http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=joMysMDHdb4
A very interesting video on Detroit with the one and only Johnny Knoxville. Its actually a 3 part clip, and part 2 and 3 are on the thumbnails to the right on the video's page. It takes a very interesting look and perspective of Detroit from the art and music scene. To them, Detroit is a city full of hope and opportunity, and they focus much less on the negative aspects. Now of course they offer a very limited view of the residents, and dont show children or families or the ones who live in complete poverty. But it does offer a very interesting inside look into a bustling population that is attempting to eradicate the negative views of the city.
Daniel Hewes- Detroit
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Urbanized--Sam Levy
This is the trailer for a film called Urbanized by Gary Hustwit, and is the third installment in his design trilogy. Urbanized deals with the issue of city design--"Who is allowed to shape our cities, and how do they do it?" I don't know much about this project personally(an architecture major friend of mine shared this with me), but I thought it looked extremely interesting and wanted to share it with the class. The website, http://urbanizedfilm.com/, contains more information about Urbanized and Hustwit's previous two films.
Interesting TED Talk on the Construction of the City
As someone who watches a lot of TED talks, I found this one to be particularly pertinent to our recent class discussions. We have just finished our papers about the construction of the city, but we more or less addressed it through individual perceptions. Jaime Lerner, in his lecture, talks about the construction of a city with the environment in mind. I thought that it was most interesting that he focused so heavily on transportation infrastructure within the city, such as the construction of new metros and bus lines. We spoke to the nature of walking as a means of constructing the city, but in what ways does public transportation play a dis/similar role? I invite you to take a listen to the talk and ponder this question. Plus, it is always fun when a presenter can get the TED audience to break into song.
Jaime Lerner sings of the city | Video on TED.com
- Erin
Place and Space in Detroit
I found this video on a friend's blog, and while I guess the birth of techno hasn't been one of the themes we've pursued in class, the presentation of the video made me think about the nature of place and space in a city that is considered by some to be "a dead city." How do we perceive these concepts in a place that apparently lacks some of the aspects that we usually use to define a city?
A good, thought-provoking example of this is when they talk about "warehouse parties" (around 8 minutes in). Warehouse parties consist of "500 to 1,000 people" filling up a large abandoned building for a music show (in this case, electronic music). What I find interesting about this is that it takes a place--a derelict building, considered by most to have little to no value in and of its own--and turns it into a space, filled with meaning, relationships, and shared experiences.
In a place of which the only representation we are given by the media is that of abandoned, falling down buildings, high homelessness, and unemployment rates, it is interesting to see another perspective on finding meaning in the city.
Rebecca Willett
What Creates a City?
I did some wondering over the weekend and started thinking about how cities are created, replicated, and recognized. Is there a certain set of objects a place must contain in order to classify as a city? Can these images be taken out of city and still maintain their integrity or identity as "city items"? Development of a city is a funny thing. It has to happen for a city to exist (surely objects did not amass overnight to create such a body) but rarely have we been priviledged to a specific image oriented documentation of such growth.
This is in no way a photographic display meant to showcase ability or skill. (They were taken on my cell phone in the heat of a brain storm.) So, while the quality may be sub-par I hope you'll see the underlying premise anyway.
I have selected a few photos taken on a journey and wish to know if these representative of a city, a suburb, or a rural town. You can analyze them piecewise or in totality. My main objective was to inquire whether scenes/images/objects could contain the identity of the city on their own through recognition or if inhabiting a city is the only means of acquiring such an identity. If I were to say where these were taken it would spoil the experiment but if you have any questions please feel free to approach me in class.
Alexis Brinkman
New Yorker Cover-Hana Nobel
I found this cover of The New Yorker online. It definitely shows New York City from a local's point of view. Note the "No Tourist" signs on the sidewalk and bus and the cynical comments in place of the usual Times Square and Broadway signs. It made me think of the idea of "blase" that Simmel discussed. Obviously these New Yorkers are no longer affected by sensory overload here in Times Square-one of the most overwhelming places in the city, and instead are just annoyed by the foot and car traffic of the tourists. It seems that if it was up to New Yorkers, that tourists would be contained so that residents could go about their daily business uninterrupted, an allusion to Simmel's discussion of fast-paced life in the metropolis.
They are also no longer impressed by the surrounding restaurants and stores, which have been replaced with signs such as "Junk" "Eat Fat" and "Spend More!" Even the Broadway shows, world renowned productions, are unimpressive to these locals. Signs advertising the plays have been replaced with more cynical comments including one that screams, "BORING!" The artist of this cover is trying to portray that at some point, these city dwellers have become so used to these surroundings that they are no longer special or exciting-precisely what Simmel was attempting to convey in his discussion of blase.
Daniel Hewes- Crazy Italian Intersection
http://www.liveleak.com/view?i=bc7_1314431562
A short clip of an intersection in Italy. Faster, and more dangerous than the one we watched in class. A lot of close calls, but everyone seems to be used to it, and no accidents. Fiats seem to be the car of choice in these crowded, fast moving cities in Europe. Apologies for the ads on the sides of the clip, as some might be slightly inappropriate.
Daniel Hewes
http://ireport.cnn.com/docs/DOC-676352?hpt=hp_bn2
Some pretty neat pictures of signs that went up in NYC that address urban etiquette
DL - The Cats of Mirikitani
In response to Julie's post, here's a film recommendation - The Cats of Mirikitani.
The Boston Film Festival
Julie Giles
This past Monday I attended the Boston Film Festival with my mom. I thought we were just going to see a documentary featuring my mother’s boss and getting dinner afterwards. In fact, I only agreed to go because of the promise of a meal that was not made in the kitchens of the dining hall. We arrived at the Radisson Hotel and snuck into the hidden theater adjacent to the parking lot. My mother then informed me that this event was actually the Boston Film Festival, a fact I was previously unaware of. The turn-out was modest, made up of mostly friends and coworkers of the documentary and the short that was also being shown. My mother introduced me to her boss, Dr. Jim O’Connell, who in turn introduced me to the film’s director. A little lost, I followed the herd that was being ushered into the theater.
My knowledge about this film was pretty limited. From my mom’s brief description, I had gathered that this was a documentary following Dr. Jim O’Connell around the streets of Boston. Dr. Jim O’Connell is a doctor at Boston Health Care for the Homeless Program. My mother, a nurse educator for BHCHP, had talked about this man before. I recalled brief stories of a doctor who was completely devoted to helping the homeless people of Boston. He had personal relationships with each patient he met and has helped countless homeless people find housing and rehabilitation. I was definitely intrigued to see this man at work.
Before the feature film was shown, however, a short was shown called “The Hub.” This ten minute film weaved its way through the streets of Boston to feature a number of street performers. Although I did feel like the movie was a bit amateur and one-dimensional (not that I am a huge movie critic or anything..), the concept was screaming “Urban Anthropology!” at me. The individuals interviewed in this film all had different perspectives of the city. The skateboarders saw Boston as a playground in which outsiders look at them like they’re “a whole different species of humans,” as one skater puts it. The dancers see the city as a stage to entertain and perform. One dancer sees it as his only way to make a living by doing what he loves. At the end of the film, I had a new opinion about the street performers of Boston: they weren’t showing off, they were doing what they love in the city they love.
Now for the feature film: “Give Me a Shot of Anything: House Calls to the Homeless.” This single camera documentary followed Dr. Jim O’Connell around the late-night streets of Boston. Dr. O’Connell was going about his every night routine: making his rounds through the alleys and overhangs to check on his patients: the homeless people of Boston. He travels around the city with a medical van containing medical supplies, blankets, soup, and water. The film spends a few minutes with each patient who tells their story while showing the doctor their latest ailments. Instead of pitying and looking down on the homeless people, Dr. O’Connell treats each person with genuine dignity. He has formed personal relationships with every person he has come across. This has allowed the mentally ill and addicts that he treats to trust and respect him. Perhaps the most moving part of the film came when Dr. O’Connell helped an alcoholic man fed up with his condition get into a rehabilitation program. Dr. O’Connell made the calls, had a room saved for the man, and paid for a cab to the center. The other aspect of the movie centered on Dr. O’Connell’s coworkers that work for BHCHP. Each person strives to make life for these struggle people easier. To provide a warm bed to the ailing street dwellers that have not seen a pillow in years. They want to provide a save and trusting environment for these people they see as their equals. The film moved me to tears more than once and I had a newfound respect for my mother and the organization she works for. I walked away with a new opinion on the homeless and realized that we are all people of the same city, the same world, and we all need to treat each other equally. BHCHP is doing this every day.
This little night out turned into a serious learning experience that I would not have been able to embrace had I not been living in the city and taking Urban Anthropology. I thought I’d share this story on the class blog and give links to the two films. “The Hub” is a quick little film that gives a glimpse into the life of a Bostonian street performer. “Give Me a Shot of Anything: House Calls to the Homeless” is an inspirational film that shines a light on the forgotten members of the city: the homeless. Below are the links to each, check them out!
"Say Something NIce"- Improv Everywhere
Hana Nobel
This Improv Everywhere experiment, like the other short clips we've viewed in class, interrupts the routine of everyday. The setting is Union Square, a lively and busy section of Manhattan filled with commuters, NYU students, and New York residents. This project makes a statement about an assumption of city dwellers, in this case New Yorkers. The podium's sign gives simple instructions- "Say Something Nice." This speaks to the insinuation that New Yorkers often don't pause from their daily rush to say something nice to a stranger. As is the theme in other viewed clips, many people apathetically continue on their way, walking right past the podium without notice or desire to know what is happening. Others are interested, but appear too nervous to break a social norm and amplify a compliment. Some do step up, however. Two of the most animated speakers are women from Dallas. It is important to note that they are from out of town. One may argue that these women are more excited about this project and willing to participate because they are not New Yorkers. They are also even more anonymous that any other New Yorker in this city that is not their home-therefore they may be even more comfortable breaking social norms.
This project was sponsored by stillspotting nyc, associated with the Guggenheim. Some information about the project is below:
http://stillspotting.guggenheim.org/about/
"While the vitality and stimulation of the urban environment can be pleasant, those living in or visiting densely populated areas, such as New York, can have wildly different experiences. The ever-present cacophony of traffic, construction, and commerce; the struggle for mental and physical space; and the anxious need for constant communication in person or via technology are relentless assaults on the senses. One wonders how locals and visitors can escape, find respite, and make peace with their space in this “city that never sleeps.”
The Guggenheim Museum responds with stillspotting nyc, a two-year multidisciplinary project that takes the museum’s Architecture and Urban Studies programming out into the streets of the city’s five boroughs: Manhattan, Brooklyn, the Bronx, Queens, and Staten Island. Every three to five months, “stillspots” are identified, created, or transformed by architects, artists, designers, composers, and philosophers into public tours, events, or installations."
DL - A street scene in Naples
This resembles the premise of Certeau's spatial stories - that individual threads form a greater pattern, an urban fabric. Watch how skilfully everyone negotiates 'space' on the streets, without really looking or paying overt attention.
DL - Grand Central Flash Mob
Thinking about Interruption and Flow and why the everyday is an effect.
Sam Freedman, In Defense of Story
Hi folks! As an anthropology student, I've been exposed to many anthropological texts, treatises, essays, and dissertations, most of which resemble that of Neil Leach's The Hieroglyphics of Space... ; these passages are filled with thick, dense methodological frameworks and pedantic rhetoric that use a lot of terms like 'spatial images', 'semiological discourse', and 'cognitive mapping'. The phrases 'multiplicity', 'untheorized', 're-presentation', 'cultural production' and 'epistemological method' are also very popular. This "anthropological voice" seems to be very fashionable in the modern era; perhaps it represents an effort to solidify Anthropology's place among (what some claim to be) the "reputable" areas of study- namely the hard sciences- in the artificial hierarchy of academia. Perhaps the over-saturation of theoretical arguments, conjectures, and postulates is meant to reconcile the age-old dilemma of maintaining objectivity while studying the "other".
In any event, there seem to be- in my mind- two distinct models of producing anthropological text. The first is represented by Leach's introduction, the second by Benjamin's Hashish in Marseilles. The former is an analytical, method-based approach that describes theories and lenses through which to understand certain phenomena. The latter takes on the form of a story, a flowing narrative that neglects to explicitly articulate the structural lens- the perceiving lens is rather implied through the raconteur's account, leaving the reader to analyze, compare, and dissect (if she so chooses). The 'story' is a lively, vivid account that evokes the reader's senses/emotions, enabling her to truly be there, while, the analytical method is mostly detached and disconnected from the actual physical/psychological essence of place, serving instead as a diagnostic instrument for interpretation. Some argue that without theory, without 'epistemological framework', anthropology would just be fiction, not worthy of genuine, verifiable academic merit. It's an effort to transform story into science. It's an effort to catalog and compartmentalize the richness of the felt experience, thereby reducing it to something finite, something controllable and thus subject to 'understanding'. The objectification of the world is a dehumanizing impossibility, and it assumes that there even exists a reality independent of that which is 'observing'. More likely is the conclusion that there is no such thing as observation, but only the subjective perceptions of various participating entities, both of which are co-creating respective realities. Fiction is all there really is, anyway.
to be continued...
Samantha Levy
One of the clearest memories from my childhood is driving to the museum of science and industry with my dad on a saturday afternoon. The museum is located on the south side of Chicago, and in order to get there we would take Lake Shore Drive. About 500 feet before the entrance to the museum, there was a bump in the road, one that caused my stomach to turn every time we went over it. This stomach-flopping was my way of knowing we were almost there, that our time on Lake Shore Drive was coming to an end. I cannot think about Chicago without thinking about Lake Shore Drive. It snakes along between the city and Lake Michigan, following the twists and turns of the shoreline. What most people don’t realize about Lake Michigan is that you can’t see to the other side, so when you’re driving along Lake Shore Drive, you have sprawling city on one side, endless blue on the other. If you access Lake Shore Drive from its northern-most point like I did growing up just outside of the city, you have the extra advantage of watching the skyline materialize before your eyes. As you drive south you pass Michigan Avenue, then turn a corner and cross the Chicago River. Look to the right and you’re in a skyscraper jungle, Trump Tower shines further on down the river, the Sears Tower peeks out between two buildings. To the left is Navy Pier, whose huge ferris wheel towers over the throngs of visitors. Keep going south and you pass Millennium Park, home of the “Bean” and a spectacular amphitheater designed by Frank Gehry. As you continue to wind your way through the city you can’t help but be struck by its beauty. Chicago is unassuming and modest, much like its inhabitants, and this is one of its best kept secrets. You may have to work a little harder for it, but Chicago has so much more to offer than meets the surface. All you have to do is get there.
Rebecca Willett - Not So Alone in Managua
City-Memory: Not So Alone in Managua
The old American schoolbus pulled into the bus station in Managua Managua
As the bus rolled to a stop, I was glancing out the window, trying to get my bearings. The bus terminal was part station, part market, and a busy one at that. Ladies with their frilly aprons selling fruit and breads from baskets, taxi drivers hustling bus passengers as they stepped down from the bus, country folks with their giant baskets and bags of things they could only buy in the city, to bring home to their families out in el campo. Suddenly the bus driver was calling me and motioning quickly for me to follow him, and I somehow slithered through the full aisle and down the steps of the bus, concentrating on not losing sight of his broad shoulders muscling their way through the crowd of screaming taxi drivers—“TAXI , TAXI !”. We flew through the blur of people, sounds, colors, and smells, and with a quick exchange of nods I was handed off to Carlos, the bus assistant’s supposedly trustworthy taxi driver friend. Within seconds I was in the front seat, my backpack safe and pickpocketing-free in my lap, on my way to the Roberto Huembes bus station.
We haggled over the price of the fare, and I thought about how nice it is to find kindness everywhere, even in the midst of busy, dangerous city.
Inner City, Inner Self: A Memoir (Alexis Brinkman)
The manner by which you enter a city is entirely dependent on where you start your journey. Moving from the sanctity of your 100 square foot closet apartment to the bustling streets is in essence a migration but cannot be compared to the pilgrimage you must take from one of New York's surrounding suburbs. So you start your Great Migration which sets the tone of your memory because it is both the first and last leg of your exploration. No matter what time the train taking you to the city leaves you become part of the monotonous daily commute. The hours of six, seven, eight, ten and twelve are a repetitive melange. Your shoes may not be as nice and your suit is inevitably lacking the third piece which contains nearly eighty percent of the prestige the entire ensemble projects but you progress regardless of garb because once the transformation starts your persona becomes less about what you look like and almost entirely about where you are going.
You're not at the station yet but you are standing as if the patience you had when you decided to drink coffee and eat before you left your house has evaporated over the course of the migration. You are inexplicably more anxious, more busy than you were before. The train rolls slower now and it hits the dock with a sober thud accompanied by a few drawn out squeals that let your know the flood gates are open. A swift current carries you deeper into the depths of the metro caverns. Rather than looking up a the signs for instruction of direction you plunge through blind to sights other that diverging streams of people and deaf to anything other than the all encompassing melody that will carry you from one corridor to the next. A man plays plastic bongos with wooden panels. He forces you to pick up pace that delivers you to a romantic acoustic serenade which prompts you to push forward until you reach the pan flute trio and what were once three separate covers of three separate songs becomes a whole piece with a fervent rhythm that echos and bellows connecting the tunnels, outlining your path.
If you happen to speak the language, the subway will take you from Rome to Hong Kong, through Paris, around Amsterdam, and to Mexico City. However coming here occasionally but not often you speak a pigeon form and thus can carry yourself from location A to location B. You are traveling along the veins of the thriving, growing, steam blowing organism that constantly nurses the greater structure sitting atop and can never sleep as the city is too demanding, too dependent of an offspring. Although you pay fiscal homage to this mother you do not praise it because like most nurturing forces they bewilder you with their speed, they bemuse you with fantastical charts of plotted diagrams depicting frequency, space, length and time and ultimately they deliver you to the same corner you started on without recompense. She takes you where you were supposed to go even if it was not where you wanted to go.
Little did you know it turns out you came all this way to go home again. After all it is the most familiar spaces in even the most exotic of places that endure in your memory long after you forget the foreign nuances. Your stomach rumbles the loudest for the taste that is most comforting and luckily the restaurant is small just like the kitchen you grew up in. The ceiling fans spins round at exactly the same pace aerating the room with the aromas of your grandmother's recipes. The people are warm, friendly, and full like her smile. In keeping with tradition they do not offer but give you a sampling of concoctions you did not even know you wanted. The sauce is the same sauce your mother taught you to make after her mother taught her and you can swear you hear her singing from behind the door on the other side of the room. The tune leaks through the porous grout between the bricks as if there has been a flash flood of memories seeping in that you could never have recalled outside of the city.
Perhaps migrating towards the city is really just like moving further into your own past. You seek out connections you did not previously need in the comfort of your own home far removed from searing New York. In a world reputed for its multiple dangers and temptations it is natural to correlate what you've never seen before to an intimate memory of the past as it is a comfort that becomes a subconscious necessity. In this way you participate in the city by shedding your identity and joining the masses but you remain forever behind glass looking through your own perspective lens while your recollection steers you to delve into your inner self. The ride home is the perfect time to ponder such a theory. The trains are emptier making you feel like half the people you came with were trapped somewhere in the city where they are reliving their past without any success of connecting it to their present. As the day comes to an end and the journey reaches a full circle you start to feel melancholy like you left the place you were supposed to belong.
Katie Gosselin
City Memory: New Haven, Connecticut
Welcome to the city of New Haven; a place where dreams are not created but instead every glimpse of even the slightest trace of success or gratification is swallowed up by the wide expanses of poverty and despair. A cloud of gloom shadows the city and continues to grow as time passes for more buildings become withered and begin to crumble just as the people that inhabit them. Paint is chipping off almost every sign, cars are coated in rust and putter as they morbidly move, and the front porch stoop seems to be the favorite and most popular gathering spot.
Along the dilapidated sidewalks caked with shards of glass, the solemn vagabond gazes emptily at his feet, afraid to meet the eyes of any person passing, knowing the shame and embarrassment that constitutes his life will be revealed through one simple glance. While one man struggles to endure the curse of destitution, elitist scholars earn their education to make a difference in the world at the prestigious Yale University. The ironies arise when one realizes that although within the campus walls these young people are living a life where to them anything is possible and any dream can be accomplished; those people outside these walls face struggles everyday and only dream of one day being able to free themselves of the poverty stricken plagues of the city by escaping and achieving happiness, a dream that to them is almost entirely impossible.
While during the day the city may seem oppressive; women merely the age of fifteen already pushing a stroller over the uneven sidewalks, the barren, desolate looks of the people that crowd the streets and store doorways; at night the streets become vacant. Dark, ominous shadows linger in the alleyways as the sound of frequent gunshots interlock with angry shrieks and swears and the cries of misery and hopelessness. To any outsider, no matter the time of day upon entering this somber place, one can immediately sense the depressed vibes that are projected from the city itself.
Katrina Razon's City Memoir: Manila, Philippines
City Memoir: Manila, Philippines
It is my first trip back to my home in the Philippines since studying in Northeastern University in Boston. The airplane comes down low. From above, the city is still beautiful. We pass over brown water off the coast, fish pens laid out in geometrical patterns, like a Mondrian viewed by someone colorblind. Over the bay, the sunset is starting, the famous sunset, like none anywhere else. Skeptics attribute its colors to pollution. Over there’s the land, the great gray sprawl of eleven million people living on top of each other on barely more than 240 square miles- fourteen cities and three municipalities, skyscrapers and shanties, tumbling beyond Kilometer Zero and the heart of every Filipino, the city that gave the metro its name: Manila.
Modern Manila. She, who once was the Pearl of the Orient is now a worn dowager, complete with the hump, the bunions, the memories of the Charleston stepped to the imported and flawlessly imitates melodies of King Oliver, the caked-on makeup and the lipstick smeared in thick stripes beyond the thin, pursed lips. She, the trusting daughter of East and West, lay down and was destroyed, her beauty carpet-bombed by her liberators, cautious of their own causalities, her ravishment making her kindred to Hiroshima, Stalingrad, Warsaw. On the street, taxis done up like carnivals will honk straight at you, their drivers accosting your bags as if intending to hold them ransom for a for a twenty-cent tip. Soot-caked cops do their best to direct the beast that is our traffic, their ineffectual whistles exacerbating the chaos that is our order. It takes you an hour to get anywhere and when you arrive, it’s almost time to go. Let me welcome you to my first country, my Third World.
Naomi Litman-Zelle
Minneapolis is a time machine, a city conflicting between two eras—holding onto the glamorous city of the 20th century while steadily adjusting to whatever trend is taking the cities by storm. Nowhere else can you enjoy such traditional city life in such a modern environment. I am so fond of Minneapolis; it has class, a certain edge that makes it slightly off-beat relative to other cities. Minneapolis has the swanky nightlife of a cosmopolitan town without the seedy underbelly I find so apparent in other places. It’s a city stuck somewhat in the past, still holding onto that romanticism cities used to have before. The skyline glitters with the old, giant Gold Medal Flour marquee. Massive barges parade down the Mississippi river, embarking on journeys to bring goods to the rest of the Midwest. Throngs of couples, young and old, stand on the balcony of the Guthrie Theater in their silk evening gowns and sip their glasses of wine during the intermission of The Importance of Being Earnest. The spirit of the city illustrated in works such as The Great Gatsby still lives in those glittering marquees and runs in the ageless water of the Mississippi. It is sewn into the silk of the ties worn by the theatergoers. It seems to be a city unchanged by the passage of time. Yet the architecture is modern. Flashy, new restaurants—the kinds with the chrome light fixtures and the blasting music where everything you order comes on ceramic, square dishes and mashed potatoes become a “potato puree”—line the streets. The abundant bike paths allow for hipsters to flock to Minneapolis, inevitably creating a need for the coffee chops furnished with antique armchairs and sofas that now appear on each street corner. Like Calvino, I find myself Minneapolis to be a museum, incorporating rich history with the ever-changing city life. Upon leaving the hot, new restaurant that the Star Tribune absolutely raved about, you can return to your apartment, look outside, and gaze out at almost the same skyline your grandparents saw from their first apartment in the quaint little river town that once was. There is something just magical about that. It is the closest thing to time travel I’ll ever experience.
Jillian Chaffee
The Opera House is tan – not white, tan. But if you take a picture point blank, the color still gleams a brighter white than the shiniest smile. The harbor bridge to the left arcs gracefully over the water, and I shake my head to think we were at the top of it only two hours again. I recline in my chair and breathe in the fresh country air of the downtown harbor. I can’t get over the idea of clean air in such an expansive city! My breathing is deep and filling, refreshing. My friends are discussing where to go, what to do next. I don’t have much preference – I’m enjoying my surroundings far too much to think of moving. I tilt my head as I hear a familiar yet strange sound. The strumming of the guitar seems out of place, seems too homey to be in the middle of the port. I turn towards the sound and see a boy, probably around the age of 12, picking a familiar tune out on his six-string. The song is old, nameless to me, but I am sure it is one of the ones my father used to play on quiet nights at home. I lose myself in the image of the boy – the black coat, the jeans, the case open for any change to drop in. I wonder how long he has done this, if his playing arose from necessity or simply the desire to share his passion, his gift. I realize I am staring, and decide to cover myself with a tourist-y picture. As my camera clicks, the boy looks up. The beauty, the peace, the music, the air are now forever mine to keep. His clear eyes penetrate my photograph, and I cannot help but lose myself in the beauty of the moment.
Daniel Hewes
Having grown up in New York City all my life, I have endless memories of city life. But the one that sticks out the most was one that most New Yorkers would chose; September 11, 2001. I was just in 7th grade, and much of those childhood years are fuzzy due to time past, but this day is as vivid in my mind as yesterday. I was in science class when my father appeared at the door and took my out of class. He explained what had happened, but I couldn’t really comprehend what has happened. I hadn’t yet seen any of the images or people that I would soon see. I walked out of my school which was downtown, and I walked to 8th avenue with my dad. The first thing I remember were the cars and taxis and buses on the avenue, but they weren’t moving. The city itself was at a stand still, but the people who were walking quickly made up for the lack of motion of the cars. It was a sight that ill never forget. I have never seen so many people walking in one direction in my life. Even the marathons didn’t live up to it. The people who we were walking uptown with were not running, were not screaming, were not crying. They were walking at a moderate pace, most with their heads down. There were some that had soot and ash covering their whole body. Some were bloodied, and some were perfectly clean. It was such a mix in a city that some call the most diverse in the world. We finally made it uptown to my dad’s office. We decided that we should open it up to anyone who needed a place to rest or needed food or water. We went outside and grabbed some food and bottles of water for anyone who needed it. And that’s when it hit me. I looked around and realized that it wasn’t just me and my dad doing this, but every store, every restaurant, every deli was also doing it. People were stopping and talking with strangers on every block. Strangers who they would normally pass by. We were opening ourselves up to anyone who needed help, and on that day, that was most of the people on the streets. It was such an incredible sight. We all came together to offer a hand, and not because anyone had ordered us to, but because at that moment, we all knew there were fellow New Yorkers in need, and that was the first priority. And for days after that, I saw the same thing. People gathered on city streets and corners, just to find some companionship in a stranger in that time of need. We had gone from a city of millions, to a city of one. One energy moving through all of us, as cliché as that might sound. It was something that I have not seen since, but I know the next time the city is in need, we’ll all come together without a second of hesitation.
James Tanch
Upon landing in Costa Rica there is a forty-five minute ride to get to the capital of San Jose from Alajuela, the country's second largest city. The whirring highway is packed full of compact cars from the '80s and '90s and it's easy to tell where the deadly highway got its deadly reputation from. During that ride, you forget about the beaches and canopies you see in the ecotourism advertisements and are instantly reminded that you are at the seat of a developing nation. The seemingly half-constructed homes stick out at you against the towering mountainous backdrop yet the whole scene blends together so well. Face glued to the window, I couldn't stop thinking about how I would be spending the next six months there. Even over a year since returning, I still struggle to find the words to do justice to that feeling of seeing something so different than what I had ever seen before.
As you near the city center, the air thickens and the potholes get bigger and bigger. The construction of the buildings doesn't change dramatically but the density of them does. They seemed to be stacked on one another but there isn't really a skyscraper in sight. Inside the city the population is buzzing and there are people everywhere. The heat is intense. As soon as you step foot into downtown, people are trying to sell you anything from bootleg DVDs to bizarre fruit I had never seen before. It's impossible to walk downtown without being harassed by the "illegal" street vendors—they get more aggressive the closer you get to the mercado central. Everything was so dizzying and exciting at the same time; all I could do was wander my first day soaking up as much of it as possible.
Helen Ramsay
The near absence of the sun baths the sidewalks in a rose gold tint that twinkles off the bronze embedded into the framework of the city. Names archaic mingle with those still hot for the magazine press. Natives pay no attention to the starry paths; casually trending where foreign eyes strain to capture. Music of human voices crescendo flooding out of every restaurant as the harmony of the city makes its daily oscillation from the mumble of the day to the excitement of the night. A birthday wish is made that their future lies in this city; while another birthday is celebrated to the peak of expectations, because there is someone who cares. The stars from the pavement twinkle in all eyes that have a dream or a lover, or both. It will not be long before the stars in the eyes of the lover are swallowed by a black hole, but the dream will fan the flames of hope for many more years. There is no telling if the valley lit by flashing signs will ever be home for the aspirations of the child. Sometimes it is and sometimes the twinkling just dims into dusk, that’s just how the city is. Dusk, setting over the city like a blanket, not muting but amplifying the life, severing as a catalyst for licentious decisions that they will only pretend to regret. Time passes like cars on the freeways, the veins of the city, and as the morning peaks in the night, only the clocks notice that rush hour is nearly over. Veins soon to be clogged with foggy thoughts as their owners wait for the multitude of vehicles to make a movement, any movement at all. If only it were as far away as it seemed, because to everyone with the sky in their eyes, that was the only city that could exist, the city filled with dreams. Darkness if far from interminable, although it appears as though no harm is seen in pretending. Pretending that youth will come in an endless supply and sleep is nothing more than a myth from an old nursery rhyme. However, when the floor of the city starts to shimmer, and it smiles once more at the opposite end of the sky, the rest of the world no longer holds the illusion of being a far off memory. The honking of horns lose their charm and a birthday wish goes into hibernation behind a modest hemline, a sharp jacket and a neatly pressed collar.
Pia Tempestini
I take a seat on a wooden bench out of the suns reach with a sigh of relief. A thin film of sweat had formed on my skin as I had been walking for what felt like forever, enchanted by one discovery after another, one small destination after another in the August sun. A shop window, a beautiful fountain, majestic and striking ancient ruins, old book stores, the tantalizing smell of a bakery, the dusty colors of the buildings, at every corner I turned there was something new to capture my senses and pull me in. And I let it. I let every curiosity drag me through what felt like the entire city, through throngs of tourists, crowded buses on just one hot August day. I knew I hadn’t even made a dent. I knew that I could live here for years and still get this feeling of being completely overwhelmed and in love at the same time. In the piazza near by, pigeons picked at remnants of what remained of the open market that had been bustling early that morning. The displays had held the most wonderful displays of fresh vegetables, spices, and fish; more beautiful to me then some of the priceless art that was protected in museums around the city. The city was loud and chaotic, it had seen emperors, dictators, democracy, and everything in between, but the people did their own thing as they always had. They were at the doorways of their shops, sitting in the cafes, gossiping with neighbors and friends, laughing, yelling, gesturing their hands. Whatever the issue, the topic of their conversation, they were passionate about it. But I had found a quiet little square down an ally off a main piazza. It was 4 o’clock, about the time that the stores would begin to re-open, and I soaked in the peace and the energy of this moment, an energy I could feel was ancient. It had been around since this city was the head of an empire and it was a beautiful, intoxicating energy, eternal energy. Perhaps it was what drew them here in the first place.
Rome, Italy
Allison McCurdy
It was a cloudy yet surprisingly warm day in Dublin. The brick and stone walkways we journeyed had a familiar sound and feel. With the traditional buildings aside the contemporary, my home city of Boston came to mind. We walked the busy streets and hopped from one souvenir shop to another. Continuously we would bop our heads into the open pub windows to check the score of the current World Cup game. The bars and restaurants were busting at the seams with soccer fans, cheering for all different teams. The spirit of the natives was lively and welcoming, allowing us tourists to join in on the fun. I loved seeing the people bond together over sports just as us Bostonians do. Coming from the self-proclaimed “City of Champions”, seeing people bonding and celebrating together through soccer was much alike however different than my norm since soccer is not as prominent in the United States. As we continued our venture through the city, we found ourselves on the Trinity College campus. Once again a feeling of familiarity came through me. Beautiful traditional buildings were surrounded by greenery, while the busy city life was just around the corner. It all felt familiar; a feeling I had not expected in a foreign country.
Bill Shaner
I ignored the indistinguishable smell coming from somewhere in the bathroom as I brushed my teeth. I made my way out into the kitchen, past the mountain of dishes piling out of the sink, the three strangers sleeping on my couch and shut the front door quickly, before the weed smell and flies got out. Finally, some fresh air. My roommates are good people; they’re just riding some weird hippie phase a little too hard. This is my second month living with them and it’s starting to feel like a mistake. I put on a Dismemberment Plan album I downloaded last night for the 20-minute walk to class. As “The City,” a chaotic, awkward break-up ballad began to play, I saw a frail, middle aged asian woman in a tattered red track suit picking beer cans out of my neighbor’s trash, two shopping carts full of returnables dragging behind her. “Now I notice the street lamps hum, the ghosts of graffiti they couldn’t quite erase, the blank face stares on the subway…” She looked at me and I looked away. “…This is where I live, but I’ve never felt less at home.” Those few seconds burned in my head all day. On the walk back from class, I ignored the sunny day and lost interest in my normal walking games (Funniest Haircut Of The Day, Who Looks The Most Like Oprah, Make Eyes At The Pretty Girl and See What She Does etc.) Instead I observed the urban décor of Northeastern’s West Village, the MFA and Harvard Medical fade as I went west. I overheard a homeless man with three teeth lying to people about the bus he can’t afford to see his ex-wife outside a Seven Eleven. I noticed the vomit on the other side of a trash can, the massive pile of cigarette butts by the back door of a pizza place and broken glass filling in the cracks of sidewalks. I passed a park where people with shopping carts akin to the one I saw this morning were resting. One waved and said, “Good afternoon.” I waved back. One of my roommates greeted me from behind a bongo as I past the sink and the flies and the bathroom smell, holding my breath until I shut my bedroom door. I called my parents. Boston didn’t feel like home anymore.
Julie Giles
Looking at my overflowing suitcase, I reasoned that there was no more room to fit my bikinis. I had to sacrifice something; a girl cannot go to Mexico without her bikinis! Grudgingly, I took out my hairdryer and two pairs of jeans. I tried to convince myself that the humid climate would not allow for their usage anyways. Sleep that night came sparingly accompanied by visions of blue skies, piña coladas, and glistening swimming pools. The six hour flight was well worth the wait. The week was spent soaking up the late-spring Mexico sun, eating at the various resort restaurants, and participating in the nightly activities organized by the resort employees. At sixteen, it was my first trip away from my family and yet homesickness seemed to be left at home with my hairdryer and jeans. That is, until I visited the actual city of Cancun.
The precarious taxi ride to the small city was foreboding in its own right; however, coupled with the runway of decrepit buildings and colorful graffiti was enough to expedite my anxiety levels. My friends and I fortunately had the refuge of my friend’s mother to keep us safe in the crowded streets. This city was unlike any I had seen before. The road was made of uneven stones and stores were compacted together in cell like dwellings. Merchandise was displayed in front of each store: scarves, traditional Mexican garb, jewelry, and other trinkets. We weaved through the throng of tourists and locals, avoiding the catcalls that were directed towards us. Men whistled, stared, and pointed at us three young blondes. Initially, the attention was humorous, but as the harassment continued we instinctively drew together to avoid separation from the group. We had left our sanctuary of our resort and had landed in the middle of a totally foreign experience.
As we continued to apprehensively wander around the streets of the city, we did check out what the stores had to offer. Perhaps the most interesting part of the experience was bargaining with a store owner to achieve reasonable prices at a jewelry shop. I have never had to bargain before as I have been accustomed to paying the full, assigned price for American goods. The deal we reached was much lower than the original price. Was this a ploy to rip off oblivious tourists? These Mexican customs were perplexing to me. I could not understand why goods could not be priced reasonably or why these older men were acting so inappropriate towards us. I could not help but feel a malevolent presence in this city, an underlying feeling of taking advantage of easy targets like us tourists. I did not feel safe and longed to return to my sheltered life in Massachusetts. It was a relief to get back in the tiny taxi and speed back to the hotel.
Reflecting back on this experience three years later, I am still wrought with anxiety over those few hours spent in Cancun. Perhaps I simply did not and still do not understand the culture of this city. Has my American upbringing made me ignorant to other cultures? Regardless of the answer to that question, I do not think that I will be returning to the city of Cancun Mexico any time soon. The clustered streets and questionable practices of Cancun may not be enticing to me, but the exposure to this culture was a growing experience and a major reason that I am curious to explore urban culture around the world.
Ryan O'Connor
I am going home. As the plane descends through the cloud cover and the expanse of water below becomes visible and in the distance starts to give way to my city. The tallest towers rise up from the smaller buildings around them to clearly define what people consider to be “downtown”. Each is unique, the newest are grand, elegant spires of steel and glass reflecting the evening sun, and the oldest are much shorter and made of concrete and brick while still being beautiful. Oldest is a relative term here; this is a new city, a city that has been ruined and rebuilt all at once. You can’t feel the centuries of evolution and history that other cities have here, but frankly, you don’t miss it. Looking down on this shining gem on the edge of the water my eyes can jump only small distances and trigger memories years and miles apart. It starts with summer on the grand beaches that line the shore and flicks to wandering through the glass and steel canyons, staring up at some of the most potent examples of mankind’s ingenuity and nobility. My eyes wander to the center of the city, a sweeping stretch of green, and remember nights spent watching the lights of the skyline and the colors of the fountain, tourists wandering among locals, men selling glow sticks and other bright amusements. Fireworks shot from the pier out over the lake and bike rides down the drive all spin together as I gaze out over my home. A city filled to bursting with life and light, a town of wonders and memories for me, things that I want to show all of the unfortunates who have never been there before. I want everyone to see and experience this city in a garden, this city of big shoulders, this city that I can never call the second city, because it will never be that for me. It’s my kind of town, Chicago is.
Preston Beyer
The sheer beauty of your surroundings while walking the streets of Pretoria almost allows you to forget you are in one of the most impoverished parts of the world. The urban appeal of any North American city is replicated here in the midlands of South Africa with all the amenities of western life so easily integrated into the political capital of the Republic. Western retail stores and fast food chains line the streets of city center where masses of people flock. Walking down the main street of city center you see everything from McDonalds to a small ethnic food shop where everyone only speaks Tswana.
While the glamour of the new, skyscraping buildings may draw the full attention of some visitors, to truly experience the nature of the city you need to look to the past. Amidst all the typical urban appeals of a city lie signs and memories of a different time, a past regime. The older buildings and portions of the city give the city a character that is unlike everywhere else. These old buildings are all either fenced in or surrounded by walls and lined with barbed wire, signs of the times of apartheid. The majority of the inhabitants of these areas was once the privileged whites, but is now mostly a black area. It is in these neighborhood and areas where the calls for a revitalized black cultural movement are strongest and most frequent.
The areas of Church Square and the Union Building are the true gems of Pretoria. Church Square is the cultural center of the city and boasts many important buildings from the time of apartheid as well as architectural beauties. The Union Building is the political headquarters for all of South Africa with the chair of the President being located here. This building sits at the highest point in the city and directly beneath it lays an expansive area of gardens which contain all the natural plants of South Africa.
Jessica Nicolosi City Memory
The clear blue water, the palm trees, and a nice ocean breeze are some of the things that first catch your eye in Punta Cana. In a resort all you can see is the beauty of nature and don’t have a care in the world. Americanized versions of ethnic food are served along with any other type of food you can imagine. People drink out of coconuts and have a wonderful time swimming in the ocean or the pool. The place really does feel like paradise. However, there is another side to what seems like the perfect place to be.
The scene above almost sounds impossible to those living outside of the resort walls. The complete difference between life inside and life outside the resort is shocking. On the outside, life is hard for the people living there. The poverty level is so high, that children can be seen knocking on car windows begging for some food, trying to sell you roses, or wash your windows to get some money to support their family. The houses shrink in comparison to the beautiful air-conditioned rooms in the resort. Small one roomed cement houses fit an entire family.
The two scenes are so drastically different it almost seems like a whole different world. The first time I left the resort I was in awe at the two sides to the same city. Leaving the resort had made me take a step back and appreciate life while also giving me a bit of an understanding to the multiple aspects that are a city; the good, the bad, and the ugly.
Hannah Andrew
One of the best ways to see Boston has to be from the Charles River basin at sunrise. The Charles River flows towards the harbor it winds sedately up through Harvard and by Boston University. The river in this section is calm and teeming with boaters in seemingly every craft imaginable. Then, as you round the turn by Boston University you go under a graffitied bridge and come out into a massive open expanse of water seemingly stretching for miles with the wind skimming along and picking the water up into white caps. In the near distance you can see the Massachusetts Avenue Bridge running the width of the river and beyond that all of Boston lies half covered by the morning fog rising up above the rooflines. From the river you are able to see all the sights of Boston. The golden dome of the state house glints orange in the light of the sunrise, the Citgo sign flashes in neon red and white, and the Zankem Bridge looms in the distance. It is a unique experience to be able to see the whole city spread out before you, seemingly quite and unmoving and bathed in a golden sunrise. The whole thing looks like a postcard, a moment frozen in time. It is reminiscent of the saying “you cannot see the forest for the trees.” With everything that goes on in normal life in Boston, often one forgets the true nature of the city they are in, the hustle and bustle of everyday life could really be happening in any city all over the world. However, out on the river in the morning, before the city has woken up, you can truly see all of Boston spread about before you, frozen in stillness and lit by the rising sun. It seems incredible that such a still, a beautiful scene could contain within it the many people, places and things that come together to make the normal chaos of the city.
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