Near the room where I subsisted was a park the size of a single block with a bust of General Jose De San Martin at one end and an odd rock formation dedicated to battered women at the other. Sometimes through the snow drifts I could see the tops of what would be benches and garbage cans. There was a picnic table that stayed briefly dug out before the snow swallowed it back up.
The General faced west toward a bus stop on Elgin Street. Being the nearest main street, it was cluttered with vaguely trendy little coffee shops next to overpriced restaurants, cheesy sports bars, seedy nightclubs, dirty little grocery stores, and the occasional flower shop or magazine stop or dollar store.
Across Elgin from the park was a community center, or elementary school or something of that sort, with an outdoor ice rink out back that I saw people playing on once or twice.
Crossing the park, something I did frequently, care had to be taken not to step in the wrong place, because apparently the dog walkers who loitered there think that snow absolves them of the need to clean up after their dogs. I would tend to disagree.
Cut through the middle of the park was a row of lamps, lighting what I assumed to be a path hidden by the drifts. They were more ornate than they needed to be, but at night, with the help of the cold and snow, they gave the park a gothic air such that the place had a modicum of charm to lift it past the mundane.
The General faced west toward a bus stop on Elgin Street. Being the nearest main street, it was cluttered with vaguely trendy little coffee shops next to overpriced restaurants, cheesy sports bars, seedy nightclubs, dirty little grocery stores, and the occasional flower shop or magazine stop or dollar store.
Across Elgin from the park was a community center, or elementary school or something of that sort, with an outdoor ice rink out back that I saw people playing on once or twice.
Crossing the park, something I did frequently, care had to be taken not to step in the wrong place, because apparently the dog walkers who loitered there think that snow absolves them of the need to clean up after their dogs. I would tend to disagree.
Cut through the middle of the park was a row of lamps, lighting what I assumed to be a path hidden by the drifts. They were more ornate than they needed to be, but at night, with the help of the cold and snow, they gave the park a gothic air such that the place had a modicum of charm to lift it past the mundane.
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