A natural refuge in the midst of chaos? NARAYANI GANESH reports on a New York City railroad that got transformed into a retreat
What do you do with a disused elevated railroad with rusted tracks — overrun with wild foliage and bugs — cutting through a bustling city, having long since served its purpose of transporting goods to the meatpacking district? Demolish the ugly aberration, of course, from New York City’s Manhattan area, so newer skyscrapers can rise unfettered without having to look down on what was essentially seen as a useless eyesore. Wait a minute, protested a bunch of conservationists who fought to salvage what was remaining of the yet undemolished portions of the 19th century railroad called the West Side Line. Let’s transform this into a High Line Park,a walkway above the buzzing traffic below and open to the skies above, they pleaded.And so was born the civil society initiative called ‘Friends of the High Line,’ spearheading the makeover of a retired railroad from eyesore to aerial greenway.
From track to trail,NYC’s High Line is now the toast of Big Apple,a huge tourist draw and a much-loved getaway for office- goers in the area, not to speak of the scores of senior citizens who relax on lounge chairs and the weekend picnickers who throng the 2.5 km-long park that is a work in progress. Under the watchful eyes of committed bio-conservationists, the rail tracks are exuberant with naturally growing local foliage — flowering and otherwise, some 210 species — and you can take a guided tour with an expert who will walk you through all that’s growing here.Volunteer surveillance teams can be seen constantly watching out for any desecration to the place and ensure that there is no garbage strewn or violence done to the carefully nurtured, organic environment that is now seen as a veritable haven for New Yorkers yearning for a quick respite from routine.
Holidaying in NYC,the High Line was just a hop, skip and jump away from where I was staying in a Chelsea high-rise, whose apartments enjoy a great view of the High Line running alongside,cutting through Chelsea,between where it begins at Gansevoort Street and ends at 34th Street.The walkway, it is hoped, will get a further extension even as Friends of the High Line raise funds and create more awareness. Having watched early morning joggers on the walkway for a few days from the apartment’s picture windows, I was inspired to explore. Every day, I would take the elevator or stairs to enter the High Line at 30th Street and enjoy the elevated walk, looking out at the New York City skyline or gazing at the Hudson River Development area,pause to admire the larger-than-life portrait of Albert Einstein on the wall of a building facing the High Line, before descending to street level at Chelsea market, where you could spend an entire day just market- watching. Soon, I find myself addicted to the High Line.Rain or sunshine, I would hurry though domestic chores and writing assignments only to snatch time on the High Line. Some days,I would carry my laptop and settle down with a packed lunch on one of the many wooden benches with tables.At noon, others would come and sit by me,with their respective lunches,silently drinking in the calm and quiet that has been miraculously preserved in the hustle and bustle of the world’s financial capital. Tapping away on the keyboard one morning, I hear a voice:“Ma’am, do you mind if I take a shot of you?” He was a professional photographer, perhaps doing a feature on the High Line, and his camera equipment looked heavy and expensive.“Of course, you may,” I beam at him, but his face breaks into a scowl.“Oh no, Ma’am, don’t pose for me. Just keep doing whatever it is that you are doing….” And I go back to tap-tapping. I must have looked quite a sight,in the shocking pink salwar-kameez and dupatta, huge crimson bindi, pounding away on a Mac, a dabba of lemon rice and paapads half-eaten on the side.
Soon a Buddhist monk stops by, speaking in a language I did not understand (Vietnamese?). Looking at my puzzlement, he points to a card he is carrying, a prayer in English with an appeal to contribute generously to the Buddhist cause. His muted saffron cassock is now fighting the sudden gust of wind that blows our way and he leaves, hugging his jacket about him. In the distance, I notice a model posing for a shoot,and I decide to pack up and walk a bit.There were too many interesting things happening here, so why bury my face in a laptop? A lone woman in a yoga pose, has her eyes closed meditatively.An elderly gentleman is poring over The New YorkTimes, pencil posed in midair,perhaps thrashing out the next crossword clue.A large family of Japanese tourists is walking toward me from the opposite direction, led by a Japanese-speaking guide, who is now pointing to the drinking-water fountain — water spouts from the woman’s mouth, her bust mounted on a tall pedestal, even as visitors take turns drinking from the fount,getting themselves clicked in action. I stop by various installation art pieces — budding artists are encouraged to display their works on the High Line, with an explanatory note displayed alongside.The part where there is a water body rippling past the tracks is what attracts children the most as they kick off their shoes and paddle through, as their parents watch them indulgently from the chaise chairs in the shade. There’s a covered area where you can buy a cup of coffee or a stick of icecream and snacks,and at decent intervals,there are washrooms where you can answer the call of nature. Once you get on the High Line,you don’t have to leave it until it closes at night, for you are on a kind of Highway to Heaven, where nature is left undisturbed, where creative talent is allowed to bloom,and where visitors do their own thing without treading on another’s toes. A retreat right in the midst of chaos.
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