A nice bike ride to Delaware Park, the main of seven parks designed by Frederick Law Olmsted in Buffalo:
Sunday, August 17, 2008
An afternoon on Buffalo's East Side
I leave my home on Delaware Ave at Lancaster at approximately 3pm, biking towards Buffalo's East Side. My goal is to know the Martin Luther King Jr. Park, a park of relatively small size, located at Fillmore Avenue and Best Street.
On my way, a hear sirens and see a crowd gathered to observe a car accident at Masten Avenue and East Ferry St. An ambulance, and several fire department vehicles. On Ferry, a mid-size sedan has it's front destroyed, puffs of smoke still evaporating from what remained of the engine. A couple of feet away, on Masten Ave, a full-size SUV rests upside down. No victims are on the scene. The paramedics must have removed them a bit before my arrival. Around the crashed windows of the SUV, lots of trashed items rest on the asphalt, along with a few broken pieces of the collided vehicles.
A guy arrives, asking me whether it had just happened. I say it must have happened a few minutes before, and point to the destroyed, but still smoking engine. Already, he has a theory.
— "She must've been speeding a lot, cuz a SUV won't flip over like that when a smaller car hits it. She must've been speeding, I tell you."
He must have asked other people before me, for he knows that the driver was a woman.
— "That SUV flipped over like that? She wasn't at 30 miles per hour, I tell you that", he says pointing to a nearby traffic sign displaying the city's speed limit.
Paramedics and cops walk about, without saying much. Streets remain partially closed. I can see no victims to commiserate, so I decide to keep my ride. I don't feel like asking anyone about victims either. Instead, I ask a girl where is the park. She point towards the direction I am going, and says, "It's down there".
I mount on my bike again, and leave the scene, but the scene relucts to leave me. After several blocks, I see a park. It's not the one I'm looking for. It's Masten Park, a small community park about a city block in size. Inside, two young guys play basketball, and a girl watches them. I ask the girl for directions to the MLK park. She is holding a brown-bagged beer bottle. She says I should just take Best Street and keep going. I will soon see a church and the park to its left. And so I do.
MLK park is bigger in size than Masten Park, but isn't big. It is divided in two, just like Delaware Park, by an avenue, Fillmore Avenue. The first part is home to the Buffalo Science Museum, which seems to be closed today. I see no one around it. A few people sit in the parks' scattered benches.
I head over to the other side, where some sort of religious meeting is underway. An amplified man's voice shouts against the air, barely comprehensible. After a while, I get to follow one sentence.
— "Even your house will be put down", yells the preacher in an almost concluding tone. "But not the house..." I loose the almost predictable end of the sentence to the wind.
I cross Fillmore Ave and start to walk on the grass (too many people around to keep mounted on the bike). I think about the accident. What were they thinking? What was in each of their minds when bad luck stroke? Whe were they? I should have stayed, asked a few questions around, perhaps approached a cop. I should have taken picture with my cell phone camera. Ah! I trust that the Buffalo News will report on the accident the next morning.
The Christian preacher keeps screaming his rhetorical sentences, I walk about with my bike in search of something to eat. I stop by a food cart selling "pastelillos", Puerto Rican beef fritters which remind me of the "pastéis" I am used to eat while in Brazil. Two dollars each. I eat one, with a little bit of hot sauce. A few more peddlers are on the row, offering T-shirts, perfumes, and accessories. I walk back and ask for another pastelillo. What were they thinking?
The preacher has given way to a chorus singing soul music. I like it, so I stay a few more minutes. Then I mount on my bike and head home again.
Again through Best Street, again up on Masten Avenue. Again at the scene of the accident. Nothing was left. People are gone. Police, ambulances, gone. Cars are gone. I stop at the corner where the accident took place, and see a small pile of trash. I see a couple of infant-girl magazines, with pages to draw or pick the right color. Was the child in the car? The children?
On my way, a hear sirens and see a crowd gathered to observe a car accident at Masten Avenue and East Ferry St. An ambulance, and several fire department vehicles. On Ferry, a mid-size sedan has it's front destroyed, puffs of smoke still evaporating from what remained of the engine. A couple of feet away, on Masten Ave, a full-size SUV rests upside down. No victims are on the scene. The paramedics must have removed them a bit before my arrival. Around the crashed windows of the SUV, lots of trashed items rest on the asphalt, along with a few broken pieces of the collided vehicles.
A guy arrives, asking me whether it had just happened. I say it must have happened a few minutes before, and point to the destroyed, but still smoking engine. Already, he has a theory.
— "She must've been speeding a lot, cuz a SUV won't flip over like that when a smaller car hits it. She must've been speeding, I tell you."
He must have asked other people before me, for he knows that the driver was a woman.
— "That SUV flipped over like that? She wasn't at 30 miles per hour, I tell you that", he says pointing to a nearby traffic sign displaying the city's speed limit.
Paramedics and cops walk about, without saying much. Streets remain partially closed. I can see no victims to commiserate, so I decide to keep my ride. I don't feel like asking anyone about victims either. Instead, I ask a girl where is the park. She point towards the direction I am going, and says, "It's down there".
I mount on my bike again, and leave the scene, but the scene relucts to leave me. After several blocks, I see a park. It's not the one I'm looking for. It's Masten Park, a small community park about a city block in size. Inside, two young guys play basketball, and a girl watches them. I ask the girl for directions to the MLK park. She is holding a brown-bagged beer bottle. She says I should just take Best Street and keep going. I will soon see a church and the park to its left. And so I do.
MLK park is bigger in size than Masten Park, but isn't big. It is divided in two, just like Delaware Park, by an avenue, Fillmore Avenue. The first part is home to the Buffalo Science Museum, which seems to be closed today. I see no one around it. A few people sit in the parks' scattered benches.
I head over to the other side, where some sort of religious meeting is underway. An amplified man's voice shouts against the air, barely comprehensible. After a while, I get to follow one sentence.
— "Even your house will be put down", yells the preacher in an almost concluding tone. "But not the house..." I loose the almost predictable end of the sentence to the wind.
I cross Fillmore Ave and start to walk on the grass (too many people around to keep mounted on the bike). I think about the accident. What were they thinking? What was in each of their minds when bad luck stroke? Whe were they? I should have stayed, asked a few questions around, perhaps approached a cop. I should have taken picture with my cell phone camera. Ah! I trust that the Buffalo News will report on the accident the next morning.
The Christian preacher keeps screaming his rhetorical sentences, I walk about with my bike in search of something to eat. I stop by a food cart selling "pastelillos", Puerto Rican beef fritters which remind me of the "pastéis" I am used to eat while in Brazil. Two dollars each. I eat one, with a little bit of hot sauce. A few more peddlers are on the row, offering T-shirts, perfumes, and accessories. I walk back and ask for another pastelillo. What were they thinking?
The preacher has given way to a chorus singing soul music. I like it, so I stay a few more minutes. Then I mount on my bike and head home again.
Again through Best Street, again up on Masten Avenue. Again at the scene of the accident. Nothing was left. People are gone. Police, ambulances, gone. Cars are gone. I stop at the corner where the accident took place, and see a small pile of trash. I see a couple of infant-girl magazines, with pages to draw or pick the right color. Was the child in the car? The children?
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