A Farewell Note to Spanish Harlem

He adored Spanish Harlem, he idolized it all out of proportion ...

No, wait. That’s not right. Nobody adores Spanish Harlem. Nobody idolizes it. And if they did, they definitely didn't idolize it out of proportion.

After three years, I’m saying goodbye to East Harlem -- specifically 101st Street and Third Avenue, Apt. B-7D (b as in boy, d as in dog for food-delivery purposes). It’s a neighborhood that looked to be on the up-and-up (sort of) when I first moved, but now, as I depart, seems to be falling back by the wayside. Within the past year, an entire block of restaurants/cafes have closed. A pizza shop went out of business. Families are running for the hills. Rats have foreclosed on garbage cans. A SUBWAY CLOSED. DURING SUBTEMBER.

And even though things have taken a turn for the worse, this place, a few blocks north of the nearest Halal food cart, has been my home for my first few post-college years. It’s SpaHa. It’s taught me wrong from right. It’s solidified my belief that a bodega sandwich is the only sandwich. It smells like molding cheese six months out of the year. For all these things, I owe it a farewell -- fond or not.

Fine Fare Grocery

You were my first grocery store, and yes, your fines were indeed fare. But your food ... questionable. Sausages that last for two days. Chunky milk. Babies eating Lucky Charms in the aisles. However, I did enjoy your collection of Oreos. From double-stuffed to Halloween's cream-colored orange, you always knew the way to my heart.

Gunshots

We heard you more than a few times over the past three years. Sometimes you were all by yourself. Sometimes you came in bunches. Sometimes you were accompanied by screams. Sometimes there was laughter. Either way, we knew you were out there. I’ll miss you, gunshots. Not too much, though.

Emmerson Deli (directly below my building)

I love you. Your Cold Italian sandwiches, your sunflower seeds at 2 am, your ever-changing prices, your Caesar salads, that I got sick from, but continued to order because I thought they were healthy.
A 24/7 deli is crucial. My next apartment needs to have one. If not, I’ll have to learn how to make a ham sandwich.

The Laundry Lady

Because you wear a surgical mask, I've never actually seen the bottom half of your face. But that's OK. I know it's there.
You laugh at my jokes, you work hard, you once sewed up a tear in my corduroys (goddammit I love corduroys) free of charge. You're the best.

Do you deliver to/from Brooklyn?

96th Street Halal Cart

It may be true that one of my fellow SpaHa’ers saw you bathing in your own cooking oil. It may also be true that the lamb over rice is not actually lamb over rice. But you know what, I don’t really care. Your late-night service, your white sauce (what is that shit?), your conversation on a Friday night when there’s nobody left to talk to.
You’re the best food cart in all the land. You deserve a spot in Restaurant Week. You’re to die for. Really though, this guy may have died halfway through his meal:

The Reservoir Run

Yeah, I run. Seriously, I do. You wanna race? I did a 5K this past spring at the Bronx Zoo. Did it for the elephants. I love elephants. Great memories.
Anyways, sometimes I run outside. When I do, I usually run around the Central Park Reservoir off 96th street. The trees, the fresh air and the water provide a kind of oasis away from the city. It's especially nice at night:

And yes, I know that's not exactly Spanish Harlem. But I often end my run up towards 110th street:

Yeah, by the time I get there it's day again.

My Rooftop

It’s where I’m typing this love letter to you, Spanish Harlem. I can see the Triborough Bridge straight out in front of me. Manhattan towers over my right shoulder, while the Bronx fades off to my left. I can see the lights of Yankee Stadium on August nights, fireworks from three different boroughs in July and strobe lights from Central Park dancing in the sky during summer concert tours.

But the one thing I’ll really miss seeing is the traffic moving up Third Ave. Leaning over the ledge and just watching it.  Knowing that I’m in a city that’s always moving and never sleeping. Cars and buses maneuvering their way in and out of different lanes, near-accidents occurring at every cross street, stoplights setting the rhythm to the city's song.

Me seeing it all happen from a safe distance.

I'll definitely miss that.

I'll miss all of this -- the good, the bad, the wonky. That's what Spanish Harlem is, and that's what it always will be. 

But I'll be back living on this side of the city some day. And hopefully it's in that part of town that only exists in black and white.