Three decades ago, having endured four years of commuting to a New York institute of higher learning, I thought of myself as, at least to some extent, wise to the ways of the city. Then one day, walking with a native of the Upper West Side on our way to a movie, I noticed a seeming small oasis of green. “Verdi Square,” I read aloud from the sign on the perimeter of teh park to my college friend as we passed by.
“Too bad that isn’t it what most people call,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Well, what do they call it?” I asked innocently.
“Needle Park.”
In an instant, I knew I wasn’t as grizzled an urban veteran as I thought. Yet I still recognized that place name as part of an Al Pacino film about drug dealers and addiction. “Let’s go,” I said to my friend, moving hurriedly.
Fifteen years ago, the monument in this onetime gathering place for musicians (even before Lincoln Center was built seven blocks down) was restored. Though I’ve read on the Internet that several years ago, the city began to take extra measures to eliminate the rodent population cropping up here, neither the rats nor the drug dealers who are their human counterparts in pestilence showed up (at least in the daytime) over the Christmas holidays when I walked past again, and took this picture.
I hope that the park is now experiencing a renaissance of grace and stability--all the more reason to enjoy the statue of the great Italian opera composer that serves as the square’s centerpiece, created by Sicilian sculptor Pasquale Civiletti.
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