“A MUSEUM”

BY GABRIELLE MACAFEE

These days I find my thoughts drifting to memories of last summer, when I lived off MacDougal Street, just a block away from Washington Square Park. It sounds glamorous, but in reality I was paying a friend $400 a month to illegally sleep on a couch that was worth more than me. It was a hot summer and the air conditioning was fickle - most nights I’d wake up covered in sweat, sticking to the couch’s soft caramel colored leather. My friend nannied for a wealthy Brooklyn family, and spent most weekends in The Hamptons. When she was home, she spent her free time sitting on the couch in front of a huge television. She kept the curtains drawn, the lights off, and somehow managed to watch both the TV screen and her phone simultaneously. Her takeout boxes littered the table and floor, inevitably inviting mice into the apartment. 

I didn’t spend much time inside that apartment. It only served as a place to sleep, to keep my suitcase. After a long day of work I’d trudge up four flights of stairs to find my friend in her expected position in front of the TV, which would prompt me to gather up a book or my laptop and head out the door. 

MacDougal street is usually busy. Its proximity to the park and number of comedy clubs and jazz lounges attract tourists, but still glimmers with that old New York charm the tourists can’t quite chase out. Summer nights were especially crowded, and the hot air hung thick with cigarette smoke and cooking grease. There was a constant static of honking and yelling, but walking on MacDougal was a lot more appealing than getting a headache from the harsh blue light from the TV. 

I’d always end up at the same place, Caffe Reggio. The ever vibrant kelly green façade makes the cafe stand out amongst other storefronts fighting for the same attention. Tiny bistro tables are strategically placed under the awnings, leaving little room for comfort. Inside, the cafe is cramped, warm, and dark. But there is something special about the cafe -  the walls are coated with a rich terracotta color and are filled with magnificent works of art. Paintings dating back centuries hang on the walls, bronze busts sit on shelves, eyeing patrons who pay no attention to the art. These same patrons sit and eat on intricately carved wooden benches once owned by the Medici family in the 1400’s. Caffe Reggio isn’t just another relic of Greenwich Village; it is a museum. 

MacDougal and Bleeker Street are dotted with the haunts of countless writers, artists, beat poets, and troubadours. Some of these clubs and cafes have survived the unforgiving economic climate of the city, such as Cafe Wha?, Dante NYC (formerly known as Caffe Dante), The Bitter End, and Caffe Reggio. Each of these places adapted in their own way to the ever-changing demands of New York City. Cafe Wha?, known to be the first place Bob Dylan performed in New York, now provides live music through their house band, which plays an assortment of popular music appealing to tourists, which now make up about 40% of their patronage. Dante NYC is another favorite spot of mine, an elegant Italian cafe with checkerboard floors, huge windows, and a splendid Negroni special. The cafe has been around for over 100 years, and is a favorite of everyone from Patti Smith, to Whoopi Goldberg, to Al Pacino. The Bitter End is still staying true to their roots, serving as a platform for burgeoning artists in the NYC scene. 

It’s where I played my first show in the city. What a treasure of a memory, a 22 year old me standing on stage gripping the neck of my guitar as I nervously told the audience about my song. Through the haze of the lights, I looked out into the crowd to see my mother’s face, all of my friends, strangers, and a portrait of Joni Mitchell painted on the wall. She stared back at me cooly with a cigarette balanced between two fingers. At that moment I knew I was in the right place at the right time. 

I feel lucky, Greenwich Village was my stomping grounds for four thrilling months. The neighborhood was always emitting a low hum of energy that I could dip into when my spirits were low. The city is exhausting and demands your best, but yields inspiration and reassurance with moments of wonder. For me, Caffe Reggio was the place I could visit to come back down to earth, when the city had drained me and I needed to be reminded why I was there. I watched myself fall back into the city’s rhythm, and divulged my secrets to journals while sitting in that cafe. I sat back and enjoyed my own evolution, catalyzed by the burn of the summer. I was fueled by cappuccinos, ambition, and the thrill of the chase - searching for a better self, learning to survive. But it wasn’t only my love for the city that built me, but devotion to myself that made all the difference.