a color story: the highline

I was going to put this story on the side burner until I saw it in the HBO show “Westworld” the first episode of their latest season. The Highline was portrayed as a futuristic bridge. One could even argue that it looked like a Hollywood setup or a computer graphic. But, no, it was like that. The plants. The slower pace of walking. The fancy walkway. A renovated railway. All of it was real.

The Astilbe plants crowded the garden beds along the narrow pathway. The sun was setting, and the exterior lights transfixed the accompanying plants—no sights of hostas, daylilies, or Japanese Maples. We weren’t in Ontario anymore. Let me change that thought as I recalled the prominent display of hostas in the other Manhattan parks. This wasn’t an ordinary park. It wasn’t an escape from the city’s hustle and bustle — rather an experience designed as a bougie escape. Who had the audacity to start with Astilbes?

Passionate Garden Designers with a blank cheque? I only assumed this wild proposition.

Thursday Evening. Chelsea Market was our food destination for its late hours. My brother suggested a scenic route to West Manhattan. All my Google Map pinpoints were bunched on the East side of town so this was an easy yes. Even after walking 25, 000 steps throughout the day, the walking pains must be guided to a different distraction. The interconnecting world of the physical and the psychological welcomed a new experience. I just didn’t know it yet. Just when one saw it all, a whole new world appeared. New York City contained worlds within worlds. How was it able to compress and compress even after the seventh paper fold? I assumed a different dimension had to be considered.

The Highline? An old elevated rail line turned park.

I recalled my first night in Manhattan. After leaving my luggage, we walked around Time Square. Shining Lights. Artificial Energy. Streets. Raw Pedestrians. Quicker pace. Screens. more Screens. Bright lights. Artificial energy. Jaywalking. No, aggressive jaywalking. Street performers. Tourists. Then I settled down at the park south of Times Square. The perfect counter to the blinding lights. Breathe in. Breathe out. Huh. There was a Shake Shack there too. Peace. No energy. Just zen. Compression to decompression.

Breathe in. Breathe out. As I entered a different garden zone in the Highline. Maybe it was due to the narrow pathway mixed with the arching tree branches, I felt like I was on a train. It could be the loud New York streets or my lack of personal well being but I felt like a passenger that got off from the back end of the “The SnowPiercer” Wilson train and witnessed the finer compartments for the first time. A different garden zone, a different train compartment. But, the same "crew". One couldn't bypass a slower group ahead - the paths were that narrow. You had unofficial options: walk quickly when you find a window, walk via the garden beds like an animal, or accept the slower pace and eave drop the slower groups conversation. Of course, I picked the latter, latter. These assumed locals were walking so slow that I had to know more about them. After my patience wore thin with their lack of genuine topic conversations, I eventually found the window to bypass. 

Eventually, we made our stop and walked down the long steps. The Chelsea market was underwhelming compared to that evening, sunsetting walk. I have never seen anything like the Highline before. It probably derived from a similar structure elsewhere but I didn't bother looking. The magical nature was worthy. My brother couldn't believe my complete surprise of this horticulture passion project. Did the Manhattan locals want to keep the project to themselves? Something that the tourist wouldn't be bothered with. I laughed at the idea of an unattractive website to shoo away the shallow New York goers. Guilty.