The Parade

"You do realize there is a parade", messaged my friend (well his wife, actually), as we fixed our appointment in the UES for Sunday afternoon.

What parade? I thought a little, and forgot about it. Seconds after stepping out to go to the Village (see prior article), it hit me: Puerto Rican Day!! The crowds were already out in force on the streets, in the subway, families of mamis and papis, shorts, halters and bikini tops.

This brought back prior memories of the parade - which I'd never been to - of masses of Puerto Ricans on streets and subways, being, shall we say, 'rambunctious'.

As the appointment neared and I went uptown, I thought I'd walk through the park. But 5th avenue was closed. Even before I got there, I had to squeeze through very loudly yelling people, all men. Apparently, yelling is a Puerto Rican male-pride thing. I think it is rather stupid. Please write your elected representative that yelling be banned if ever PR were to choose to become the 51st state.

Everyone was decked out in the fPR lag - one draped like a cape, another's shirt or shorts in the colors of the flag, many carrying little flags, putting me on guard against an accidental blinding as they waved it back and forth. Wifebeaters were preferred outfits for men. Exceptionally large women were wearing incredibly tiny shorts - it was nice to see "non-conformist beauty" being embraced and displayed. Teenage girls were into tube tops.

All cross streets were blocked off along 5th, opened every 10 minutes to let the crowds across. I stood at the barricade, on the East side of maybe 60th street. A truck came by from the direction of the Metlife building, blaring music. Kids decked out in uniformed tights walked and danced behind it. Las chicas all around were dancing - they weren't even trying really, what amazing sense of rhythm!! It was utterly sexy.

At the next opening of the baricade, I crossed, only to find the Park pretty much closed. At the next interlude, I crossed back and went over to Madison to walk uptown. Ronald McDonald was approaching further down 5th. Sen. Charles Schumer had already passed, before the music truck.

The crowd swayed, and it was impossible not to stare at the effortlessly swaying hips of the women, sinouos, sexy, hypnotic. The famous latina hips, generous yet wired to swing, mocking gravity and Newton's laws. The sweet smell of booze wafted here and there, from the breaths of the rowdy youth. It was getting a li'l balmy in the rugby shirt, under a glorious sun and blue skies. Summer in New York!

Cops stood on every corner. Their primary occupation seemed to be to answer passers-by regarding hwo to get around the parade. I checked with an officer, making sure the streets were unblocked below 40th, or my cab ride later to Penn Station would have been a disaster. Cars were driving around with loud music blaring, and windows or tops down, flags on the bonnet. People on the sidewalk cheered, yelled, gyrated to the music.

White folk, both tourists and Upper East Side residents, looked curiously alien, some indifferent, some awed, some surely resentful.

I walked up to the Whitney, to the warm and prolonged embrace of my friend's wife. To think I had considered not catching up with them! We spoke of the parade - "these people don't wear (much) clothes" my friend observed.