Nadia Chaudhury

Greenpoint from a Tall Rock

For New Yorkers, taking a ride up to the Top of the Rock probably sits somewhere between watching a performance of the Naked Cowboy and riding the 6 train from Prince Street to 59th Street during rush hour on the priority ladder. But for us Gazetteers, the word “free” sort of bumped it up on the list, that and the prospect of leaving early. Thus, we entered the throng of fanny packers in search of a bird’s eyed view of our chaotic city—one where the oil spills of Greenpoint would make little rainbows, like the ones the sun catches in mall parking lots elsewhere in those suburbs.

“Look,” Nadia said, “There’s Newtown Creek.”

It looked like a capillary running off the vein of the East River. The good news is it didn’t look sludgey. It looked sleepy, like something Huck Finn could float down. In fact everything in the city looked relaxing—even Manhattan. The trees of Central Park were broccoli flowers. The mac trucks were plastic toys, making no noise, no exhaust.

“No wonder the rich people like their ivory towers,” I said.

Then my eyes wandered back over to the CitiBank Building, across the water and down past our little, quiet creek, down, down to the rim of Kent, where the beginnings of something very tall were abrew.