31 Miles: My Paddle Around Manhattan by Kayak -originally published Jan. 14th 2010

THURSDAY, JANUARY 14, 2010

31 Miles: My Paddle Around Manhattan By Kayak

Thirty-one miles is not that far. We are living in a time where keeping up with the Daredevil Jones means motorbiking across Mongolia or swimming The English Channel. When I decided to kayak around Manhattan this fall it wasn't about proving superwoman endurance or getting into a record book. It was about changing my perspective on things. I paddled around a collective mass of over 8 million people and randomly, probably only 50 or so were aware of my water presence. If you think of New York City and the energy potential of all those people, lights, and dollars, nuclear proportions come to mind. All those footsteps, heartbeats, text messages, and dreams are massed in such a relatively small space. I used to be one of those heartbeats, racing up and down subway steps, consuming Americano's as if they were the sixth food group in the food pyramid. I worked as a fine arts restorer in a basement space in ultra-chic Tribeca and felt so insulated and frenetic that I almost never thought about the water that surrounded the city and even less about where it came from and where it fights to return to.

Our party of six left our upstate NY town around 5am to make a 7am departure from the Dyckman St. (200th st.)boat put-in on the upper west side. I had grown up as a competitive flatwater kayaker plus I'd done some distance paddling on the Hudson up north near my house, so I wasn't nervous about the mileage. I did have some concern about the frequent passing barge not seeing me, but was more excited about the paddle itself, and the vantage point that it would give me, both on the city and maybe even on myself. It is a powerful thing to experience the quiet intimacy of the Hudson, so ironically close to the mega Gotham with all its sounds, confusion, and aggression. We departed from our chosen spot at a specific time in order to be paddling with the current, which was carefully plotted. There was quite a bit of chop on the water that morning, but I still felt that I had to be less "heads up" out on the Hudson than I would need to be on the city streets. I couldn't help thinking about the history of the city, but even more about the history that the water had seen. My Italian ancestors had done some time on these waters, but they had travelled them with the much bigger goal of immigration in the late 1890's. I thought about so many things that day during the nine-hour paddle. I looked up in admiration and amazement at the underside of the antiquated bridge structures as I paddled under them. We don't build bridges with that kind of architectural beauty and decorative iron -work anymore. Why not? I realized as a metaphor for life at Hell's Gate channel crossing on The East River, that sometimes you can give it all you've got and still you seem to go nowhere, but keep paddling because eventually you'll get to where you want to be (plus if you stop, you'll get sucked out into The Long Island Sound: not good). I was happy to discover that you can still pee in public on the not-so deserted island of Manhattan without getting seen, or at least not arrested (small beach just north of The South Street Seaport behind bridge buttress). As we paddled up the Harlem River, I could see the now "old" Yankee Stadium. I thought about what New York must have been like when my Dad grew up in The Bronx in the fifties. I thought of all the Yankee Games he'd taken us to as kids to give us a taste of that history. Mickey Mantle, Thurman Munson, Don Mattingly. I said goodbye to the stadium and was thankful for our last game day there last summer. Dad finally caught a ball after sixty years of attendance. Good things do come to those who wait.

Somewhere around hour eight, my arms and shoulders started to get tired, so I concentrated on my stroke, and could easily meditate on the rhythmic swoosh of my paddle entering the water. I was glad that we'd had a fairly warm day for october, and that the sun was still shining. As we paddled closer to the historic Spuyten Duyvil ( the devil's whirlpool) where the Harlem River meets up with The Hudson, I knew we had come almost full circle. Re-entering The Hudson felt so victorious, and we had scenery to match. The water was real choppy, but the days-end sunlight was exquisite on the water, and the view of The Palisades Cliffs was straight out of a Hudson River School painting. I thought many times that day about how little or how much a person can accomplish in nine hours time. Believe it or not, when we got back to our starting point landing, I felt kind of sad to get out of my boat, but made a pact with myself that I would be back to explore the Hudson again, and other waters too. Since the big paddle I've been increasing my awareness of the state of our waters and have come to find out that we are responsible for some seriously devastating changes both to the ocean systems and its species population. Check out the work of Dr. Sylvia Earle and the Deep Search foundation for some eye-opening information.

Despite having done lots of paddling on The Hudson while growing up, my october paddle around Manhattan was still a poetic wake-up call and reminder of the intimate and therapeutic personal experience that only the water can provide. Being out on the water is the best place to think about where you came from and discover where you want to go. See you on The Hudson in 2010.

Saved by Siena "2"

He had come to America in the late 1880’s with his school teacher wife Aminta, and their first two boys, in search of the good life, as so many did during the end of the eighteen- eighties. After many years living on Bleecker Street in Manhattan, working as a tailor, he took ill, and made a heartfelt decision to go back to Piacenza to die. Standing in front of his gravestone, I felt a deep sense of personal completion and at the same time felt sorry that I could not know him, or my grandfather or great-uncles for that matter, and would never be able to hear about all the exciting and cinematic experiences they had lived through in their lifetimes from their lips. My Uncle Jack who was an engineer who worked a lot in France and England, and he regularly traveled on the Queen Mary ship. He was married at one time to a screen actress , and always dressed like a real dapper Don. He supposedly had a ticket for the Titanic, and due to his late arrival that day, missed the ships departure. He was somewhat luckier than his brother Mario who after working as an artist in New York, and even painting parts of the celestial frescoes on the ceiling of Grand Central Terminal, went to Italy to fight in World War One and tragically died in an avalanche. My grandfather John, was a supervisor in the GE Prentiss factory in Connecticut, which made lots of mechanical parts used in the war, including parachute harness closures and such. He unfortunately died young of an aortic aneurism in the early sixties. He felt the attack come on, and drove himself to the hospital , but by the time he got there the damage was too great and he died that day. Times were hard for most back then, and my Nana had more than her share of tragedy as a young woman. Her mother died tragically of a missed diagnosis burst appendix when she was only thirty four. Her last words to my Nana were “take care of your brothers, and don’t let the baby cry”. My Nana Jean, was the oldest child, only twelve at the time, and had to learn hard knocks style how to cook, clean, and care for all her three younger brothers. The boys were at first taken to an orphanage, by her father who didn’t know how to care for the boys, as would’ve been a popular decision in the nineteen twenties. But upon an early visit to the orphanage, Nana’s father found one of the boys with two left shoes on his feet, and decided he couldn’t bear to leave them all there. The two year old baby Marie would be taken in and cared for by my Nana’s Aunt, but the boys and her father became her responsibility. Nana learned to sew and make money as a seamstress when she was just thirteen years old. A french seamstress taught her how to hand sew fine undergarments of silk and lace, for wealthy clients who would commission such items. Nana went on to have a long career in the garment district in New York as a pattern maker and dress maker for Patty O’Neill, amongst other companies. She worked hard, paying high rents in order to raise my father in a wealthy neighborhood in the Bronx, and didn’t retire from the business until she was seventy-two. She was still hemming our pants until a few years ago, when at 95, her arthritis stopped her from being able to work her magic with a needle and thread. Maybe because there was so much sadness in my family history, so many lives half- lived, I would eventually feel such a calling to go to Italy, to learn how to live well, and to fulfill the lost dreams of my ancestors by way of my own adventures. From Nana, I learned how to bread chicken cutlets, make manicotti crepes by hand, and learned to love good food and the art of hosting an Italian feast. I also learned the importance of good work ethic, and to appreciate opera. As kids, we spent plenty of weekends at Nana’s apartments in the Italian American Jersey towns of Lodi, and Hasbrouck Heights. We’d walk to the local Italian deli to get veal cutlets, hard salami, and provolone. At the time, veal cutlets and mashed potatoes were the staples of my sister Jocelyn’s diet, but by age twelve, she became a vegetarian and animal rights activist and it was bye-bye veal. Nana’s house was comforting in all the best ways. Our parents were going through a divorce and much of our life at the time was filled with the confusion, chaos and sadness that often accompany a split up. Nana always smelled like good perfume.

Saved by Siena, Intro

Can a story save someone’s life? If a person believes it’s important and has the will to get the words down, then maybe it can. My two hands worked a lot better before the story began, before I went to Italy, before I became an artisan. These days, I am trying to ignore the fact that I have carpel tunnel syndrome in both my hands; the result of gilding and restoring antiques for fifteen years. I learned the ancient, artisan craft in Siena and Florence while living in The Tuscany between 1995 and 1998. Yes, Under the Tuscan Sun, but without the professors income and old family money backing. Not to diss Frances Mayes, but moving to Italy and living there on a professors income albeit brave, isn’t quite the same thing as living there on a ten dollar a week budget and without papers. Yes, I was a W.O.P., but on the other side of the ocean.

Some days, like today, the only way to visualize a bright future is by looking back to the brightest memories of your past. I didn’t always fantasize about going to Italy, the way many people do. But it’s important to say that I did grow up with Italian American culture and family on my father’s side. Italian culture “american style” that was actually a lot different than the Italian culture I would come to know so intimately. Italian Americans will eat their meatballs with a mound of spaghetti while an Italian will eat meatballs or “polpetti di carne” as a main dish with sauce, but no pasta. I grew up from a young age loving the smell of a pot of espresso that my Nana would serve with a little lemon rind on the saucer. Despite my nostalgia for her way of doing things, I was surprised to never see this done in any part of Italy during my time there. My Italian relatives are quite religious practicing catholics, whereas my Italian catholic friends would confess to being “catolica, ma non fanatica” (catholic, but not fanatic). I grew up hearing a somewhat southern Italian lingo- “la rigot”- ricotta, “manigot”- manicotti, “finoiq”- finnocchio, or fennel bulb, and the infamous “mozzarel”- mozzarella. My father’s family is full blooded Italian, his mothers family being from Messina, Sicily, and his fathers from the town of Piacenza, not too far from Parma, the cheese and prosciutto mecca. My Nana, has reached 98 years of age, thanks to a life full of hard work, lots of olive oil and hot pepper at most meals, and her ever tenacious soul. Her husband Amerigo’s family was from the small town of Bettola, as I said, near Piacenza. He was the only one of three brothers not born in Italy. He became John, once here in the states. His brothers were Mario and Jack. While living abroad I visited my father’s family’s hometown of Bettola, and was greeted at the entrance to the town with a marble statue, where Uncle Mario’s name in fact was listed as a fallen war hero, “una caduta di guerra”. I went to the town to request paperwork for dual Italian citizenship, and can tell you it was one of the most emotionally rewarding days of my life. After visiting the town church and archival offices, I walked through the town, searching for my great grandfathers’ gravesite. After looking in the wrong town cemetery with no success, a local informed me that my family name Boiardi would also be found at the cemetery on the other side of town. I walked up a steep hill, anxious, but honestly expecting that I wouldn’t find the gravesite I was searching for. But Luigi Boiardi’s gravestone was there, with the same early black and white photo encased on the front of the grave stone, that I had been given from our family album. My past and present imploded one into the other as I stood peacefully taking in the gravesite on that sunny day. I knew it had been a while to say the least since anyone had visited my great-grandfather, or “bisnonno” there, and was so moved that I walked back into town and bought a large red geranium plant which I walked back to leave with him there......