Flowers in the world's jungle

In the dawn's early light each morning of Fall Break, as I headed Dillon-wards along McCosh Walk, I encountered a curious shrine at the "back door" of Theatre Intime. Chained, yes chained, to the metal balustrade was an incrementally fatigued, cellophane-wrapped floral bouquet with a water-stained note reading "Thanks BRANDEN." It was unclear whether the desiccating and drooping snapdragon was the expressive medium of Branden the Thanker or an unclaimed tribute to Branden the Thanked. But flowers at dawn are the way to go.

I belong to a rather quaint "conversazione" in New York. In 18th century London, the Italian word was used to denote a gathering midway betwixt an academic conference and a dinner party. My conversazione is gathered from interesting people in church and state, in the arts and sciences, with especially strong representation from writers and artists. For the sake of solemnity there are a couple of college professors. Our full complement is twenty-five, but our monthly dinners, with gents in black tie and ladies in long dresses, usually draw perhaps a dozen. In addition to the scarfing and the informal schmoozing, we always have a definite topic of post-desert discussion, to be introduced by somebody who is supposed to know.

Our last topic was, roughly, "The Deplorable State of the World," introduced by a retired British diplomat of high rank. He started an itinerary, brisk in its recital but lugubrious in its content, in North Korea, then moved more or less westward to China/Taiwan, Indian/Kashmir/Pakistan, Afghanistan, Chechnya, Iran, Iraq and finally Israel/Palestine. His judgments surprised me. For example he regarded the most dangerously volatile situation to be that in Pakistan. The "most serious" longterm problem — meaning one that "actually could trigger a world war" — was Taiwan. As a member of the conversazione pointed out, he had provided a whole season's gloom and doom without even descending into the southern hemisphere.

Stimulating conversation is all well and good, but the aftermath of stimulating conversation about probably impending disaster may be depression. Even without having dribbled baked Alaska down an expensively laundered shirtfront, I would have left the meeting in less than lighthearted mood. Then I had to decide whether to return to Princeton immediately, or to spend the night at my daughter's down at New York University. The attraction of the latter course, which proved decisive in my mind, was the promise of a glimpse of my grandchildren. But it meant that in order to meet an early office hour I would have to take the early train in the morning: By "early" I mean the one that departs Penn Station at 4:47 a.m., the one that separates the men from the boys.

My daughter lives roughly 25 street blocks and two avenue blocks from the station. On the nearly empty streets that would mean about three and a half minutes by cab, but I enjoy walking up that part of Fifth Avenue in the wee hours. It's quiet enough to seem adventurous but bright enough to seem safe, and most of the few folks one encounters — mainly Asian-American grocers and fruiters setting up sidewalk displays — are reassuring in their purposeful industry. Even the inebriates and gutter urinators one walks around while heading westward are clearly from the upper division of their social categories. Someone has written that "the urban night is the last American frontier," the last underpopulated space of mystery and surprise. I don't know whether that is true is general, but it pretty well fits West 29th Street.

The decimal habit dies hard, and usually, when making this trek, I do a westward jog to Sixth Avenue along 20th Street, then up and west again at 30th. This time, however, gloomily preoccupied as I was by the world's problems on my mind if not my shoulders, I was already past 25th before I really noticed. It was then that the eccentric inspiration hit me that I should walk down 29th — in honor of the 29 members of Chaucer's pilgrim-band.

Looking far, far down the street I could see on its south side a surprising number of lighted shopfronts, and distant, purposeful scurrying on the sidewalk. It was a scene that Henry James might have described as "animated." But before I could discern by sight, I discerned by smell. Not sewer-gas or stale beer — the powerful and intoxicating aroma of tropical blossoms overwhelmed me. Most of a city block was filled with specialty flower-shops with deep interiors and wide double-doors open to the street. Through them, at 4:30 in the morning, rushed back and forth a small army of hispanophone artisans carrying vases of Pampas grass, small indoor trees, vast and panchromatic floral arrangements beautifully composed. These they placed at curbside to await transportation. Who would ever know that while we sleep the better part of a hundred yards a Manhattan sidewalk takes on the aspect of a hopping Belize rain-forest? That early train is never what you would call fun, but it's a whole lot more bearable if what is fresh in your mind is the smell of orchids, rather than the fear of nuclear proliferation. And even a single drooping snapdragon helps take the mind off jumping into a cold swimming pool at seven. Thanks Branden. John Fleming is the Louis W. Fairchild '24 Professor of English. He can be reached at jfleming@princeton.edu.