The Heights

Yes, I live there now. A place called Washington Heights. It is what most people call the borderless area between about 145 and 190th streets on the west side of Manhattan - what I've started to call 'nosebleed' section of the city - because they're the parts so far north that some people cringe when they hear that you live there and immediately hope that you could eventually afford to move to some place more sensible like the upper west side or the lower east side. Here in 'the Heights' liquids of various smells and colors run in the grooves between the concrete blocks that piece together the sidewalks, so I step carefully. There are piragua carts and fruit stands selling pineapple and mangoes on sticks at many a street corner.
what is piragua
Even the Indian pharmacist who works at the drug store and the Chinese man who runs the take-out place speak a few phrases of Spanish out of necessity. Boys, girls, men, women, and elderly sit along the wall lining Riverside Drive and on the doorsteps of the apartment buildings or bodegas on sunny afternoons commenting on the people passing by, namely the women. The clothing cling brightly and tightly to their full and rounded bodies, behaving perfectly as they claim the streets beneath their stilletos and platforms with their confident swagger, featuring the tantalizing sway of their ever-so-distracting hips. They stare, I stare, everyone stops to stare. These pauses make up the natural syncopation in the passing of the days around here. The streets are always alive with chatter, occasional yelling, and the beats of bachata, reggaeton, salsa, or merengue blasting out of wide open apartment windows or sedans parked along the side of the street around which young and older men hover.

I am unfortunately still an outsider here. I give the occasional apprehensive smile in answer to 'oye, chica.' I wonder just how out of place I appear. I attempt to emulate the commanding strut that even the ten year old girl appears to possess and wonder if I could ever be successful at owning these streets like they do. I am humbled, no - outright intimidated by the connectedness the residents seem to have to the place, how well they know each street corner and lottery ticket vendor. I believe it may take a lifetime, or several, to build up that kind of bond. These days, I take joy in the smallest of victories, like finding out which subway exit to climb out of to place me at the optimal street corner, finding the absolute closest bodega to my apartment in the case of an emergency when I'd be out of toilet paper, and learning to tell from the sound of the cables which floor the elevator is on and whether it would be more prudent to take the stairs. I may never be a Dominicana, but I suppose I will enjoy the steep learning curve for now.