Stirring Point

I stepped out of the car and into a confluence of familiar scents. My foot was still injured—busted by a bruiser in a jiu-jitsu competition—so I gave Neil a pound and slammed the car door behind me. I had four hours to kill before my flight back to Denver from LaGuardia, leaving just enough time to scramble around the neighborhood and rummage through the trunk of memories I’d stored in these streets. I’d come home for the funeral of a friend’s father, and New York delivered the pill of nostalgia I needed to remove any meloncolic edge.

In 2006, Astoria became my enclave. The arrangement was a co-opt agreement between me and its 60,000 other residents at the time, united in sharing our streets, sidewalks, and ballcourts with some modicum of grace. We took turns at cafes, delis, fruit stands, laundromats, and subway stations. When I arrived, I was a stranger. And when I left, a part of me decided to stay behind.

My sister introduced me to Queens, and Queens explained the New York block to me as a microcosm for the world. Commerce, culture, education, crime, birth and death were all perpetual. Her station was Main Street in Flushing, and through my trips to Flushing, I found the heartbeat of the borough in its bodegas, bakeries, restaurants, and mom-and-pop shops. The bodega was the king of the morning crowd, servicing the foggy-eyed zombies in search of cheap coffee and buttered rolls. After 1:00 pm, restaurants and bars ruled the day, spilling stuffed bellies and drunkards onto the waiting city streets. 

I loved Flushing and its slapping air. The smells of fish markets and the quantity of shoppers felt like a welcome backhand across the cheek. Flushing brought people back to life, shaking them from their hypnosis of suburban sterility. Astoria, however, was softer to the touch, and when I first arrived, it gripped my gaze like an infatuated lover. New York’s largest Greek community reconstructed the Athens of the West here, flooding each block with fresh spanakopita and countless cafes. Studying abroad in Greece taught me the value of a proper cafe. I learned to sit and watch people, sometimes for hours on end, as if they were sprinting horses rounding a track. And like Greece, the old men in Astoria used their Nescafe frappes like microphones to pontificate on any subject arousing their passions. Every cafe seat became a soapbox for a diatribe, and the volume knobs of their voices were always cranked to 9.

16 years later, things had changed. Walking around Astoria’s 30^th Avenue area raised the ghosts of my past life here. Athens Cafe, a local staple and favorite haunt, had closed. The clack of worry-beads twirling around tobacco-stained fingers seemed hidden from public view. The ornately decorated cakes of Frank’s Bakery were no longer seducing passersby; they too had closed. This was my corner of New York, my first love in the city, and she was changing.

On Steinway, the smells of falafel and shawarma still manage to seep through the windows of Duzan. Local baklava shops continue to induce a Pavlovian response for any nearby salivary glands. Men huddle around the entrance of their mosque, smoking and staring. Next door, they sip strong espresso from Dixie cups while lounging in plastic chairs. The sidewalk is their yard for public gatherings, and it was once my yard too. Despite time, Steinway Street feels unchanged—cast in a thick cultural lacquer and shellacked with an indifference to shifting real estate markets. This area is New York’s best attempt at recreating the Levant and it shows when one homes in on the details. Food is made and consumed by Egyptians, Syrians, Lebanese and Palestinians, and the community demands quality. No bullshit gyros carts or cut-rate falafel stands. To survive, it must be real, and it must be good. 

A walk down Steinway Street is like sorting through the remnants of my 20s. I remember taking my father to the Nile Deli for Palestinian olive oil and pita bread the size of hubcaps. A few steps more and a spotty memory emerges from a wild night when a beer too many landed me in the hookah bar to my left. To my right is the fire hydrant where I used to illegally park my Lincoln Town Car and run like an Olympic sprinter to the bakery across the street. A block ahead, I spot the restaurant filled with quirky mosaic tiles that served Middle Eastern delicacies like lamb brain, cheeks and varied sweetbreads. 

A few blocks north, I find myself standing in front of my last New York apartment, a small palace I’d shared with an ex. This ageing building was the setting for some of the best years of my life. I learned how to behave as a domestic partner on the second floor. We planted flowers and mulched the 3 x 5 ft. patch of “yard” in the front. We found an old cast-iron bistro set and painted it white. Her mother then reupholstered the cushions and here we’d sip coffee and greet our passing neighbors. I’d help out the old ladies on the block and fix things for the landlord in exchange for the coveted driveway parking space. We built a community here; we built a warm home. The allure of greener grasses pulled us away and, subsequently, pulled us apart. 

They knocked down Lee’s little home next door and built something circumcised of character. 10 years ago, Lee was 83. Did she make it to Florida permanently before the cancer of aging claimed her? She once let me use her backyard to restore the classic yellow Schwinn I bought for my ex as a surprise birthday gift. And how about Cookie? In 2014, she was in her 70s and walking with a cane. Is she still around? New York is hard on the elderly. Who helps her with her groceries now?

Are these rose-colored glasses I have on at the moment, or was I happier then? I’m healthier now, more balanced, and a touch less selfish. My perspective seems to be evolving but nostalgia has a way of telling me otherwise. I slowly back away from the building and search my mind for calm. Those days are over; I left this place for a reason, and now it’s time to go home to the present—the only place I need to be. I walk to the old bus stop and board the M60 bound for LaGuardia. If life does anything, it changes, and accepting change is like learning to pick the lock on our own mental handcuffs.