Text: Julie Schwietert Collazo
Photo: Francisco Collazo
**
We never leave home without the camera.

It’s heavy, with its extra battery pack and additional lenses, but Francisco always says, “I know I’ll miss the million dollar picture the day I leave the camera at home.”

We are going out to do errands: buy shampoo and conditioner, mail letters and check our box at the post office on 34th Street and 8th Avenue, stop by the library to pick up some books for research, drop off some donations at Goodwill. It’s a day that has the first hint of spring in the air… one of those days when New Yorkers aren’t exactly sure what to wear– some have on shorts, some still sport winter coats.

It’s lovely, but I don’t expect anything out of the ordinary.

34th and 8th isn’t off the beaten path. Macy’s– “The World’s Largest Store”–is a block away on Herald Square, which is only slightly less crowded than Times Square. It’s at least as commercial: all the chain stores are here– H&M, JC Penney, K-Mart, Borders, Old Navy. With the exception of the one block stretch of Korean restaurants on 31st off 7th, the food in this neighborhood is unremarkable, one indistinguishable pizzeria after another, tucked alongside souvenir shops selling tacky Statues of Liberty, plastic snow globes, and New York themed t-shirts that no New Yorker would ever wear.

After you live anywhere for a while, your eyes adjust and start to glaze. It doesn’t matter how extraordinary, how vibrant, how vital your hometown is, it eventually takes on the sheen of the familiar. You start to believe in its static predictability, to feel certain that you’re tough to surprise and delight. After 10 years, you think you’ve seen everything, and so that’s one of the reasons why you travel.

And then you turn a corner, look up, and realize that even the Empire State Building can look new again.

There’s a lot on 32nd and 7th that’s been razed. Right now it’s a raw hole, littered with the detritus of demolition, exposing the backsides of two adjacent buildings that have been abandoned. It’s protected from the curious and the devious by a chain link fence and a wooden barrier pasted with advertisements about Absolut’s new acai berry vodka and television shows I’ve never heard of.

A year from now, maybe less, the hole will be filled and crowned with a skyscraper, new “luxury condominiums,” probably, the latest in a series. Its windows will glimmer and throw off sunlight in great, gleaming arcs.

You won’t be able to see the Empire State Building. Or maybe you will, but just its tip. You defnitely won’t be able to see it from this angle, seemingly dissolving into a far more modest building to the south.

“Hey, stop for a minute,” I tell Francisco, who’s pressing through the crowd of workers hurrying for the train at the start of rush hour. “Have you ever seen the Empire State Building from this angle?”

Click. A change of lens. More clicks.

We turn the corner and look up. “Have you ever seen that?” I ask Francisco, pointing to the second floor of a building where an old sign advertises hand-rolled cigars made with Cuban seed. It seems like Havana, not New York.

Click.

We’re satisfied, snapped out of our usual way of seeing Manhattan, our vision reframed.
**
How do you see your hometown with fresh eyes? Share your thoughts in the comments.
**
To see more perspectives of overlooked New York, visit our NYC Scenes set on Flickr.

This post has been entered into the Grantourismo-HomeAway Travel Writing Competition.

Text: Julie Schwietert Collazo
Photos: Francisco Collazo and Julie Schwietert Collazo
**

We’ve visited many cemeteries while traveling: the Petit Family Cemetery on the land where I grew up in South Carolina, where the graves of slaves are indicated with simple rocks.

Cementerio Colon in Havana, Cuba, where the sister of Francisco’s son is buried.

The local cemetery in Mompox, Colombia, at night, during a ceremony honoring the dead, candles flickering on tombstones and families holding hands, some crying, some talking quietly, some entirely silent and meditative.

The municipal cemetery in Ponce, Puerto Rico, where ostentatious monuments marking the final resting place of former governors and famous families draw attention from the old crypts, cracked open by decay, displaying bones on the back retaining wall of the cemetery.

New Orleans’ St. Louis Cemetery

a cemetery in southern Chile

It’s not that we have a fetish for the dead. But there’s something illustrative about a place, a culture, and its people that can be narrated without words when you visit a cemetery.
*
Perhaps you’ve visited cemeteries on your travels, too, or stopped at the graves of the famous dead to honor them or simply say you’d been there.

But like us, you probably haven’t spent much time at the cemetery in your hometown.

Woodlawn Cemetery, one of New York City’s cemeteries, is located in the north Bronx in an area that was considered rural back in 1863, when the cemetery was founded. More than 300,000 people have been buried at Woodlawn since then, and many of them constitute a Who’s Who list of American public life.

We visited recently:

The tomb of Miles Davis

The mausoleum of Augustus Juilliard, founder of The Juilliard School

The tomb of Elizabeth Cady Stanton, an abolitionist and advocate of women’s rights, famous for writing The Declaration of Sentiments

The tomb of Joseph Pulitzer, the so-called father of journalism. Founded Columbia University’s School of Journalism and the Pulitzer Prize.

The modest tomb of Ralph Bunche, who, among many other accomplishments, won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1950, the first African American to receive the honor.

What cemeteries have you visited on your travels and what have they taught you?

Text: Julie Schwietert Collazo
Photos: Francisco Collazo
**

“I was in the fifth grade the first time I visited a prison,” I told a friend recently.

“Are you kidding? Why?”
*
In addition to a prison (including an “opportunity” to sit in the state’s electric chair), I’d visited any number of plantations by the time I was 10. For the outside observer, the list of elementary school field trips commonly experienced by kids in the American South is nothing short of puzzling and bizarre, if not downright disturbing.

In retrospect, and having more world experience, I’d be inclined to agree. But like most aspects of childood, our frame of reference is set by the catalog of our own experiences, and at the time I didn’t find anything about this macabre.
*
While visiting family in South Carolina this past December, Francisco mentioned that he’d like to visit a plantation. He wanted to get a better sense of Southern history, and felt that a plantation would be a good place to start, and so it was that we drove down to Union County, so far off-grid, in fact, that our cell phones didn’t work.

The Rose Hill Mansion, the architectural centerpiece of the plantation by the same name, sits off the two-lane road that gave Francisco some serious heebie-jeebies. I’ve lived off these kinds of roads for more than half of my life, but he’s a city guy. Too much “empty” space makes him anxious. We approach the back door, as that’s where the path from the small parking lot seems to lead.

Charles Barreras, the house’s interpreter, pokes his head out the door. “Now you’re not from here,” he says, shaking his head. I’m a bit indignant; I like to claim my Southernness when it seems to give me cred or when my turned-on accent might get me off the hook. “Oh yes I am,” I reply with an immaturity not becoming of a woman of my age. “You’re not,” he says flatly, making it clear that this part of our conversation is final, “because if you were, you would know not to come to the back door. You’re not a friend yet.” Never one to back down, I push some more. “But back door friends are best.”

Barreras shuts the door curtly, leaving us to meet him on the front porch, where we will be “received.”

*
Rose Hill.

I’d never heard of it; just found it Googling because the other plantation I knew, the one where I planned to take Francisco, was closed for the holidays.

Apparently, there aren’t a whole lot of other folks who know about it either. “I’m so excited,” Barreras says when he opens the front door.” “You are the first people I have seen in 11 straight days. And there have been eight of you today!” He’s truly in disbelief. And delighted. The man is in his element, ready to dust off his interpreter’s hat (yes, there really is one) and talk plantation shop.

It’s not exactly the kind of shop Francisco wants to talk, though. He’s interested in knowing about the human back story of Rose Hill, specifically, the stories of the slaves who worked and lived here.

Barreras, though, is an architectural historian who uses technical words like “bleb” to talk about the condition of the house. (A bleb, by the way, refers to blistering, peeling paint). And he’s passionate about what he knows. He produces a pocket-sized magnifying glass, urging all four of us on the tour to take a closer look at the layers of paint that have been exposed by researchers working in the house. “Isn’t it exciting? Isn’t it just amazing?” he asks, eager for someone to be as turned on by these details as he is. It is pretty fascinating, particularly because he knows every corner of the house and can (and does) explain the story of every detail. These rich colors, for instance, tell their own story- a story of wealth in the family of the so-called Secession Governor, the original owner of this house. Not just anyone could afford these colors.

Nor could the common man afford having a traveling artist paint a slightly out of proportion portrait of an eligible daughter, posing her against a gaudy, Italianate background. Had we walked through the house on our own, we never would have known that the portrait hanging near the piano held the significance it did. Nor would we have understood what, exactly, was so “off” about it.

Though our visit to Rose Hill Plantation didn’t satisfy Francisco’s curiosity regarding the South’s slave days, the tour did expose us to history that neither of us learned in school. Sensing he was slightly dissatisfied, the other adult on the tour pulled us aside as we were headed back to the parking lot, Francisco eager to return to “civilization”.

“You know, sometime you should go up to Walnut Grove,” he said, referring to another plantation. “Make sure you go to one of them reenactment weekends when they get dressed up in costumes and grill squirrels and stuff. It’s quite an experience.”

To see more photos from Rose Hill, view Francisco’s photostream on Flickr.

Text: Julie Schwietert Collazo
Photos: Francisco Collazo
**
A cold snap seems to be blanketing the Northern hemisphere this week: Beijing had its coldest morning in 40 years according to the Associated Press. Matador colleagues Paul Sullivan, Lola Akinmade, and Andy Hayes are all rubbing their noses to keep warm over in Europe: Berlin, Stockholm, and Edinburgh, respectively. And my mom, down in South Carolina, is dressing in layers and probably sitting by the fire place.

Cold never stops New Yorkers, so Francisco was out in Central Park today, getting some winter shots:

You can see the rest of his Central Park photos here.

And if you want to see photos of other cities blanketed by snow, check out Hal Amen’s photo essay, Big Cities Under Snow.

Text & Photos: Francisco Collazo
Translation: Julie Schwietert Collazo
**

It’s the 6th of January, cold and windy. School kids gather on 106th Street and 5th Avenue to see the parade of camels, sheep, and men on stilts who wear masks and are very colorful. Today, New York celebrates Three Kings’ Day.

Melchor, Gaspar, and Baltazar are the names of the kings, if I remember correctly. According to my mother, the king that would bring my gifts was Baltazar, from Ethiopia. He was the black king, and the poorest one, too. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t choose which king would bring my gifts–the richest and most prosperous one, of course. Instead, the package I’d receive from my king would always have something like a pair of roller skates and a small gift: a box of marbles, miniature soldiers, or a cap gun.

I remember that the other kings brought bicycles, scooters, or giant train sets, complete with lights, passengers, and depots. The idea that Baltazar had chosen me and not that I’d chosen him really bugged me. What a disgrace to have the poor king! “What’s the point of being a king if you’re going to be poor?” is the question I always asked myself.

In New York, at least, it seems like the three kings are on an economic par. Baltazar tosses gold coins to everyone who waves at him. It’s a relief to me, really; at least things seem to have gotten better in his kingdom since I was a kid. The world economic crisis hasn’t affected him, nor has globalization, or the simple fact that he’s from Africa.

The observance of Three Kings’ Day is a tradition in many Spanish-speaking countries, a celebration that can be traced back to scripture. Matthew mentions the three wise men in the New Testament; these wise men are guided by a star to the manger of Jesus, where they offer gifts to the baby after his birth. To celebrate Three Kings’ Day, children send letters expressing their wishes, and they leave fresh grass and water for the camels, which will carry the kings and the presents to the homes of children on January 5.

Today’s celebration was coordinated by the Museo del Barrio, which offered many activities for the city’s children apart from the parade itself. Although the day was bitingly cold, the kids marched to the beat of the music and sang as they went. For many adults, their wishes for the day were to have a stable job and economic prosperity. For the young kids, of course, their desire was to have toys. And me? I recovered a piece of my childhood as I witnessed the festivities.

To see all of the Three Kings’ Day photos, click here.

*

Es un 6 de Enero frío y con viento. Los niños de las escuelas se reúnen alrededor de la calle 106 y la 5ta Avenida para ver el desfile de camellos, ovejas, y hombres gigantes llenos de disfraces, llenos de mucho colorido. Hoy se celebra en la ciudad de Nueva York el Día de los Reyes.

Melchor, Gaspar, y Baltazar son los nombres que recuerdo de estos tres reyes. Según mi madre el rey que me traería mis juguetes era Baltazar (de Etiopía, Africa), que era el rey negro y el mas pobre. Yo por mi parte no entendía porque no podía yo escoger el mas rico y el mas prospero- la bolsa que me tocaba traía siempre patines y un regalo pequeño: una caja de bolas, soldados en miniatura o una pistola de cintas de fulminantes.

Recuerdo que los otros reyes traían bicicletas, carriolas o inmensos trenes con lineas, semáforos, pasajeros en estaciones y todo. La idea que el me había escogido a mi y no yo a el, me molestaba. Que desgracia la de tener un rey pobre! Para que ser rey si vas a ser pobre?-siempre tuve esta pregunta en mi mente.

En Nueva York parece ser que los tres están a la par económicamente- Baltazar tiraba monedas de oro a todo el que le saludaba. Cosa esta que para mi fue como un alivio ver que por lo menos en su reinado ha habido cambio y mejoras, y sobre todo no lo había golpeado la crisis económica mundial, ni ha sido afectado por la globalizacion, ni por el hecho de vivir en Africa.

Las fiestas de los tres reyes son una tradición en muchos países que hablan español. Esta celebración esta atada a los pasajes bíblicos. San Mateo hace mención de los tres hombres sabios en el Nuevo Testamento donde estos reyes sabios se guían por una estrella para llevarles regalos al niño Jesús después de su nacimiento.

Para esta celebración los niños les envían cartas pidiéndoles deseos y le poner hierba fresca y agua de beber para los camellos que traerán los juguetes esa noche del 5 de Enero y comerán y beberán por solo una vez al año, en ese día, en esa noche.

Esta celebración fue coordinada por el Museo del Barrio que ofrecerá en su localidad muchas actividades para los niños en este día. Al final aunque muy frió los pequeños marcharon al compás de la música y cantos por toda la barriada. Para muchos de los mayores sus deseos para este día fueron un trabajo estable y prosperidad económica; para los mas pequeños pidieron sus juguetes y desearon un año próspero para ellos y sus amigos, recogiendo así un pedazo de su niñez para los recuerdos.

Para ver todas las fotos de la celebracion, haz clic aqui.