Touring two of the five boroughs

I took yesteday off to tour the city. This weekend marks the second annual Open House New York. Every year a number of buildings around New York generally closed to the public are opened up, and free tours are given of the premises. I was determined to see the Pratt Power Plant in Brooklyn. I had missed it last year.

I woke early and left the apartment by 11.30. Tours were given only three times a day for groups of 15 starting at one. I had called to make a reservation, but was told none were being taken for that site. I was told to arrive early. Simone had told me about a tour that was given last year of a closed off subway station. She said the the lines had wrapped around the block. I needn't have worried.

I arrived at 12.30; almost no one was there. A woman told me that they had decided not to stick to the schedule and that tours were being given whenever people showed up. A tour was underway, but if I waited for a few minutes I could go down. We stood over the generators, their flywheels spinning. Switches ran the length of one wall. Five minutes later I was summoned.

The guide lead us around the generators and told us the history of the school and of the plant. He said that the generators created DC current, which was no longer used throughout the school; however, for demonstration purposes, they were generating electricty for the room itself. He flipped some switches and the room was plunged into darkness. The plant is the oldest steam-generating plant of its kind in the Northeast United States, having continuously generated electricity for the facilities of Pratt Institute since 1887.

From the main room he lead us back to the boiler room. Cats scurried underfoot. Later I overheard one person tell another that there were 11 cats on the premises. One never left the boiler room save for when it was hosed down once a week.

The boiler room was still under re-construction. Our guide told us that newer boilers were being installed that ran more efficiently, but that newer more efficient equipment always seemed to run louder. He shouted over the din. He showed us a pump that had been operating for over a hundred years. Someone asked about parts, and he said that the parts were so simple that they could fashion them themselves if the need arose. He said they never bothered replacing it because it ran so smoothly.

As I was leaving I paused to take pictures. A man working at the site told me that the generator was over 114 years old. I told him it was beautiful, and he said it sure was. I asked him how long he had been working at the plant. Me, he asked. He laughed and said, I've only been here 30 years.

I left Pratt and headed back towards the G train, taking it north into Queens. At Court Square I transferred to the 7 and took it to the end of the line. I asked a bus driver where I could find 38th Avenue, and then called Pamela to see where I should eat on my way back.

I walked to the Voelker Orth Museum, Bird Sanctuary, and Victorian Garden, a wood pink house on a corner that looked almost out of place among the new homes built across the street. There, I met Roger, who kept the grounds. I took the tour with a mother and daughter who grew up in Flushing. I would later learn the daughter was 30, though she looked like a teenager. The mother reminisced about how all the houses used to be like this one, and Roger lamented the fact that they were torn down to make room for the boxes that pass as homes now.

The interior was pleasant though small, and much had been done to renovate it. Two older women played Scrabble in the foyer. After we had toured the house, Roger showed us the grounds, which consisted of a small lawn and a shed that once housed the bird sanctuary. It had since been converted to a classroom. Roger repeatedly apologized for not knowing more about the house. He only works weekends and started the week before. Five minutes later, we had walked around the lawn and he told us we were welcome to sit and chat. He asked the mother/daughter couple if they had brought a camera; he offered to take their picture under a wooden canopy. They told him they didn't.

As I left, Roger lead me to a side gate. He shook my hand and thanked me for coming. As I rounded the corner, he shouted out, "Come again!"

I looked at my brochure and at the somewhat sketchy map printed therein. I was tired and hungry, but curious, and so I made my way to the nearby Hindu Temple Society of America. There, I walked into a temple not unlike those I had visited in Sri Lanka, though on a smaller scale. The carvings were not as intricate as those I had seen, but the means of worship were the same. I read a menu of devotional services from which to choose. An area was laid aside for the smashing of coconuts, though no one was making that offering. A sign forbade walking around with lit incense sticks; a fire hazard and a violation of the safety code. People circumscribed altars. A man stood inside the main shrine and tossed holy water on a state of Ganesha. People gathered around him for his blessing.

I left the temple and gathered my shoes. I walked around back to the auditorium and then down into the canteen. Folding chairs were set up around long folding tables in the basement. A gift counter stood along one side. A large screen TV was playing a film or a soap, subtitled in English. A small counter took orders. I looked over the menu and ordered a masala dosa for just over three dollars. I waited and watched the two students working the counter, greeting guests and friends and talking about their semester schedules.

The dosa was delicious.

Making my way back to the train, I was stuffed. I had wanted to eat sao bin, but couldn't imagine eating any more. I boarded the 7 train, planning to get off in Jackson Heights to buy some samosas, but I fell asleep. When I woke, the train was pulling up alongside an N train. I dashed off and, safely ensconced in my seat, promptly fell asleep again. I woke a stop away from my own and, rousing myself, prepared to come home. Posted by eku at October 10, 2004 10:56 AM