I couldn't stop staring at her, though my fellow bus commuters ignored her presence with typical New York cool.
New Yorkers pride themselves on taking everything in their stride, never giving a second glance at the unusual. And this woman WAS unusual.
She was elderly, black and very plain. Her dress and handbag were normal. She was carrying a few plastic shopping bags from D'Agostinos - a New York supermarket chain. She wasn't a derelict and she wasn't talking to herself. She didn't have a glazed look to her eyes. She wasn't begging. Just an ordinary commuter except for one thing.
Her hat! I wished I was brave enough to pull out my digital camera and take a photo.
Her hat was literally about half a meter in height and constructed of two layers. The inner layer was a type of turban, made of a pink satiny material. In itself, this inner hat was huge. It added several inches on to her height.
It reminded me of the trend several years ago, for restaurants to serve meals that were "high". High was IN. Instead of ordinary fare you'd be served with a sculptured array of grated carrots, slivers of zucchini and vertically diced potato arranged in a precarious tower. The sky was the limit.
And so it was with the old woman's hat. The inner layer reached about eight centimeters above the top of her head. Its shiny pink surface was enveloped by yet another layer, this one of pink organza, that straddled the inner layer leaving a five centimeter gap. And it was between the two layers, the satin and the organza, that true creativity came into its own.
Nestled between the inner turban and the outer organza was arranged an eclectic assortment of ornaments.
A large sequined dragonfly was suspended on the pink satin a few centimeters from the woman's left eyebrow. Several miniature rosebuds made of fabric were scattered near her right ear. Two toy cars appeared to be climbing up to the apex which was crowned with an embroidered sign proclaiming the greatness of Allah. A bright red tulip was nestled amongst replicas of snowflakes near her temple and a few political badges were looped together to form a crest above her forehead.
Truly a site to be ignored by the ever-so-cool New Yorkers around me.
I often wonder how the elderly survive in this city. After all, even if you own your own apartment, the monthly property tax and maintenance bill amount to around $1,000 at least. And yet there are many New York elderly.
It is as if, after a lifetime of going to work, and living a life of stress day in, day out, retirement has brought them a new lease of life. They are at last free to indulge in ... well ... whatever.
Whether it is donning carnival sunglasses and waving six flags at the entrance to the Roosevelt Island sky-tram, or sitting deadpan on the bus on Third Avenue whilst wearing a hat that would stand out even at the The Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras, the old people of New York are letting it all hang out.
And the freedom of retirement is not only expressed in their dress. Take the three senior citizens sitting opposite me one morning on my commute to Queens...
Were they friends? There was something about them that reminded me of the TV show, The Golden Girls. Perhaps they knew each other; perhaps not.
Unlike Blanche, Dorothy and Rose, these three golden girls were dressed in the gray garb of the working class New York elderly. Unlike the hat lady, there was nothing unusual about their attire. They were blending into the landscape until the middle one lurched to her right as the bus braked, thereby knocking her neighbour.
"Silly old woman," her neighbour shouted. "Can't even keep your balance!".
"You're just jealous because you're fat and ugly," shrieked the middle one. "Shut up moron" was the reply, and so it continued until the woman on the left, who had so far remained silence decided to join the fray.
"Bitches" she hissed. "Fat ugly bitches". It was on for old and old.
A couple of stifled sniggers from the other commuters who momentarily lost their New York cool. I was fascinated. Nothing like an in-house Jerry Springer show to brighten up the morning commute.
Then there's the old married couple, who must be well into their nineties, who travel north on the 101 up Third around 6:00 p.m. They have the same domestic every evening.
"Are we there yet? (Man)
"I don't know, I'll ask the driver." (Woman)
"You will NOT!" (Man)
"Will so!" (Woman with sly impish look)
"You will NOT!" (Man)
"Will so!" (Woman)
"You will NOT!" (Man)
"Will so!" (Woman)
And so on ad infinitum until the bus stops at 72nd Street and they both alight, giving each other nasty shoves along the way.
Do I see my future self in these people, I wonder?
Which sort of one will I be? I can't really see myself wearing a carnival hat or waving flags. I'd be OK at arguing with my friends if I had any here. But I imagine I'd be a solitary oldie in New York. I'd better hop to it and get back to OZ before then. I'll get back in touch with my old friends who will be old too. We'll catch the tram to St Kilda Beach and argue together. Come to think of it, that's what we've always done anyway.
And as I sit on the St Kilda Road tram 12,000 miles from Manhattan, I'll remember with fondness, the old people of New York.
Kate Juliff
New York
December 2004
