New York vastly from the average person’s ideas. East Coasters think of New York as Times Square, a loud, brash place rarely left on field trips. Anybody farther away is even more misinformed, knowledge compiled from movies and New Year’s Eve specials.
Well, there is more to New York City than Macy’s and the Toys R Us Carousel. I’m here to offer some tough love: Times Square is literally the worst place in New York. Not only is it crowded beyond belief, people seem to magically develop an ineptitude at walking on a sidewalk; and most ranks of tourists simply can’t handle the people trying to take money from them at every available corner. Here is the best advice you could ever hear: Do not make eye contact with the guy in the Elmo suit. In all of New York, Times Square was the only place I felt like I was going to get pick-pocketed.
Nonetheless, it is still one of the most diverse cities in the world; but it often feels like people end up following the trends of the city over time: a black pea coat in the winter, headphones ever-present, and absolutely no shorts under any weather condition. Everyone is so different, you end up walking by the same three people every day.
My first time stepping into the East Village, into St. Marks Place, was during a summer program. It was the end of June, hot garbage was the perfume of choice for the city that week, and every street wore it as their signature scent. Walking into the main hub was an assault of color, and as someone used to the homogeny of suburbia, it was the biggest culture shock I had felt in a while. The area felt outside of the time stream; a patchwork vest with buildings from colonial times stitched next to those built in the 80s, everything shoved into the nearest available spot. The stores were the highlight, as each store display tried to be as loud and bold a possible, grabbing attention like a trainwreck. The store Trash and Vaudeville stood out in particular, with bright neon clothing and accessories in one window, and anything you’d see the Sex Pistols wear in the other. Much like the buildings, each person looked like they were from a different decades; punks, bohemians, hipsters, and any other type of person under the sun roamed the streets. My eye was drawn two a twenty-something with an electric green mohawk across the way, and it seemed I was the only one giving him any notice.
Belle, one of my counselors, broke me out of my reverie.
“See that egg cream sign over there,” she pointed to our left, “It’s been there since the 1920s, still operates today. Allen Ginsberg used to go there all the time.” She proceeded to gesture to her favorite cafe/bar, “Sometimes, I’ll go there to listen to the music. You go to the way back of the place, and all you have to do is buy two drinks or two entrees and they let you stay all day to hear the acts onstage.”
She talked fondly of the place, like an old friend, her eyes softening. Walking down the grimy sidewalks, I experienced love at first sight for the first time in my life. When I got home, I did my research, trying to figure out what I had just witnessed. It turns out, St. Marks Place had been a haven for the counterculture since its creation. Existing since pre-Revolutionary times, it has hosted a myriad of guests. First it was a place for Eastern European immigrants, then it became a place for the bohemians, then for the punks, then for the anarchists, and so on and so on. It’s baffling that a place filled with refugees could eventually become a place where the cover of Led Zeppelin’s Physical Graffiti was shot. In town, it’s normal for a certain type of person to settle down and stay, while in St. Marks it seemed the opposite rang true. St. Marks was weird, unapologetically so, and dirty, and trashy, and stood for everything New York City used to be.
Most don’t remember what it was supposedly like in New York. Hell, Times Square used to considered a den of greed and sin by some. Then, Mayor Giuliani came along, sweeping all the gross bits under the rug, and within a handful of mayoral terms, New York went from your drunken uncle who swears he’s ‘just down on his luck’ to a member of the Brady Bunch. Real estate went up, and deviants rolled out. Nowadays, it seems like St. Marks is the only place retaining the unapologetic nihilism New York holds near and dear to its heart. If the city is a member of the Brady Bunch, then St. Marks is the seventh recluse child who is holed up in the basement.
Unlike Times Square, there was no pretense in St. Marks, no one trying to meet the expectations of life in “The City That Never Sleeps.” People just went about their business, trying to do whatever they wanted, be it peace and love or destroying the establishment. Despite this, some seem to believe the originality of St. Marks is fading. Iconic sites are supposedly dropping like flies as building prices go up. However, the only way St. Marks could be considered dead if kitschy shops and were traded in for skyscrapers. This place and the people inhabiting it are so adamant on this place being a haven for the strange that it couldn’t possibly ever die. There is always a new counterculture, and so the places where it reigns must reflect the tastes of the nouveau. As old sites make their way towards the exit sign, new places fill in the gaps where history hasn’t been made yet. Each generation adds its own paint splatter to the canvas that is St. Marks, creating the most ugly painting in existence, and it is a work of art.