Tag: yvonne vavra

Getting home is just one of many things that can turn into an epic journey. After all, we’re living in New York City.

Two hundred pedigreed sheep were imported from England, all the same color and size, to complete a picture-perfect pastoral scene.

With every swing, I feel a pang of guilt. Am I taking up space for too long? What’s the etiquette here?

The ice banks that rose after last month’s epic snowstorm are almost finished collapsing into grimy mounds along the curb.

A man got off the bus behind her and, without much ceremony, picked her up and carried her over the ice.

Walkers have never seemed particularly high on the priority list for those calling the shots on the city’s streets.

Ice skating was one of the few socially acceptable ways for women and men to mingle in the 19th century.

I don’t know about you, but once I take a break, I’m convinced I’ll never find my way back.

A new year opens like a blank page, and suddenly change feels possible: That was then, this is now.

A hug is...when your body gets to stop holding itself together. You can exhale fully, without fear of falling apart.

It’s thrilling to witness the epic battle of Man vs. Wind. There he is, dutifully blasting a single leaf across the sidewalk.

Ask anyone who’s lived on the UWS long enough, and they’ll tell you: this neighborhood used to move after dark.

Each of us has mapped the Upper West Side into a personal geography of meaning and desire.

Here, in the temperate region between 59th and 110th Streets, dwells a remarkable urban species: the Upper West Side Bear.

Sometimes it takes losing a few pilings of the past to remind us why it matters.

Strange things began creeping into my consciousness. Turns out, they’re among us all year.

You’ve got to take a low-key approach — especially on the Upper West Side, the city’s unpretentious, charming, slightly neurotic side.

On her UWS walks, columnist Yvonne Vávra finds hiding-in-plain-sight aspects of the neighborhood that the rest of us miss.

When I need something, I don’t rush out to buy it. I wait — until the street gives it to me.

Welcome back, texture, depth, and effort. Rejoice the return of corduroy!