A Stroll in the Park and a French Surprise

On the first day of summer, I'm remembering New York. I was there in summer last year. I wrote the following article for The Frog's Tribune, our English Club's newsletter.

It’s a beautiful day in August and I’ve spent an entire morning in Manhattan’s Times Square. I’m on my way to Bryant Park, known as Manhattan’s Town Square. Only a block away, it is, I’ve been told, New York City’s busiest, most beautiful park.



The plan’s to go to the New York Public Library in the afternoon and the park is situated just behind it, between 40th and 42nd Streets and Fifth and Sixth Avenues. So there, the perfect outdoor lunch spot for me. I join the throngs of lunch goers, go straight to the north fountain kiosk and line up for a ‘wichcraft sandwich. I want some warm roasted turkey with avocado, bacon and onion relish on a ciabatta roll. Meanwhile, I’m really starting to admire this elegant, eight acres Midtown jewel of a park - the fountain, the sunbathers, the large central lush lawn surrounded by tall, arching trees, flower gardens, vantage points from which to view architectural landmarks, a large-screen television for the ongoing summer movie festival.



Something about the park draws me in. It isn’t just a pretty place to look at. It isn’t just a refuge, an oasis in “the concrete jungle.” It is a very welcoming park; I don’t feel alone at all. People come to do stuff. They chat, stroll, listen to music, sunbathe, work on a wireless network, simply sit and think, and of course eat lunch. Speaking of which, let me grab a lightweight chair now, find me a place and I’ll just sit and watch the world go by as I enjoy my lunch.





From where I sit, I see three ladies weighed down by shopping bags, taking pictures of each other with their camera phones. A guy working on a laptop sits across another guy in a suit with a mobile phone. Just in front me, a sweet sight - lovers on a lunch break. I feel sad thinking they’ve to go back to their respective offices later. A group of tourists is passing by – one of them is looking at a map of NY City while some fan themselves with free fans from Broadway shows and another one’s busy checking the photos on his camera.

I’m ready for a stroll. I dreamily drift into this court and get shooed away! “Sweetheart,” someone says, “stay away or you might get hit.” I recognize a crowd of players and someone tossing beat-up silver balls towards a target. A couchenet?! Is it possible they’re playing … pétanque?! Eh, oui! With such a friendly atmosphere among the players under the towering trees, it’s easy to imagine I’m in Provence – except for the roar of buses and taxis on 6th Avenue and at least two guys (bankers?) playing in their suits.





Seeing my interest, for I start taking photos, one bystander starts giving me a mini-lecture on pétanque, its history, how it is played, La Boule New Yorkaise, the oldest pétanque club in New York City, how the game’s attracted old, young people of different nationalities here. Do I tell him I’m from France and that I’ve played pétanque? Of course not. I’ve to admit I’m tempted to teach him the right pronunciation though. He keeps saying pay-tonk! I don’t and just say, “Wouldn’t it be nice if they served pastis or wine?” He looks at me with a kind of disbelief and says, “Oh, that’s against park regulations.”