(In case you are wondering, she's reading 'The Bachelors' by Muriel Spark.)
A few years ago, one cold afternoon in December as we drifted down the streets of New York City, the sun blushed shyly looking at the bare trees and the almost as bare streets. We weaved our way through West Chelsea, West Village– though mostly sticking to the 8th Avenue. Somewhere in time, 8th Avenue tuned into Hudson Street and we stood transfixed by a gap in a wall– a gate to a secret garden. Well, if the garden was supposed to be a secret, it is probably the worst kept secret in time. However, as we entered the delight that is the garden of St Luke in the Fields, it felt as if we had come upon a secret all of our own. And since then every time I see that gate in the wall, even though it is the reason why I’ve left the house, it feels as if I’ve discovered a hidden gem. Regardless of the fact that every single bench is occupied. Or that probably every single person who visits this sanctuary has had these same thoughts.
For this is where people in this part of the city come when they seek tranquility. And hummingbirds.