We pulled into the parking lot of a seafood restaurant where we were meeting some friends, and I admired a line of Eastern White Pines, also rendered effectively two dimensional in order not to cover the parking lot with their boughs. In contrast to certain other establishments I have recently passed on the Upper West Side (near the new ____ Store, to be specific), I observed no well-heeled throngs lined up out front, and so was not inclined to mutter: 'WTF, I thought we were in the middle of a recession?'

To the contrary, City Island (a sliver of land-traditionally a fishing village-in the Bronx, on the far western edge of the Long Island Sound) seemed to suffer from the kind of economic hangover that makes current unemployment rates and skittish real-estate values entirely believable.

Though graced with the brilliant yellow leaves of a ginkgo tree, the Neptune Inn was only one of many abandoned properties on the commercial strip.

A decaying mural of the 9iu11ani-era New York City skyline, which hovered over a lush patch of indestructible junipers, seemed to symbolize more than horrific acts of terrorism.

After eating, we went on a long walk around town. Away from the commercial district, the streets-almost all of which were only a few blocks from the water-were lined with a variety of mature (and un-eviscerated) trees including maples, oaks, pines, lindens and hornbeams.

Many of the houses, even the plainest, had beautiful specimen trees in the front yards, including a stunning array of Japanese maples.

We passed a yew bush, and I resisted the urge to pull off one of the red berries-called 'arils'-and crush it, to rub the viscous fluid between my fingers as I liked to do as a child. Not coincidentally, perhaps, I wondered where Oliver Sacks-City Island's most famous hot gay bear 'lifetime bachelor'-lived, and wished that I could see his garden of ferns and cycads.

We paused at the Pelham Cemetery, and felt that despite a non-prohibition against plastic flowers on the grave sites, it would probably be a nice place to be buried.

Nearby we admired a small, obsessive yard of marigolds.

Across the street, someone else had planted amazing red dahlias with blooms the size of softballs.

Back on the avenue, a yacht store's sales pitch message failed to inspire optimism.

But as the sun broke through the trees, I felt confident that just as City Island has endured for hundreds of years, it would do the same going forward.

Previously: The Oxford Botanic Garden

Matthew Gallaway is a writer who lives in Washington Heights. His first novel, 'The Metropolis Case,' will be published in 2010 by Crown.

---

See more posts by Matthew Gallaway

18 comments