The Heights

181st Street in Washington Heights ( just 3 subway stops away from our neighborhood) is a flowing sea of humanity on a steamy Saturday afternoon. Kelly, Luke and I have set out in search of bargains and some cheap entertainment. We emerge from the subway station at 181st and Fort Washington into the bright summer sun. Walking east, we pass through the quiet, somewhat genteel section west of Broadway (the “gentrified” side of Washington Heights), past organic fruit stands, upscale clothing shops, and a packed Starbucks. Crossing Broadway, we enter into the true heart of the neighborhood on the east side.

The pulse of life beats loud on the Dominican side of the nabe. Mothers drag children through the crowd as sidewalk salesmen negotiate prices of jewelry and watches in animated Spanish. Groups of young men strut past, chatting on cell phones. Cars zoom past as the air fills with booming merengue and reggaeton blasting from tricked-out SUV’s. The smell of empanadas and roast chicken mingles with exhaust and subway fumes. Hordes of kids surround a coco helado cart, begging Mama for some cold, sugary relief from the midday heat.

We walk past blocks of boutiques and bodegas as passers-by nod hello and smile. One shoe store after another advertises their low prices with blaring banners. Kelly stops to peruse the designer knock-off sunglasses at a small stand. “Check it out, five dollars,” smiles the vendor, his hand motioning across his merchandise. She picks out a pair and hands the man a five, and he carefully cuts the tags off with his pocket knife.

Our destination is the Goodwill Thrift Store on 181st and St. Nick’s. Inside, among the crowds of people and deafening beats of cheery Spanish pop tunes, we search for hidden treasures. On the musty racks hang the cast-offs of New York’s more fortunate, recycled here for the benefit of this vibrant neighborhood. In the basement, while Luke digs through piles of toys, I help an old woman with grandmotherly eyes find the right size shoes for her husband. In the process, I find a brand-new pair of Converse Chuck Taylors in my size for only eight dollars.

We return to the street after making our purchases and start to head back west to the A train. After one block, we arrive at a small crowd outside a liquor store. A clever old hustler has set up a street casino on top of an overturned cardboard box – the classic shell game played with three tiny soda-bottle caps. The hustler entices people walking by to try their luck, clutching a handful of dollars. His hands move like lightning, shuffling the caps around and fooling his marks out of their cash. As more people gather, he lets a few win to entice more of them in. We stop to watch a few rounds, then continue up the block.

Suddenly, two uniformed cops push by us quickly in intercept mode. They approach the makeshift casino with shouts in Spanish, but the hustler has already kicked aside his box and disappeared into the crowd. The cops shout questions at those hanging around, but they merely shrug their shoulders and move on. The gap in the human river that was created by the game has sealed up, and the flow continues on uninterrupted. The cops give up on their lost cause and disappear around the corner. Kelly and I exchange grins, our mission for the day fulfilled as usual on the living streets of Upper Manhattan.