The Pleasures of West 28th Street

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West 28th Street, between 7th and 6th Avenues (I always work eastward in my mental map, especially in Manhattan. Mad props to the West Side, yo.), between 8 a.m. and 5 p.m., between april and october, transforms into a greened street where the potted trees, bushes, sedges, perennials, grasses, and annuals threaten to evict pedestrians and automobiles. It is not for quick passage, which is why I either intentionally take or avoid it. My office is only one block away, and so I have the luxury of seeing this particular block at all hours.

Early morning: where are all the sidewalk plants? (the cut flower shops are almost all sold out by the time I'm up, and I get to the office by 8.30am)

Late morning: huge unpacking job, tons of deliveries.

Middle afternoon: shoppers collide with old people taking a stroll with me, trying to get to a meeting and typing a blackberry message.

Early evening: all the annuals are inside again, but the trees and sedges and grasses are all outside still. Weirdly empty sidewalk around 6pm. It's like someone just decided to stack all these plants outside, the way we've stacked little buildings next to each other in this city, and that they somehow serve a purpose through their presence.

Night: the sidewalk smells like flowers. There are no flowers anywhere. That's right, the garbage smells gorgeous.

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