We started in St. George on the bottom of the courthouse steps and wound our way up the hilly streets, stopping to admire various Victorian buildings along the way. We spent awhile outside the St. George Theatre (built in 1929), which, judging by some photos of the handsome interior shown us by a former volunteer, is still in excellent shape despite the depredations of previous owners, and better yet, is awaiting restoration, having just been bought by a preservation-minded citizen. Unfortunately, we couldn’t gain access to the interior, but we wished the grand old dame well and passed on.
We trudged gamely uphill, passing more 19th- and early 20th-century buildings, a former mews with a horse stable and carriage barn (now a New York City Sanitation facility), and Kevin’s usual panoply of ancient manhole covers, hydrants, strange and inexplicable markers, old advertising signs, and the like. Along the way we encountered Staten Island residents who were both knowledgeable and friendly, and willing to share information about their homes and neighborhoods. They seemed genuinely surprised that a group of people would be interested in touring Staten Island. One woman did inform us that she and her neighbors were fully aware of the historical value of their isolated block, and that they all preferred for it to remain a secret to the outside world. To such historically minded residents, worse even than the specter of bulldozers and wrecking balls is the possibility of an onslaught of young urban professionals whose credo is “Trading Spaces” and Starbuck’s -- not family businesses and architectural integrity.
As the march advanced, so did the humidity. Kevin’s tours definitely give you your money’s worth, especially considering the fact that they’re free. This one was no different. The entire tour comprised about three miles of sightseeing, most of which was uphill. Under the circumstances, I had to choose between staying hydrated and trying to find a public restroom every half hour or so. Since we were walking through residential areas, I opted for the former (although it would have been interesting to ring some stranger’s doorbell and politely inquire if I might use the facilities).
However, conditions were so humid, and the exercise so sweaty, that I had no choice but to periodically replace some of my lost water along the way. By the time we reached the tour’s terminus at Snug Harbor Cultural Center, my need was pressing. I was obliged to skip Kevin’s description of the long-abandoned Snug Harbor railroad station and immediately hunt up a bathroom. Eric and I walked into the Noble Maritime Hall, which was deserted except for a young woman in the reception area. I explained my desperate condition and she said that the Maritime Hall was closed for a private party (which was indeed visible outside), but added that she was sure that if I asked the security guard, I would be allowed to use the ladies’ room.
We hastened along the hall towards the restrooms, only to be intercepted by a minuscule, rather dry looking husk of a woman in a natty blue uniform. Leaning far down toward her face I explained again, with mounting urgency, that I needed to use the restroom. To which she responded that the hall was closed for a private party and that to find the facility for the hoi polloi I must walk around to the main visitors’ entrance, which happened to be on the far distant side of the enormous property. I quickly calculated that I wasn’t likely to make it, and repeated my request with considerable urgency. As she again answered no, a couple of girls walked right past us and went into the women’s room. I duly noted that she didn’t ask them if they were members of the private party. Muttering imprecations, we fled.
After the bracing trot to the visitors’ center, fortunately without incident, I was much relieved, though I was still smarting at the blatant lack of hospitality shown by the organization’s presumably hired help. After a pleasant stroll around the grounds, which we found nicely landscaped, with 19th-century architecture around every bend, we returned to the area where the private party was in progress, and where we found a number of our fellow Forgotten New Yorkers happily disporting themselves while consuming the food and drink being dispensed by the party’s caterers. “The security is very lax,” one tour member whispered to me, proudly waving a paper plate collapsing under the weight of hamburgers, hot dogs, tamales, arroz con pollo, salad, and other miscellaneous foodstuffs. In his other hand he clutched a glass of red wine from the bar. After admonishing him severely, Eric and I promptly joined him in raiding the catering tent. In our defense, from the look of the crowd it appeared that a lot of people present weren’t invitees to the private party, which we found out was being hosted by a local maritime-related business. It was, to put it politely, one big indeterminate mob.
We enjoyed a considerable amount of food and drink (who says there’s no such thing as a free lunch?) and then our fellow criminal cheerfully reminded us to be sure to leave room for dessert. Where was dessert being dispensed? we wanted to know. He pointed gleefully back toward the Noble Maritime Hall. Eric and I exchanged a significant glance and then we turned as one and strode ominously into the building.
Sure enough, the dessert station was set up in a hallway adjacent to the corridor we had walked into earlier. However, before we could reach the Promised Land, our nemesis hove into view, flaming sword in hand, at least metaphorically, and ordered us to leave. She was so dully insistent that we were forced to abandon the field.
However, we kept a sharp lookout for the next few minutes, and as soon as we saw our chance, we slipped back into the building by a side hall. At the end of the room, the door opened right onto the dessert table, which we sidled up to without being seen. We managed to load our plates with pie, pastry, and other goodies, but as we came around to the ice cream at the end of the table, the server cleared his throat and said politely that Security (with a capital "S") was asking us to leave. Eric still managed to shovel out a sizeable dollop of vanilla before our grimly dutiful harpy appeared several feet below his chin, monotonously intoning “Sir...Miss...I have to ask you to leave...Sir...Miss...I have to ask you to leave” like an automaton with something broken deep inside.
I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed anything more than those morsels of pie and pastry I consumed once safely back outside on the front steps. Human nature is a curious thing.
Finally Kevin finished his tour of the grounds and rejoined us, and along with him and several of the more stalwart tour survivors we adjourned to a nearby watering hole for dinner, a few drinks, and concluding pleasantries. Eric and I had no need of a second meal, of course. We simply sat at the table with everyone else, alternately beaming and belching. Taken all around, it was a wonderful day, and completely affordable. For a full report from Kevin, with photos, visit the Forgotten New York website: http://www.forgotten-ny.com.
