Letters from New York 2: Soti Triantafillou

Slow Train by Soti Triantafillou

I went south on a slow train that ran through Trenton, New Jersey. Back in the nineteen eighties, I used to stand on the turnpike hitchhiking westwards. It’s a desolate landscape now, full of boarded up factories, abandoned warehouses and rusting machinery. The rivers are green and slimy – I remember that old song about a green river and barefoot girls dancing in the moonlight. A Creedence Clearwater Revival song.

They were different times with different rivers. Continue reading

Letters from New York 1: Soti Triantafillou

Alphabet City Photo Soti Triantafillou

The February sun is setting in red and in orange. I’ve already got sick three times and recovered four. The city is blinking and the gardens look electric. Halcyon days went on until Mardi Gras; they are still going on. Early in the morning I’m standing at the bus stop on Avenue D, in front of the grim Edison Plant – chilly winds are blowing from the river. I’m back in Alphabet City, back after almost thirty years. I used to walk through gauntlets, the neighborhood was a shooting alley. Never was I afraid – cities are like dogs, when you’re frightened they attack you. Continue reading