Bronx Zoo

Going to the zoo alone is a humbling experience. The Bronx Zoo on Wednesday (free day) in the middle of the summer is chaos, a swirling pool of people, colors, languages, screaming children, food, drink, and animal smells. I walked the few blocks to the park at about 2:30 in the afternoon to avoid being overwhelmed, and on entering the gate my first sensation was of being overwhelmed by the heat, the number of people pushing past me to exit, and the sheer size of the place.

Every exhibit I went to seemed like a study on children. By a food stand there were children gently tugging at mother's sleeve, saying, "Momma, I want ice cream." In front of the peacocks there was a little girl telling her brother that they are not people and that's why we call them female and male, female for the girl and male for the boy. I caught myself laughing and she looked up at me innocently. I smiled and nodded, to reassure her that yes, that was correct. Then she smiled back, proudly. When being privy to such intimacy between children and other children and children and their parents, the solo zoo visitor seems to have limited choices. One, to be the anti-social animal viewer, the person who came to the zoo for the singular purpose of seeing the animals and is loathe to be detered from this quest. The animals are the focus of every encounter, and the screaming children and large families only get in the way of sightings.

Then there is the lonely zoo visitor, generally an older person, but not necessarily excluded by youth itself. This person gazes at the animals wistfully, but is really focused on the possibility of human interaction. Objects dropped from tiny hands, little ones running ahead of their parents but unable to locate the cheetah hidden in the grass, kids at picnic tables waiting for their parents to come back bearing checkered paper containers of chicken fingers and french fries that will be half uneaten: these are all excuses for human interaction between a stranger and youth itself.

As I approach the bears I like to think of myself as situated somewhere in between these two extremes. It's not that I have no one to go to the zoo with, its just that I have no one to go with at this very time on this day and have decided to seize the moment myself. I could have waited until the weekend and gone with a lover and a few friends. I could have called a distant friend I have no desire to see and within an hour had a smiling face beside me, all pleasantries and feigned excitement. But I am alone, and seeing animals alone is close to pointless. The small pleasure they arouse quietly in a person is multiplied by exclaiming about beauty or cuteness or size or height to the person accompanying you. And without this, I am left to point out a bear on a hill to a small child who cannot see it. I do not go looking for every human interaction that I can locate, but I find that a small moment with a child is about equal to a very spotted cheetah or a striped antelope I have never seen before.

At the Baboon Cafe I sit alone and eat a three dollar cup of ice cream and drink a three dollar cherry Pepsi. I listen to an Indian family with a three little girls talking, and once the little girl sees my ice cream she can't get her own soon enough. She tells her mother she wants strawberry, and her mother looks at me uncertainly. I shake my head and smile. "They only have chocolate, vanilla, and twist," I tell her. Twist becomes "mix" in her grasping English, and I leave with my drink to walk towards the exit of the park. I have begun to feel ghost-like, only existing as strollers awkwardly bump against me or children speak to me, or my knowledge of the zoo food menu is helpful to a family. I only have fifteen minutes left before the park closes and I head towards more animal exhibits. I don't have enough time for the Mouse House, but I approach the monkey cages. On the cage in front of me is a sign that reads, "We have a new baby!" and I look up to find a tiny baby monkey clinging to the back of its mother. It's precious little face warms my heart and the sign explains it is still too young for the staff to know whether it is a male or female. It receeds into the cage as two boys run up to the cage, pointing, and scream "Monkeys!" I wonder at the origin of this obnoxious and obvious behavior before I see the adults doing the same thing. I tell the boys to be quiet, that they're scaring the baby and it's mother away. When their sister approaches they, in turn, hush her.

Soon more kids and adults approach, pointing like monkeys themselves, loudly naming the animals that are right in front of them. I check the time and see that it is 4:58 and head towards the exit of the zoo. I get caught up in the mob of women with strollers, the Puerto Rican Chulo shirts, the large zoo collector's cups with wolf heads on them, and head outside. I feel relieved that I did something today, and even more relieved that I can walk the few blocks home alone, back towards my air-conditioned apartment where the only creatures around are my two cats.