The Warrior Walk
by Luca Aiello
is best done in early October
when the air’s chill doesn’t build up a sweat
and the day’s length persists
one last time. There are no subway delays
or teen gangs here, but the city they came
out of remains. A lone cab disgorges us
into Van Cortlandt Park, which in early
morning gets dampened by street rain
and dirty paws. As we stroll past Fordham,
monastery light begins to shine. Daybreak
comes over the Cross-Bronx Expressway,
a relic of Robert Moses’ wrath. It was there
that I realized how much better a BLT is
with chipotle mayo, served at a bodega with mazes
of tin cans and sleeping cats. Breakfast now
finished, we almost lunge across the RFK,
ready to feel Randalls and Wards in the heat
of 11:00, its parkland decorated with bike lanes
and family picnics. Our feet starting to blister,
we step into the bohemian glow
of Long Island City by noon, where upstarts smoke
cigarettes in an attempt to look straight
out of Godard. At 12:45, Brooklyn comes
to us with its massive weight and colorful parts.
Eating goulash at a diner in Greenpoint,
I think of Hubert Selby and Lou Reed.
In the dozen miles or so of this borough,
we get to taste the flavors of architecture: rows
of brownstones in Park Slope and Bensonhurst’s
(WARRIOR WALK pg 2, continue stanza)
minor mansions—a sociology lesson
in microculture that comes to a head
at the Panamanian Day Parade, Latin music
rumbling in the streets and anacondas hanging
on shoulders. Come 5:00, we are fully rested
at Coney Island, waves crashing nearby and bits
of Russian hanging in the air. We settle down
at Nathan’s, ordering fries and hot dogs—sauerkraut
and mustard, please—and sit outside, feet finally
unable to walk. I look at my bruised heel, think,
up yours, Achilles.