Old People Everywhere

Christopher Alexander wrote that a city feels whole when you see old people everywhere—on benches, at bus stops, in doorways, walking slowly down familiar blocks. He was right. On the Upper West Side, they are the architecture.

In the mornings, I pass them outside Zabar’s and Fairway, exchanging greetings, comparing peaches. They are at the window tables of diners, in the tiny triangle parks that appear between avenues. They know the rhythms of the block better than anyone else: which deli reopened, which brownstone got new windows, which neighbor’s dog died last winter.

They keep the street human. Their presence slows everything down just enough. You can feel a kind of invisible order—an old man who nods to every crossing guard, a woman who always leaves her stoop light on until the kids are home.

Alexander said that a city without old people loses its memory. The Upper West Side hasn’t. It carries its elders like a story that’s still being told, one errand and one park bench at a time.