17 May 2020

I take long walks in the morning whenever I travel to another city. The best time is just after sunrise when most people are still asleep and the onslaught of daily commuters and excited tourists is still hours away.

I loved walking on an almost empty Charles Bridge in Prague, taking photographs as the first rays of sunlight illuminated the bridge and the dome of the Church of St. Francis of Assisi nearby. I relished my morning run on the promenade at Sitges, as I found my way to an empty beach where I laid on the sand to welcome the day. 

At home, in New York, when I have friends visiting, I always try to take them on an early Saturday morning walk in Central Park when we have the park to ourselves and take pleasure in the serenity of empty lawns and walkways. Once in a while, when we’re lucky enough to pass by a newly-opened Sheep Meadow, we’d take our shoes off and walk barefoot on the still damp grass in an almost empty field.

It is during these early morning walks that I feel most at peace and one with the city, as I am engulfed with a feeling of lightness, as if the city is taking me in its arms in a warm reassuring dance. 

It is hard to fathom but those early morning walks seem like a lifetime ago, as the world has been blindsided by an unseen force and tossed into uncertainty, snuffing out the vibrancy of a once-invincible city and with it, the lives and dreams of many.

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I do still take my long walks in the city but, nowadays, it does not matter which time of day I take them. The streets are virtually empty throughout the day, belying the pockets of chaos in the city’s hospitals, where victims and rescuers are caught in surreal madness. I wear a face mask and carry a small bottle of hand sanitizer to protect me from my wariness.

The walks are quiet but they are also heavy, laden with fear and sadness. Once robust landmarks are now but hollow monuments. They are all hauntingly beautiful… but the gracefulness of those early morning walks is gone, replaced with a melancholy that is part mourning and part longing. 

But there are stirrings of hope in the city. The so-called curve has flattened and the daily numbers are plummeting. Spring has sprung and so have the tulips.

And at 7 in the evening everyday for the last 2 months, New York City erupts with sincere cheers for its modern-day heroes. Amidst the empty streets and hollow landmarks, at 7 pm everyday, the city resonates with the invisible voices of New Yorkers, from windows and rooftops, balconies and street corners, joined together in rousing ovation, revealing glimmers of life in this great city and the reassuring warmth of a community that has once again gone to war and will, no doubt, triumph.