



Along the promenade that stradles the garden are some favorite benches of mine - slightly hidden, perpetually shaded, home to some of my finest summer reading. And what's this?









Two signs so far, and twice now, this "I". Who is speaking to me? Is it the park it self? The parks department? Or is each sign it is own little entity? (this last one seems least likely, as what are the chances that each of these little signs have the same snarky, sarcastic, whimsical know-how?)





Past the garden and up towards the Fort proper, you encounter this:





And granted, though I've never seen a proposal myself, I've seen loving couples take wedding photos near that very spot, and full disclosure: I was married under a small conifer in the park too. Trouble is what was a legitimately romantic spot is no longer one, due to a distracting eyesore dishing about how romantic a spot it is(/was).





The color of the sign itself really is an affront equal to any of the text printed on it. For reference, a normal, merely informative sign, sticking out just enough to be noticed, but without screaming for your attention:





Keep walking through the fort, towards the high point that offers a wonderful look over The Heights and onward towards Inwood and your eye is drawn not too the neighborhood, or open sky, but to this abboration.





I'm not against informing the passerby of the near-significance of the altitude. But why can't it just say, "2nd highest point - 260 feet"? Instead it's giving you bragging rights. The Bennett Park superlative is stately, and doesn't stand above it's topic - squarely inserted into the rock beneath your feet.





A great elevation below that particular mote, in a beloved piece of architecture -





- whose stately, hollow, contemplative pathway now yields this interruptive to your inner thoughts and introspecting:









I almost give them kudos, for offering something historic - but one step forward is quickly two steps back as (1) I've never seen these chandeliers in all my walks, and am filled now with a solemn sort of jealously, and (2) the voice is now a "we" indicating either a symbiotic hive-mining of the neon monsters or a gross inconsistency in delivering whatever these new placards are meant to deliver.









Here's a sign that only applies to two day medieval festival in the autumn with a dreadful pun.





Now maybe I come across as a grump. Maybe I need to lighten up. Maybe I'm in the minority, and most people like these signs. And I know some people do. But I doubt many people love 'em. What mild amusement they provide, are mostly in their unexpected charm. A bright little kernel that captures the space you find yourself in. Only, the same tired jokes and guerrilla cute tactics get tired the second time, and third time, and on and on. I started to think that maybe they were made to entice the far-flung instead of the local. Then I saw this.









Where tourists are castigated to the bottom row of a poor send up of a bingo card, an amusement on par with a Frisbee catching dog off the leash and a small mammal capable of pungent defenses when threatened.





Climbing a staircase you're encouraged to climb a staircase:









Veering away from the Hudson and the Palisades across the way, you're invited to say hello to Jersey just as you've stopped looking at it.









Running east of the road that leads to the Cloisters are these staircases of stone that seam to go up and down, without destination, ensconced in mystery. I love them. You climb them to experience the park from a new perspective, to be even further off the well-trod path. Or maybe I'm wrong.









Maybe they're truly useless. After all, ask the signs why these stairs are here at all and you get the answer:









Again, you may be seeing these and smiling coyly. They may even be mildly amusing. But to me, they are the a dependable sort of pollution. The bag in the tree which isn't going anywhere. The small bit of litter that ruins an otherwise grand view. I believe they're tasteless. They seem to undermine the power of the park itself, proffering cheap amusements to those who have already chosen to spend their time within. And though the space may change with the hours of the day and the turning of the seasons, the best I can hope for with these new fixtures are some fading, some rusting, some overgrowth.





It's Spring again, and I'm agog. Somewhere around February I always relent to Winter, and accept it as a permanent season. When the sun quits being a mere fixture, and makes me feel its honest heat, and green buds turn up on April branches, an embarrassing amount of joy runs through me. The world lives! Suddenly I drop all my hibernating habits and start to walk all around. Sometimes I'll pull a loop that lets me down by the river. I've even began appreciating Broadway, logging a 100 blocks or so into the West Side.But my favorite path to trace leads me up and around the Cloisters. Trouble is - there's an invasive species cropping up all over Fort Tryon park. Neon Green Irony has taken root (or bolt) in every corner. Before I even made it into the Heather Garden, I spotted this:Here's a sign that only applies to the winter. (and about 3-5 days where sledding's a viable to-do)