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STREET
CLUES
By Betty Williams Ever since my startled wonder at walking out into that vibrating outdoor scene of Netanya, I have become sensitive to what the sights of the sidewalks and roads portray about the inhabitants of a city. I have no memory of the flight from Charles deGaulle to Ben Gurion airport or even of how I got to Netanya, a seaside resort town in Israel, where I was attending an international conference. But, as I stepped out for a stroll alone that first evening, I remember feeling swept into another world from cold, grey Paris in winter.
It was the balmy evening after Sabbath, and the streets were jammed with
families promenading. Everyone
seemed in a joyous mood, and though they certainly didn’t all know each other,
people were communicating with each other, emanating an “isn’t it great to
be alive and in this place” warmth that enveloped passersby.
Jammed close together on the sidewalks, grinning, making room for one
another, touching shoulders, carrying small children piggyback, talking noisily
with companions and sharing eats from a bag.
What a contrast from the Champs Elysee and my neighborhood in Paris.
What I was experiencing, of course, was the sharp difference between
northern Europe urban street scenes and those of a Mediterranean seaside
ambiance where the weather soothingly strokes early evening strollers into a
relaxed, even festive mood.
But it must be something more than weather.
Paris has beautiful warm weather also when many people promenade evenings
along the broad boulevards. But,
in Paris, passersby do not communicate with one another. Each person walks in his own little world, closed up to any
interference, and requiring space. There
is no casual smiling at passersby as I saw in Netanya.
In fact, Parisians look elegantly aloof, preoccupied, sometimes unhappy.
If there is a child in tow, chances are he too looks unhappy.
If a dog is being walked, its owner exudes a smug, defiant “don’t
bother me about doggy mess” air.
But Parisians are sticklers about right and wrong in some cases.
Once my sister was accosted by a woman passerby who jerked my sister
around and silently rebuttoned her coat—she has missed a button.
And I witnessed the most unbelievable traffic jam, which stretched blocks
in all four directions of an intersection where cars seeking to cross had come
to a standstill as drivers sought to assert their right of way.
If, according to my street clues, Israelis are gregarious and Parisians
standoffish, what about Italians? From
seven years of living with them in Rome, I broadly characterize their street
behavior as one of “live and let live.”
Where else would strollers tolerate cars parked on their sidewalks?
Or
outdoor café tables completely cover the walkway, forcing pedestrians out into
the street? On the other
hand, I have witnessed two Italians, talking vociferously with one another,
without looking, plunge across a wide, heavily trafficked road and all the cars
stop to let them get safely across. Although
Rome traffic looks chaotic, in fact drivers are constantly giving way to one
another and are alert to their youngsters on motorcycles swerving in and out
amid the autos. One of my most delightful Rome street memories is of the
traffic policeman, mounted on a raised platform at a busy intersection, who
conducted the traffic like an orchestra conductor, waving his baton theatrically
to indicate how cars should move, as passing drivers reached out their windows
to applaud.
So we have boisterous Israelis, grouchy Parisians, flamboyantly tolerant
Italians, what do my street clues indicate about New Yorkers? As I walk out of Penn Station and up Seventh Avenue, my
antennae are by now aquiver. The
first thing I notice is that New Yorkers do not at all look alike, as if they do
not belong to the same nation. What
a melting pot scene: jeaned and booted guys with sideburns making music on
accordions before a small crowd; fleshy women waddling along in tight-fitting
slacks outlining their ample buttocks; dark-skinned Africans displaying cheap
watches and jewelry on the
sidewalk; two sharply dressed men in deep conversation with overtones of a
business deal; several women in
long dark overcoats and clutching white scarves protectively around their faces
with not a stray hair showing, peering into a widow displaying manikins in two
piece swim suits; smartly attired young matrons pushing strollers in which
babies sleep peacefully despite the street tumult .
Who are all these dissimilar humans swarming up and down the sidewalks of
New York and what do they have in common that identifies them as New Yorkers?
One thing they all exhibit is a tolerance of diversity, of noise, of
crowds. It is an orderly chaos.
People, no matter what their ethnic background, understand that if they
are all going to survive together on that crowded little island, they must
exhibit a certain civility to one another.
That means no pushing, no jaywalking, making the best of the racket and
confusion. I check faces, and
notice that at least half of them look pleasant.
If they are walking and talking with someone, almost always, like
Americans everywhere, they are smiling. In
that high-tension anthill of a city, people dig out their tunnels with amazing
skill and adaptability and good humor.
So my street clues are definitive about peoples.
Israelis are naturally exuberant; Parisians irritable and aloof; Romans
enjoy a devil-may-care approach to life; and New Yorkers, well New Yorkers are a
good-natured hodgepodge of survivors.
Aren’t generalizations wonderful?
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