a color story: the green dress and the air forces

The second day of Manhattan. The smart room had an alarm feature. 7 am. My brother went out for his central park run. I grabbed breakfast from “Best Bagel & Coffee” with reassurance from a hotel elevator conversation. The two salmon and lots for $30. The Asian guy by the counter seemed odd with a South American Crew. I wondered if he was secretly the owner with his eyes on the cash or just working his way up the totem pole. The hard-working crew in the back worked in a flow, making bagels from scratch. The walk back, or my morning exercise, felt long. We had breakfast together and off to our day plans. I walked north, probably curious about the Central park route.

With an iced americano fresh in my system, the walk felt almost exhilarating. Or maybe I was just anticipating the caffeine to kick in from the heavy breakfast in my system. Like Alice in Lewis Carroll’s classic, my white rabbit appeared — a lady in the green dress with the white puma air forces. Even with fresh legs and a pseudo-caffeine mentality, she was out walking me. I couldn’t tell if she was a tourist or a local. Regardless, her speed and endurance initiated a long trailing thought of “what’s going on?”

I thought I had all the edge. She was much shorter, wore heavier shoes, appeared to be not in her 20s, and wasn’t wearing athletic apparel. What was going on? What was her secret? A foot race started. She was ahead. I was ahead. She was ahead. I was barely catching up. Then, total defeat on my part. She had to be a speed-walking Olympian or an Amazonian warrior or a New York goddess. It just didn’t feel natural. Or was she feeding off the New York energy much better than I was? Did she have a clearer sense of urgency?

Originally I wanted to see a David Cheng’s Momofuku store. His crazy story of creating his Momofuku empire was the ultimate rebellious, Korean-immigrant-parent, American Dream story. One of the stores was located southwest of Central Park. Once I got there, the fancy almost concrete-like building seemed to be a turn-off. It wasn’t in a neighborhood. It was just too nice to be a grassroots location. I felt repulsed discovering its significance — later on in my New York adventure, I discovered that the original location on 1st street closed. The green flowy trees that danced with the wind breeze seemed to be a nice escape. Woah. A massive gate. I didn’t know a park could have such a glorious entrance. Was this the ultimate escape from the city? 

Horses with carriages. Bikes for rent. One could take that convenient path. But, the lady in the green dress with the puma air forces wouldn’t accept it with such a relaxing attitude. She probably thought about the next gear? Comfort was her ultimate enemy. I must push. I must not lose to that tourist. 

For a park so large, the trails seemed to be pressure washed frequently or maintained with fancy large Zamboni-like cleaning machines. Regardless, the New York Streets was on the opposite spectrum of the Central park trails. The ever-welcoming allure of nature slowly transformed into a maze. The streets were rigid. The park paths meandered aimlessly. No numbering streets. No sense of urgency. One could lose themselves in this park. Or simply get lost. But, heck, my MOMA appointment awaited.

Again, the green lady with the heavy air forces appeared. For once, it was nice to see a familiar face in a city of millions. My imaginative walking relation seemed to put some weird significance to my path at least. Oh, maybe she was here to check out Central park too. Or just to let me know who runs the walking world of this neighborhood. The thoughts were getting sillier. I could only grin widely like the Cheshire Cat.

Behold, the museum of high anticipation with rooms of such highly acclaimed masterpieces. Holding Mark Rothkos, Monets, Picasso, and many more, how could one building has so much hype without the hype. Its inner circle of appeal rung a golden truth or golden value to my perceiving art world. This was the first museum where I felt familiar with the artist. It could be my amazing museum childhood experience or my natural curiosity about the abstract even as a child. Now as an adult, I felt a weird polarization as my childish jitters overcame my subtle exhaustion in the morning walks. Huh…

The next gear? 6 floors of culture, escapes, imaginations, and ultimately exuberant money valuations. But I stepped inside on the clean, polished museum floors. I saw the green dress with the heavy air force ones. How could this be?