Sunday, February 25, 2007
Bohemian National Hall
On the Upper East Side of Manhattan, the Bohemian National Hall, a big neo-Renaissance building with its freshly renovated off-white façade and the sign Narodni Budova (National Building) proudly announces that the history of Czechs in New York continues.
The building, with its five stories, stands in the middle of the block on East 73rd Street, between Second and First Avenues. Not unlike the Czech state, which needed a full renovation after the fall of Communism, the Hall needed to be partially built anew. Modern conveniences (elevators, air conditioning, bathrooms on each floor) and safety features (wide emergency exit staircases, stronger walls) were added.
The renovation started almost six years ago and still continues, except for the third floor, which has been finished and is already used for gatherings and cultural events. Many of those in any way connected to Czechs or the former Czechoslovakia – about 26 thousand in the city - visit even now, before the end of renovations and the Hall’s official opening.
Near a typical New York parking lot and among typical New York tenement buildings, this impressive structure represents Czechness once again.
Inside, men stand on ladders, a Polish contractor works on wires.
On the third floor, the only floor already in use, two spacious rooms await their admirers. Four red leather chairs sit in front of wide windows, across from the wall covered with shelves of books in Czech and Slovak. The Czech composer Antonin Dvorak, who lived in New York, looks down from the wall. A white lime stone fire place rescued from his former home sits in between two desks.
Everything smells of paint. The carpets and the doors, all new, so far almost untouched, wait for a history of their own.
Above, on the fifth floor, the great Ball Room is in ruins. Bare red brick walls surround the huge empty space, which once saw great theatrical productions. If the floor could talk, it would tell about balls, weddings and parties with music and dance. Now there is silence. A century is soaked into this structure, with both fame and decline. It is dark inside, only the construction worker’s bright light disturbs the heaviness, as if the old building decided to close its eyes and reminisce.
“The symbols of our presence in New York are disappearing,” Halka Kaiserova, the counsel general of the Czech Republic said. “Antonin Dvorak’s house, in which he wrote his symphony ‘From The New World’, was demolished. The Bohemian Hall was on the verge of disappearing as well and our government thought it was worth saving.”
Czechs and Slovaks began their emigration to New York in the 1870s; that influx peaked at the turn of the century. By that time, about 30,000 Bohemians lived on the Upper East Side, in Little Bohemia, located between 65th and 78th Streets.
Looking for places that would preserve their history and culture, the various organizations and clubs serving Czechs and Slovaks (under the umbrella name Bohemian Benevolent Literary Association) built the National Hall, at 321-323 East 73rd Street. The building opened in 1896, the ground floor with a restaurant and bar, the upper floors offered club rooms, a theater and a ballroom.
By the 1960s, the Czechs and Slovaks had moved to other parts of New York, mostly Queens and the building was used as a theatre and private studios. Liza Minelli, among others, performed in the building. By the late 1980s, rumor of demolition spread among the expatriates.
The Czech government negotiated with the umbrella of Czech organizations, buying the building in 2001 for $1, renovating it and selling the third floor back to the NGOs for $1.
Because of some unforeseen hurdles, such as the oil leak in the basement and asbestos removal, the renovation is still in progress. By the project’s completion, planned for the fall of next year, its final cost is estimated to reach $30 million.
“Everybody loves to come here – it’s a beautiful building and I am very pleased with the work done on the third floor,” said Jan Hird Pokorny, the 95-year old architect who prepared plans for façade renovation and who came to New York in 1940.
“The guests are a mixture of new and old immigrants, Czechs and Slovaks,” Pokorny, who participates on most events in the building, added. He is happy that the building functions even while the reconstruction is still continuing.
“About half of our visitors so far were American,” Pavel Semerak, who oversees the reconstruction on behalf of the Czech government, said. “For our Christmas show, Bethlehem, we had a full house four times, including a public rehearsal. We only had 120 helmets, which limited the number of visitors we could allow at any one time.” Visitors had to use helmets because this part of the building is still under construction.
The former Czech president, Vaclav Havel, celebrated his 70th birthday here in 2006; a festival of his plays began on the same day at the Bohemian National Hall. Tom Stoppard, the British playwright of Czech origin joined Havel in December to see the story of Bethlehem, in which the building played a very important role: scenes were staged on every floor, including the roof.
“The new mission of this building is to be a showcase for the Czech Republic,” said Margita Fuchsova, director of the Bohemian National Hall. “The Czech Consulate, the Czech Center and civic organizations will occupy this space, but we envision it as a place of intersection of European and American cultures. Our National Hall lives again!”
On the Upper East Side of Manhattan, the Bohemian National Hall, a big neo-Renaissance building with its freshly renovated off-white façade and the sign Narodni Budova (National Building) proudly announces that the history of Czechs in New York continues.
The building, with its five stories, stands in the middle of the block on East 73rd Street, between Second and First Avenues. Not unlike the Czech state, which needed a full renovation after the fall of Communism, the Hall needed to be partially built anew. Modern conveniences (elevators, air conditioning, bathrooms on each floor) and safety features (wide emergency exit staircases, stronger walls) were added.
The renovation started almost six years ago and still continues, except for the third floor, which has been finished and is already used for gatherings and cultural events. Many of those in any way connected to Czechs or the former Czechoslovakia – about 26 thousand in the city - visit even now, before the end of renovations and the Hall’s official opening.
Near a typical New York parking lot and among typical New York tenement buildings, this impressive structure represents Czechness once again.
Inside, men stand on ladders, a Polish contractor works on wires.
On the third floor, the only floor already in use, two spacious rooms await their admirers. Four red leather chairs sit in front of wide windows, across from the wall covered with shelves of books in Czech and Slovak. The Czech composer Antonin Dvorak, who lived in New York, looks down from the wall. A white lime stone fire place rescued from his former home sits in between two desks.
Everything smells of paint. The carpets and the doors, all new, so far almost untouched, wait for a history of their own.
Above, on the fifth floor, the great Ball Room is in ruins. Bare red brick walls surround the huge empty space, which once saw great theatrical productions. If the floor could talk, it would tell about balls, weddings and parties with music and dance. Now there is silence. A century is soaked into this structure, with both fame and decline. It is dark inside, only the construction worker’s bright light disturbs the heaviness, as if the old building decided to close its eyes and reminisce.
“The symbols of our presence in New York are disappearing,” Halka Kaiserova, the counsel general of the Czech Republic said. “Antonin Dvorak’s house, in which he wrote his symphony ‘From The New World’, was demolished. The Bohemian Hall was on the verge of disappearing as well and our government thought it was worth saving.”
Czechs and Slovaks began their emigration to New York in the 1870s; that influx peaked at the turn of the century. By that time, about 30,000 Bohemians lived on the Upper East Side, in Little Bohemia, located between 65th and 78th Streets.
Looking for places that would preserve their history and culture, the various organizations and clubs serving Czechs and Slovaks (under the umbrella name Bohemian Benevolent Literary Association) built the National Hall, at 321-323 East 73rd Street. The building opened in 1896, the ground floor with a restaurant and bar, the upper floors offered club rooms, a theater and a ballroom.
By the 1960s, the Czechs and Slovaks had moved to other parts of New York, mostly Queens and the building was used as a theatre and private studios. Liza Minelli, among others, performed in the building. By the late 1980s, rumor of demolition spread among the expatriates.
The Czech government negotiated with the umbrella of Czech organizations, buying the building in 2001 for $1, renovating it and selling the third floor back to the NGOs for $1.
Because of some unforeseen hurdles, such as the oil leak in the basement and asbestos removal, the renovation is still in progress. By the project’s completion, planned for the fall of next year, its final cost is estimated to reach $30 million.
“Everybody loves to come here – it’s a beautiful building and I am very pleased with the work done on the third floor,” said Jan Hird Pokorny, the 95-year old architect who prepared plans for façade renovation and who came to New York in 1940.
“The guests are a mixture of new and old immigrants, Czechs and Slovaks,” Pokorny, who participates on most events in the building, added. He is happy that the building functions even while the reconstruction is still continuing.
“About half of our visitors so far were American,” Pavel Semerak, who oversees the reconstruction on behalf of the Czech government, said. “For our Christmas show, Bethlehem, we had a full house four times, including a public rehearsal. We only had 120 helmets, which limited the number of visitors we could allow at any one time.” Visitors had to use helmets because this part of the building is still under construction.
The former Czech president, Vaclav Havel, celebrated his 70th birthday here in 2006; a festival of his plays began on the same day at the Bohemian National Hall. Tom Stoppard, the British playwright of Czech origin joined Havel in December to see the story of Bethlehem, in which the building played a very important role: scenes were staged on every floor, including the roof.
“The new mission of this building is to be a showcase for the Czech Republic,” said Margita Fuchsova, director of the Bohemian National Hall. “The Czech Consulate, the Czech Center and civic organizations will occupy this space, but we envision it as a place of intersection of European and American cultures. Our National Hall lives again!”
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Friday, January 12, 2007
F.
I sat on a bench at the Ferihegy airport in Budapest talking to a young woman from London when I spotted him. He was pushing his way through to the front of the very long check-in line at the gate. I knew he had a business class ticket, he told me repeatedly that he only travels business, and when I saw the nice looking woman with him, I immediately thought that he got himself an older girlfriend.
Four years passed since I saw F.. He was in his late 70s then and had trouble with his lower back after a terrible skiing accident. Several operations later, he still could not sit still for a long time and had trouble walking. Now, in Budapest, he used a cane and I realized only much later, in the airplane, that the woman with him is probably his wife, who I never saw before, not even on a picture.
F. was recommended to me when I moved to New York. I wrote to him. We met on Park Avenue, close to his apartment on a weekday morning, in a small café. He sat outside, frail and skinny, rather short, as Hungarian men often are, with his white hair combed back and a cigarette trembling in his hand. He wore glasses. His profile was sharp. His nose came out of his face in an arrogant, aggressive way. This profile and the funny walk was how I recognized him instantly at the airport.
He still lives, I thought.
At first, F. was helping me make my CV look more suited for potential American employers. Later, he became a sort of a consultant in every area of life. I liked spending time with him, because he was very knowledgeable in politics and history, and all things US. Or so I thought at the time. He used to work for the CIA, spying on the Communist government, he said, and showed me documents supporting this claim. His brother was a famous inventor and the Times ran an obit on him when he died – I looked it up online; it was true.
F. was born in Budapest and went to schools there. He fled in 1956. His diploma in economics helped him get a job in a company that specialized in building industrial parks in the developing world. F. spent many years in these countries before he joined his father in New York in the 1970s. His first wife died in a car accident and he met his second in Manhattan. He got a corporate job and never missed a day of work, he said often with pride. He had enough money to retire and considered himself successful. “I write you letters of recommendation, if you want. My Park Avenue address will impress people,” he said early in our friendship.
It should have been a warning, when on our second meeting, he said: “I think you should change your name into something more American.” I didn’t pay attention at first, but later I realized that F.’ father was Jewish and F. was bothered by the fact that some might consider him a Jew too.
Now I know that not only has he been anti-Semitic, but also racist, sexist and homophobic. We walked through Washington Square Park one afternoon, when F. referred to leftist demonstrators from a few days ago as “a bunch of hooligans”. He thought blacks lazy but had respect for Asians as they were hard-working. When I explained that the red ribbon on my coat collar shows support to those with HIV/AIDS, he said I should take it off.
When we first met, Irina, F.’ girlfriend of a few months just broke up with him. She was a 35 years old Russian, who supported her family in Russia and needed a green card. “I can’t do it to my wife. I owe her so much,” F. said when I asked why he does not marry Irina. He would often dial the number of the guy Irina now lived with, and hang up, just to hear her voice.
Except when he was away, we met once a week. He treated me to a lunch and we sat somewhere and talked or he showed me something interesting in the city. In about four months into our friendship, I felt sick on the day we were supposed to meet. When I email him, canceling our meeting, he called immediately and said he would come over. I said no. He would not take no for an answer again, when I declined his invitation to the Metropolitan Opera.
In some way, F. was certain that I will be his new Irina. It did not matter that I explained very clearly at the beginning – I will never be his lover. He wanted to give me gifts, later he offered to “help me with my rent” or my tuition for a kiss or something more, but I always said no. Once he described to me how he and Irina used to make love in his son’s office, on the floor, which I took as a hint and started loosening my ties with him.
I started feeling uneasy around him. He wanted to control my life. He expected me to follow his every advice even when he was wrong. He insisted that the word “cleanliness” does not exist in English. He insisted on many things I knew were incorrect and he would never admit that he was wrong. I stopped returning his calls and after a while he stopped emailing as well.
And there we were - both on the same plane to New York not saying hello to each other. I was tempted to walk up to him and just ask how he was. He had obviously a hard time walking and his eye sight seemed worse too, but he was out and about just as well. I looked at his wife, a kind looking woman in her 70s and wondered if F. has a new, young girlfriend. I am glad I don’t know the answer, and I am glad it’s not me.
I sat on a bench at the Ferihegy airport in Budapest talking to a young woman from London when I spotted him. He was pushing his way through to the front of the very long check-in line at the gate. I knew he had a business class ticket, he told me repeatedly that he only travels business, and when I saw the nice looking woman with him, I immediately thought that he got himself an older girlfriend.
Four years passed since I saw F.. He was in his late 70s then and had trouble with his lower back after a terrible skiing accident. Several operations later, he still could not sit still for a long time and had trouble walking. Now, in Budapest, he used a cane and I realized only much later, in the airplane, that the woman with him is probably his wife, who I never saw before, not even on a picture.
F. was recommended to me when I moved to New York. I wrote to him. We met on Park Avenue, close to his apartment on a weekday morning, in a small café. He sat outside, frail and skinny, rather short, as Hungarian men often are, with his white hair combed back and a cigarette trembling in his hand. He wore glasses. His profile was sharp. His nose came out of his face in an arrogant, aggressive way. This profile and the funny walk was how I recognized him instantly at the airport.
He still lives, I thought.
At first, F. was helping me make my CV look more suited for potential American employers. Later, he became a sort of a consultant in every area of life. I liked spending time with him, because he was very knowledgeable in politics and history, and all things US. Or so I thought at the time. He used to work for the CIA, spying on the Communist government, he said, and showed me documents supporting this claim. His brother was a famous inventor and the Times ran an obit on him when he died – I looked it up online; it was true.
F. was born in Budapest and went to schools there. He fled in 1956. His diploma in economics helped him get a job in a company that specialized in building industrial parks in the developing world. F. spent many years in these countries before he joined his father in New York in the 1970s. His first wife died in a car accident and he met his second in Manhattan. He got a corporate job and never missed a day of work, he said often with pride. He had enough money to retire and considered himself successful. “I write you letters of recommendation, if you want. My Park Avenue address will impress people,” he said early in our friendship.
It should have been a warning, when on our second meeting, he said: “I think you should change your name into something more American.” I didn’t pay attention at first, but later I realized that F.’ father was Jewish and F. was bothered by the fact that some might consider him a Jew too.
Now I know that not only has he been anti-Semitic, but also racist, sexist and homophobic. We walked through Washington Square Park one afternoon, when F. referred to leftist demonstrators from a few days ago as “a bunch of hooligans”. He thought blacks lazy but had respect for Asians as they were hard-working. When I explained that the red ribbon on my coat collar shows support to those with HIV/AIDS, he said I should take it off.
When we first met, Irina, F.’ girlfriend of a few months just broke up with him. She was a 35 years old Russian, who supported her family in Russia and needed a green card. “I can’t do it to my wife. I owe her so much,” F. said when I asked why he does not marry Irina. He would often dial the number of the guy Irina now lived with, and hang up, just to hear her voice.
Except when he was away, we met once a week. He treated me to a lunch and we sat somewhere and talked or he showed me something interesting in the city. In about four months into our friendship, I felt sick on the day we were supposed to meet. When I email him, canceling our meeting, he called immediately and said he would come over. I said no. He would not take no for an answer again, when I declined his invitation to the Metropolitan Opera.
In some way, F. was certain that I will be his new Irina. It did not matter that I explained very clearly at the beginning – I will never be his lover. He wanted to give me gifts, later he offered to “help me with my rent” or my tuition for a kiss or something more, but I always said no. Once he described to me how he and Irina used to make love in his son’s office, on the floor, which I took as a hint and started loosening my ties with him.
I started feeling uneasy around him. He wanted to control my life. He expected me to follow his every advice even when he was wrong. He insisted that the word “cleanliness” does not exist in English. He insisted on many things I knew were incorrect and he would never admit that he was wrong. I stopped returning his calls and after a while he stopped emailing as well.
And there we were - both on the same plane to New York not saying hello to each other. I was tempted to walk up to him and just ask how he was. He had obviously a hard time walking and his eye sight seemed worse too, but he was out and about just as well. I looked at his wife, a kind looking woman in her 70s and wondered if F. has a new, young girlfriend. I am glad I don’t know the answer, and I am glad it’s not me.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Kristina
It was a very small place with a few tables upstairs and only two bar tables downstairs by the counter. We liked it there very much. It was one of the first places in
Kristina was one of the regular waiters in the Club, but she was much more than just a waitress. When she was there, she was in charge not only of the kitchen and the tables, but also, it seemed, of the guests.
The restaurant opened at noon. Kristina would come two minutes before noon, change quickly in the small room downstairs into a clingy white T-Shirt, black mini skirt and black shoes. Her hair was light brown with blond highlights, wavy with lots of hairspray in it. She used makeup at all times, but not excessively. She went to the tanning salon every week, and always looked like someone who just returned from an exotic vacation, but it also made people speculate about her being Roma. Her light green eyes and her professional smile were ready for the costumers at about 12.15.
Kristina knew she was very sexy and made great advantage of it. Both men and women tippet her gladly for she made them feel special. Guests who came in the Club just for her, sat at the counter. There were three seats, at other times empty, but when Kristina was there, they were taken, sometimes by the same people, for hours. She liked to entertain them, play music for them, dance to the music when downstairs was not crowded and to flirt.
At busy nights, and weekend afternoons, there were two waiters taking care of costumers. Kristina would take the upstairs tables, so she could get away from the other waiter and the kitchen and talk to her friends. She had many friends she liked to talk to. Time was not of great concern of hers, neither were hungry costumers, who, if they came at the wrong time, waited for their orders forever. The cook, Magdika, would sometimes lose her patience, and come look for Kristina or simply shut the music and scream Kristina’s name as long as it took for her to come down. Even in this case, Kristina made sure her descending the spiral staircase was something that turned all heads. Magdika, a plump woman in her late 50s, was not very fond of Kristina. She did not approve of the loud music, of the dancing, joking and above all, flirting with guests of either gender. Magdika also resented Kristina for her big tips and her refusing to take a burned pizza to a costumer. In the kitchen, Magdika was the boss. Or so she thought.
After moving to
Many months passed until Kristina realized that she will not be able to support her boyfriend, her disabled younger brother in a special ed school and her mother in the countryside. She moved out and Peti miraculously found a job the week after.
But the relationship was over, mostly because Kristina fell in love with a young woman, Viki, who hung out with her friends at the Club. Falling for the charming waitress who looked a little like Madonna, Viki started going to the club on her own. She started sitting at the counter at lunchtime, when the place was empty, so they can talk. On weekends, she came back at midnight to go with Kristina to a gay club. A few weeks passed and Kristina moved in with Viki.
Being a young professional with a 9-5 job, Viki was quite comfortable in her life. She was out to her family, but not her colleagues, partly because she wanted to progress in her carrier. To be with woman in a relationship was new to Kristina. She had a hard time telling her ex-boyfriend, who she was still friends with and her family, but eventually, she did. She and Viki visited Kristina’s brother often, taking him out for dinner and movies, for which Viki paid. The couple seemed happy.
After a year, Kristina started complaining to her friends in the Club, “Viki is like a zombie. She comes home and sits in front of the TV all the time. She doesn’t want to go anywhere.” Viki started complaining to her friends, “Kristina always wants to go to dance or to dinner or to visit her mother, or movies, but has no money to do all these things. She expects me to pay for everything. I am tired of it!”
There were scenes at the Club. Viki was jealous, Kristina was even more flirtatious. They broke up in the afternoon and got back together by closing time. Due to their schedules, they were hardly ever home at the same time, so their love life happened in the Club. Tears, begging, screaming, dramatic leaving of Viki with Kristina running after her, neglecting her costumers; or Viki coming back the next day with a huge bouquet of flowers – this was our favorite soap opera. It went on for weeks, until one day, Viki did not come, did not call and Kristina did not smile. Viki stopped coming altogether and we, the audience, had to go back to our own pity lives. Until, Kristina’s green eyes fell on another costumer….
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Friday, December 22, 2006
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Monday, December 18, 2006
Monday, December 11, 2006
Monday, November 20, 2006
Joe’s Shoe Repair Shop
You may just pass by it and never notice that it’s there, unless the “Joes Shoe Repair from Union St/7th Ave” sing is placed on the sidewalk. But the wooden sign, black and red letters on a white board, is so old and weathered that you might easily miss it.
Next to an upscale French restaurant, across the street from a Natural Market on the busily gentrifying 5th Avenue in Park Slope, Joe’s store is like something somebody forgot here from the olden days. The store window’s glass is dirty. The window itself is full of randomly tossed shoes and leather coats. Two signs made on a white paper with three different color crayons are glued on glass: “October 13 2006, Soon we will be closed for renovation. Please pick up shoes promptly.” And: “We will not be held responsible for shoes left after December 22 2006. You must pick up any shoes left over 30 days!” Two plants are hanging from the ceiling, taking over the upper part of the window.
“I like to take it easy. It’s too busy here,” Joe said inside the miniscule store, where, if he wanted to spread his arms, he would almost reach wall-to-wall. But the walls are not visible, because they are covered with shelves and the shelves have mountains of shoes, sneakers, boots and sandals on them. Old sanding machines remind the guest that there is actually work taking place here. Dust covers everything. Its height determines how long nobody touched an object. A narrow path is kept free on the floor for Joe to walk around. The distinctive smell is of old leather.
The L-shaped counter right behind the door holds an ancient metal cash machine, the kind where a $ sign and a number jump up when a key is stricken. It does not give a receipt. Next is a small space on which customers can put the shoes-to-be-repaired. Around the corner is an area blocked by a white plaster panel behind which Joe works.
Across from the counter, a radiator heats up the room quickly, and above it, the wall is covered with souvenirs: A big, framed picture of Jesus Christ. In the corners of the frame is a picture of Joe’s two grandchildren, a girl and a boy; a picture of St. Giovanni; and a picture of Joe on his son’s motorbike. Next is a big wooden frame with a picture of a town in Sicily. Below is a picture of Joe with a group of kids in front of his store.
“It was about eight or ten years ago,” Joe said with a wide gesture of his left hand, while his right was holding a black leather boot. “They wanted to see what I am doing,” Joe said, obviously unimpressed.
Joe is one of the last of his kind. The cobblers, the picture framers, small appliance repair places, barbers, print shops and other one person neighborhood business are leaving the area and are being replaced by restaurants, French pastry shops, fancy coffee shops and upscale clothing stores. In the Park Slope area, Joe and another shoe repair store run by an Asian couple are the last two left.
A man in his 60s, Joe is short, with all white hair and a flirtatious smile. He moved to New York as a young man from Italy and never learned English well.
“I came and did this and that and then someone called me to help with shoe repairs. I did a little bit at the beginning. Then more. And then I took over the store. This was on 7th Avenue. Later, one guy bought half the block and started renovating. When my lease was up, he wanted $1,200 a month and offered me a 3 year lease. This was 18 years ago. I paid $500 before. So I moved here. This was cheap” Joe said while nailing a new heel on a black boot.
A store front rental on 7th Avenue nowadays goes for around $3000. No small business can survive with a rent this high.
5th Avenue started changing about 5 years ago, when many new restaurants opened and received good reviews in local and city papers. The avenue got a new asphalt coat. Dozens of luxury coop and condo houses were built during the recent real estate boom and new, wealthier occupants moved in. They too needed someone to fix their shoes. Joe had no complaints about not having enough costumers.
When he was done with a repair, Joe put the shoe somewhere on a shelf. Some of the shoes had little pink slips attached to them, but he did not put the shoes in any particular order.
A woman in her 40s came in. She had a pink slip. “This is my third time here,” she whispered to me while Joe was looking for her shoes. “He can’t remember anything. I left three pairs here and he couldn’t find them.”
Together, Joe and the woman finally located all three pairs and Joe added up on the old cash machine that she owed him $30. “You are lucky I don’t charge you for the times I came here in vain,” she said to him. “$30 even,” he replied and did not seem to notice that the woman was annoyed.
“They will now renovate this building,” Joe said after the woman left. “If they want a lot more money for rent, I will not take it.”
“I don’t know what I will do. I will retire,” he added. His sons don’t want to take over the business. One of them is a police officer and the other has a college degree. Once his nephew wanted to learn the trade and maybe take over the business, but Joe was the one discouraging him.
“I said, ‘Go do something better. There is no big money in this business. It’s lots of work. Many hours,” Joe explained. “If I have to close, I close. I don’t care. But I can’t stay home. What will I do?” he asked with a mischievous smile.
You may just pass by it and never notice that it’s there, unless the “Joes Shoe Repair from Union St/7th Ave” sing is placed on the sidewalk. But the wooden sign, black and red letters on a white board, is so old and weathered that you might easily miss it.
Next to an upscale French restaurant, across the street from a Natural Market on the busily gentrifying 5th Avenue in Park Slope, Joe’s store is like something somebody forgot here from the olden days. The store window’s glass is dirty. The window itself is full of randomly tossed shoes and leather coats. Two signs made on a white paper with three different color crayons are glued on glass: “October 13 2006, Soon we will be closed for renovation. Please pick up shoes promptly.” And: “We will not be held responsible for shoes left after December 22 2006. You must pick up any shoes left over 30 days!” Two plants are hanging from the ceiling, taking over the upper part of the window.
“I like to take it easy. It’s too busy here,” Joe said inside the miniscule store, where, if he wanted to spread his arms, he would almost reach wall-to-wall. But the walls are not visible, because they are covered with shelves and the shelves have mountains of shoes, sneakers, boots and sandals on them. Old sanding machines remind the guest that there is actually work taking place here. Dust covers everything. Its height determines how long nobody touched an object. A narrow path is kept free on the floor for Joe to walk around. The distinctive smell is of old leather.
The L-shaped counter right behind the door holds an ancient metal cash machine, the kind where a $ sign and a number jump up when a key is stricken. It does not give a receipt. Next is a small space on which customers can put the shoes-to-be-repaired. Around the corner is an area blocked by a white plaster panel behind which Joe works.
Across from the counter, a radiator heats up the room quickly, and above it, the wall is covered with souvenirs: A big, framed picture of Jesus Christ. In the corners of the frame is a picture of Joe’s two grandchildren, a girl and a boy; a picture of St. Giovanni; and a picture of Joe on his son’s motorbike. Next is a big wooden frame with a picture of a town in Sicily. Below is a picture of Joe with a group of kids in front of his store.
“It was about eight or ten years ago,” Joe said with a wide gesture of his left hand, while his right was holding a black leather boot. “They wanted to see what I am doing,” Joe said, obviously unimpressed.
Joe is one of the last of his kind. The cobblers, the picture framers, small appliance repair places, barbers, print shops and other one person neighborhood business are leaving the area and are being replaced by restaurants, French pastry shops, fancy coffee shops and upscale clothing stores. In the Park Slope area, Joe and another shoe repair store run by an Asian couple are the last two left.
A man in his 60s, Joe is short, with all white hair and a flirtatious smile. He moved to New York as a young man from Italy and never learned English well.
“I came and did this and that and then someone called me to help with shoe repairs. I did a little bit at the beginning. Then more. And then I took over the store. This was on 7th Avenue. Later, one guy bought half the block and started renovating. When my lease was up, he wanted $1,200 a month and offered me a 3 year lease. This was 18 years ago. I paid $500 before. So I moved here. This was cheap” Joe said while nailing a new heel on a black boot.
A store front rental on 7th Avenue nowadays goes for around $3000. No small business can survive with a rent this high.
5th Avenue started changing about 5 years ago, when many new restaurants opened and received good reviews in local and city papers. The avenue got a new asphalt coat. Dozens of luxury coop and condo houses were built during the recent real estate boom and new, wealthier occupants moved in. They too needed someone to fix their shoes. Joe had no complaints about not having enough costumers.
When he was done with a repair, Joe put the shoe somewhere on a shelf. Some of the shoes had little pink slips attached to them, but he did not put the shoes in any particular order.
A woman in her 40s came in. She had a pink slip. “This is my third time here,” she whispered to me while Joe was looking for her shoes. “He can’t remember anything. I left three pairs here and he couldn’t find them.”
Together, Joe and the woman finally located all three pairs and Joe added up on the old cash machine that she owed him $30. “You are lucky I don’t charge you for the times I came here in vain,” she said to him. “$30 even,” he replied and did not seem to notice that the woman was annoyed.
“They will now renovate this building,” Joe said after the woman left. “If they want a lot more money for rent, I will not take it.”
“I don’t know what I will do. I will retire,” he added. His sons don’t want to take over the business. One of them is a police officer and the other has a college degree. Once his nephew wanted to learn the trade and maybe take over the business, but Joe was the one discouraging him.
“I said, ‘Go do something better. There is no big money in this business. It’s lots of work. Many hours,” Joe explained. “If I have to close, I close. I don’t care. But I can’t stay home. What will I do?” he asked with a mischievous smile.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Saturday, November 11, 2006
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