The High Line is an elevated pathway built on an old railway viaduct in west Manhattan. It’s described as a
“living system” drawing from multiple disciplines which include landscape architecture, urban design, and ecology. Since opening in 2009, the High Line has become an icon of contemporary landscape architecture.”
Along the 2.33 km walk are views of Manhattan’s urban landscapes. Towering skyscrapers, avant garde architecture, old and new buildings. Since it’s opening in 2009 real estate value for apartments abutting the park have climbed.
For $6 million dollars you can get a home ten meters away from a pathway sporting twenty thousand pedestrians a day. For even more, you can watch the pedestrians from your luxurious glass enclosed bathroom and bathtub. It is a room with a view. The question is, who’ll be viewing whom?
What do you do when you’re in New York City in the worst spring snow storm in a recent history? You go to the museum of course. You, Me and Fifty Thousand other people.
Like well muffled lemmings we line up at the MoMA, pay for tickets and shuffle off to line up again for coat check. We head off to the escalators where we shuffle through five floors of exhibits. Exquisite, gorgeous and beautiful art.
Somewhere on the second floor I remember what a uncultured noob I am. Oh I see the wonder of the famous Water Lillies and the brilliance of the Starry Night. I even get the genius of the color blocky Mondrians. I recognize the beauty and famous-ness of these pieces but I am not enthralled by them.
Instead I am drawn to the frames of scenes outside. Quiet and fleeting vistas of snow falling silently on brownstones across the city.
The first hint that someone had been through our luggage were our books. They’d been moved from the bottom of the suitcase to the top. The second hint was the printed notice from the San Francisco TSA saying they’d searched our bags. I wondered what they’d seen to provoke them riffling through our dirty laundry. It might have been this. Can you guess what it is?
Fresh on the heels of my failure at bak chang wrapping, I’d discovered this unique device to hold and mold the pesky leaf wrapped dumplings. I found it in San Francisco’s Chinatown under the ignominious name “Chinese tamale mold.”
The shop’s name was The Wok Shop and it was a treasure trove of kitchen supplies. As you can guess, it’s main line is woks and although I was madly tempted, I kept my purchases to small packable items. Like these cute ceramics with purpose.
The blow fish is a Japanese wasabi grater, perfect for scraping fresh ginger root. When not in service, it’s just right as a decorative spoon rest. The tiny little flower bowls were irresistible. I bought two as mise en place containers for shredded ginger and garlic.
I don’t think the luggage inspectors were perturbed by my ceramics but I could see them being alarmed by the mold. It’s metallic and nefarious looking. That plus the accompanying heft of five kilos of books must have triggered concern. Once you handle the mold though, it is obviously innocent. A lightweight, empty aluminum frame. Still, unless you’re in the know, it’s hard to guess what it could be used for.