Water Street
Upon that crescendo of 0°C in the sunny afternoon, I began my descent down to Water Street, a place that is so New Paltz, that to not think of it in good weather is to be a foreigner. Walking down in a straight line from the hill at the faculty tower until reaching the old abandoned warehouse near the rail trail, I could feel the sun overpower the cold air for the first time in weeks. After finding an old copy of 1984 in the red barn antiques shop (by chance), I headed towards the trail. The rough gravel was covered in icy snow which made it all the more exciting. Flanking the hill down on the right to the shore, I could see the footprints of others who came in the past week to enjoy the frozen view of the river. With the Mohonk tower anchoring the vista, I crept closer to the ice over the water. One step and uncertainty; two feet down and stability. The seconds go by as time is marked by the unencumbered crackling of the ice. Too frozen to break, too frozen to move. One final “crack”… and I fall with the ice. Boots soaked, blood frozen, pants in mud. With nothing but adrenaline hoisting me out, I began to laugh as I soggily ran back to warm up.
— Jacob Kamen
Friday Night Watermelon
It was a typical Friday night in New Paltz — meaning chaos. Main Street pulsed with life, a current of drunk twenty-somethings spilling out of Pigs and McGillicuddy’s, arms slung around each other, voices rising over the bass thumping from open doors. The air smelled like Gourmet pizza, cigarette smoke and the unmistakable tang of a dozen joints being passed between groups.
I was weaving through it all with a couple of friends, dodging a guy on a skateboard who definitely shouldn’t have been on a skateboard, and a girl ranting to no one in particular about the various reasons why she hates Leos. Then, I saw them.
A cluster of people sat cross-legged on the sidewalk, laughing, passing a joint and … eating a watermelon. Not slices. A full watermelon, split in half, its pink flesh spilling out onto the pavement like a crime scene of summer. They were eating it with spoons, completely unbothered.
I slowed down, staring. “Watermelon?” I blurted.
One of them, wide-eyed and grinning, pointed a spoon at me. “YOU WANT SOME?”
“Absolutely!”
They handed me a spoon. I dug in, scooping out a cool, juicy bite, the sweetness a perfect contrast to the humid night. It was absurd. It was perfect.
I handed the spoon back, wiped my mouth and kept walking, the taste of watermelon and community lingering long after I disappeared into the night.
— Maggie Baribault
Snugs
I walk into Snugs as I do most weekends these days after paying my eight dollar cover, struggling to put my ID back in my phone case, take my change and hold out my hand for a stamp all at the same time. I step through the door alone. Snugs is the only bar I dare to show up by myself because I know there will eventually be a friend who wanders in later or is already on the patio smoking the night away.
Before getting my first drink of the night, a Downeast to treat myself, I take my jacket off and hang it on the hooks by the back supply room. They’re pretty high for a 5’3-on-a-good-day person, so a regular at the bar helps me reach it. I turn and see it’s Mondo who always greets me with a “Hi family how are you?” Being family is quite an honorific to me. I give him a quick dap up and hug. He follows up with, “You working tonight camera lady?” as I often am taking photos for the band, but I reply, “Not tonight. I have the night off.” We laugh, and I go to the bar for my drink.
Another regular approaches and immediately says, “Take a guess what my favorite movie is.” I got it wrong several times despite his hints. I believe it was “Dirty Dancing.” I take my drink to the patio and sit in the clouds of secondhand smoke.
— Alyssa Sciarrone
Paltz Party
I’m never on time to parties. There’s a certain pressure that comes with punctuality: the responsibility of quelling the quiet awkwardness before the room is truly buzzing. But there’s something worthwhile about watching a party’s lifespan, start to finish.
On a below-freezing Friday, I arrive at a birthday party at 8:01 p.m. A man in a UFC baseball cap is one of the first to show up. We stand outside and shiver as Uber after Uber docks in the long dark driveway. When we come back to warmth, the new arrivals and groups from earlier blend together in conversation and Just Dance performances.
I join UFC hat in a conversation about his work to learn that he’s a self-proclaimed blue collar worker trained in Italian opera. He runs off to find the birthday boy and ask about giving him a lap dance. And a few rounds of karaoke and cake later, he does. And it’s really impressive.
The night ends on the floor of the back room, where coats and cards are sprawled out across the floor. Someone’s ride waits through a dozen long goodbyes before everyone leaves, and I am the last to depart.
— Devon Jane Schweizer
Dorm Snail
Though pet birthdays have become more socially acceptable, I don’t know how orthodox a snail birthday party seemed. But there I was on a hazy Sunday afternoon, compiling the final questions to my snail jeopardy tournament, as my roommates taped up streamers and paper honeycomb balls. On the table was a single cookie cake, outlined in yellow frosting with the words “Happy 1st Birthday Tuna.” Through the harsh winter cold, the sweltering summer, the crisp, cataclysmic fall, the quiet drop of the New Year’s ball and finally, a mid-February weekend, our dorm pet had made his journey around the sun for the first time.
Tuna, Cornu aspersum, a garden snail, no bigger than two inches, was sitting in the middle of the table on top of his terrarium, surveying the party decor and the guests that soon arrived. Fifteen of us gathered to play jeopardy, eat cookie cake, share stories and ultimately leave with a whole new college experience and some snail knowledge too. Despite Tuna’s poor vision, deafness and overall inability to communicate with humans, I like to think that he enjoyed the festivities too. So, this Paltz Encounter goes out to you, Tuna and my co-parenting roommates.
— Sara Vala