The streets were slick as I worked my way down the bumpy side walk of Christie Street. Late for me, but not for the neighborhood, it was still on the empty side for a Wednesday night. I caught myself wondering if maybe it was the weather or the money that was keeping people in. Most likely, a little of both.

Past the ragged end of Sarah D Roosevlet Park, turning at the entrance to the Manhattan Bridge and Christie ends and I round the corner along the side of the bridge on Forsyth St. The odors that come from this block are notorious. I pick my way through piles of half rotting produce and tied up bunches of boxes. During the day, the block is a bustling mash of fruit and vegetable vendors, shoe repair men, a grilled meat cart and a smash of people of all stripes coming to get 10 cucumbers for $1. No, you can not get less than 10.

Half way down the block, I notice that it doesn’t stink. In fact, the odor is remarkably pleasant. The smell is such an unexpected oddity that it takes me a moment to place it. It is the fresh, clean, bright smell of watermelon. There were several, must have been recently, smashed watermelons on the side walk. For a brief moment, I was transported to summer and green and waves of southern beaches. All that from just the smell of smashed watermelon on a New York City sidewalk.