at her lovingly, and while playing makes faces to her. It seems that he is only playing for his daughter, who obviously enjoys music. “She loves to play the piano,” he tells me later.

It is a typical day in the world’s most cosmopolitan city, in its most cosmopolitan park. Although I listen with interest to the music, my attention is drawn to the “pigeon man.” I cannot understand how he is not bothered by dozens of pigeons on top of his head, his arms, his legs. He just sits and continues feeding them. He looks a bit unkempt and is totally unconcerned about his surroundings and the people near him.

The black girl continues moving to the rhythm of the music, while at times the Japanese woman makes some remarks to her. The girl reminds me of so many girls I see in my travels to Africa, full of vitality and charm. She is smartly dressed with a dark blue skirt with broad suspenders and a beautiful white blouse. She has her sight fixed on her father.

Although spring has started several weeks ago it is becoming cold in the late afternoon. I look at the pigeon man, who only pays attention to his pigeons and continues feeding them. In the meantime, the musicians have decided to finish their show and are now packing their instruments so I decide to leave, too. Just as I am getting up, though, a passing pigeon (one of the pigeon man’s pigeons, I suspect) leaves a present on my pants. Delicately, without saying a word, the Japanese woman hands me a paper tissue…

Dr. Cesar Chelala is a writer on human rights and foreign policy issues.