Heather Garden — Local services in New York

The Heather Garden sits on a hill like it has been keeping a secret for a hundred years. It is the kind of place you stumble into by accident, expecting nothing, and end up wondering why you ever bothered with the chaos of Midtown. Beds of purple, pink, and gold spread out under the sky, flowers leaning into each other like gossiping neighbors.

The air feels different here. It moves slower. You can hear your own thoughts, which is both good and dangerous depending on the day. Benches are scattered around like someone rolled them in dice-style and left them where they landed. You pick one, and the Hudson River stares back at you from below like a calm old friend.

Morning Take the A train up to 190th Street. Get out and stop at Café Buunni for coffee. Walk toward the park with the cup warming your hands. Enter through the Margaret Corbin entrance so the garden hits you all at once.

Midday Wander the paths. Stop to smell something, even if it looks like it might have bees. The colors change with the seasons, and no two visits are the same. If you are lucky, you will catch a gardener working, and they will tell you the name of a plant you will forget in ten seconds.

Afternoon Walk north toward the Cloisters. The medieval stone against the greenery feels like a movie set for a story you wish you could live in. You can pay to go inside or just sit outside and look smug about knowing this spot exists.

Evening Circle back to the garden as the light drops. The flowers start to glow in that last bit of sun, and the city feels far away. You can stay until it gets dark, then wander back through the park, down to Broadway, and into the noise again.

The Heather Garden is proof that New York still has corners where the volume is turned down and the world does not demand...

I had finally escaped the cloisters and was making my way along the avenue when I sought rest at some arena nearby. The obvious ones being none too aesthetic, I was surprised to find a veritable garden of heather, an invasive species as welcome in North America as the macaroni noodle and as likely to celebrate the dead.

Here I paused to rest on my descent into madness, set on settling scores if I could only remember what had brought Carol to my doorstep that day and why she had paused while driving down the fishing rod. But the scents were too distracting, the leaves too rustling, the busy bodies too bustling to seal one's heart in revenge.

Instead, I took to the petals and asked a napping bee for his impression of the local area. Having expected raucous anger at being wrested from slumber, I was stunned aa he wistfully looked up, then rested his fuzzy head back on his spindly legs, then sighed to the ether:

Where would I find you, my love, if you were Not looking but you happened upon me? I would start in the clouds and only look Up at the moon and the stars. Would I see Your bright smile shining down or would I feel Your eyes on my back, your hopes behind me Safe but far and there but lost to my gaze, My love, and ever reaching out to be Found if I knew that you would not regret That where I see you...

Olmsted built the Heather Garden into the side of the rocky ridge as a series of terraces with American elm trees (Ulmus americana) lining a 600-foot promenade along the top. Stone sitting areas permitted passersby to contemplate the panorama and were purposely set at an angle to minimize noise and visual intrusions. It took several seasons for the garden to mature. Low-growing heather (Calluna vulgaris) was chosen as the predominant plant so as not to obscure the scenery. It is normally found in Scotland and England, where its distinctive pink-purple flowers bloom on the hills during the late...