The East Village is the place where Japanese ramen restaurants now proliferates, the city’s inhabitants having discovered the snack food as its new passion. It is an area of the city where the young come seeking themselves and where others live in resignation in their walk up apartments. It is a part of the city where the cutting edge restaurant sits alongside the tarnished, former, new business. This constant friction between hope and hopelessness casts a unique pall on this part of the city.
It is on the corner of 12th and 1st Avenue that a nondescript building offers sanctuary to those from far away lands–home to a mosque. I had walked past this particular squat building many times before. I’d noticed the Arabic writing of the small sign, but never thought much about the significance of what this building must mean to so many others in this city, particularly those who toil away their days traversing the wide boulevards inside yellow cars.
I find myself walking down to the East Village with greater frequency, the closer our imminent move becomes. It is as if I want to savor in the griminess, hopefulness, and idosyncratic youthfulness of this part of the city that had served as home our first two years. True, my move is a mere 60 blocks north, yet the short distance offers a gulf that is breathtakingly daunting. So, it was that I had been walking along these dirty streets that I noticed a long line of yellow cabs double parked on 1st Avenue.
I couldn’t imagine why there were so many idle cabs. It wasn’t until I got to the corner of 12th and 1st that the mystery was solved.
It was obviously time for the noon prayers. Men were lined along the sidewalk, the inside obviously filled to capacity. They sat shoeless, some even washing their hands, neck, and face from a water bottle in their car. The incongruity of seeing such a public display of devotion was incredibly moving. These men were not the least bit self-conscious as they sat and bowed on this busy sidewalk.
I knew I was gawking. But it was with awe, shock, but also a bit of envy that I stared at these men. How wonderful it must be to be so tightly wound around one’s faith that such a break in the middle of the day is as every day as getting coffee from the corner Dunkin Donut. I walked away, each step making me glance back at the group. As I walked up 1st Avenue, I noticed other men rushing down the street, obviously late for this prayer.
I know it would be impossible for me to see such a sight in our new neighborhood. The reality of this made me just a tad wistful, as if this move was about much more than mere bigger living space and better neighborhood.
