The New York Times-20080125-All of America- And Parking Too
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All of America, And Parking Too
Full Text (1613 words)WHEN people set out on a jaunt to a town they have never visited, they inevitably spend a short time touring some second-tier natural wonder -- be it crag or cataract -- or a building where Louisa May Alcott once slept, or a gimcrack museum containing the quill Washington Irving supposedly used to pen Rip Van Winkle. But mostly they spend their time shopping, because shopping is what Americans like to do. And when they are not shopping, they are eating.
Given these facts, it is surprising how reluctant we are to think of a suburban mall as a suitable destination for a day trip. Because run-of-the-mill malls generally lack charm, are rarely shrouded in myth, and are usually teeming with boisterous teens, they are instinctively sneered at by the lofty-aspirations day-trip crowd. Yet a truly capacious, well-appointed mall, accepted on its own merits, has infinitely more to offer thrill seekers than those picayune hamlets that dot the landscape, with their solitary diner, dowdy bookstore, canny antiques dealers and dodgy museum. In this sense, malls may be our most overlooked diversionary resource.
I recently spent an entire day at the Palisades Center mall in West Nyack, N.Y., a megalopolis of roughly 250 stores just a bit northwest of New York City. Neither a mall lover nor a mall hater, I initiated this endeavor without prejudice, setting out to do things I would not normally do elsewhere, to buy things that might not have readily been bought in other places.
Purging myself, to the extent that this was possible, of all ironic preconceptions, I brought to this adventure the same level of excitement I would have brought to a jaunt to Mystic Seaport or Valley Forge. Perhaps even more.
From the outside, the Palisades Center has little to recommend it. Vast, inert, lacking any discernible architectural theme, and plunked down next to the cheerless Interstate that leads to the Tappan Zee Bridge, the mall is often described as a series of interlocking coffins. The Brutalist exterior conveys the impression that some senescent, unemployed Eastern Bloc architect was summoned to the developer's office and threatened with severe reprisals against his family if he dared to introduce a single visual nuance suggesting that someone had actually designed the building. The visible trash gondolas that greet visitors when they enter from the I-287 side do not help.
Inside the cavernous structure, things improve dramatically. With pipes and panels and air-conditioning vents laid bare, the four sprawling floors suggest a retail version of the Centre Pompidou. The gargantuan, airy building is built around a series of atriums, suggesting that it had been modularly assembled by an industrious but agoraphobic child.
Gigantic malls like this operate on the same principle as Manhattan: a small group of ugly buildings and you've got Akron; a large group of ugly buildings and you've got the Gotham skyline. Vastness was one of its original selling points; with so many stores, it was always envisioned as a tourist destination in and of itself, potentially rivaling the Mall of America in Bloomington, Minn., which boasts its own amusement park. (Actually, neither the Mall of America nor the Palisades can hold a candle to the 800-store West Edmonton Mall in Alberta, which has its own water park, more than 100 places to eat, a theme hotel and, yes, four submarines.)
The basic lineup at the Palisades mall, which opened in 1998, is that murderer's row of retail establishments replicated throughout this great nation: Target, Pottery Barn, Nine West, Ann Taylor, Barnes & Noble, Macy's. What gives the mall its cachet are the attractions that do not fit this generic model. The Ferris wheel on Level 3 is a good example; taking a Ferris wheel ride inside a mall before lunch is one of those experiences that defines the underappreciated concept of adult hooky. The same holds true for a midmorning skate around the ice rink that takes up a large part of Level 3.
Even more nostalgic is the bowling alley tucked away on the top floor. When you enter Lucky Strike Lanes, you cannot help noticing the waitresses in short skirts and spiky heels who serve drinks in its restaurant. But off to the side sit a dozen bowling lanes, and there an army of festive tykes can usually be found futilely hurling bowling balls down the lanes. Though I had not bowled in a quarter-century, I acquitted myself admirably, narrowly holding off a late charge from Brianna and Jasmine. Brianna was about 11, Jasmine perhaps 6. I take my victories where I can get them.
Best Buy was an unexpected treat, because even though the compact disc business is dying, it is not dying fast enough to prevent some people from buying compact discs. Seemingly embarrassed to continue purveying such dismally anachronistic merchandise, Best Buy had stocked its vestigial supply of CDs in no particular order, with Carlos Santana abutting Esa-Pekka Salonen, John Coltrane arrayed next to Charlotte Church, and the Mahavishnu Orchestra lined up right beside Gustav Mahler's Fifth Symphony.
I picked up two dirt-cheap Elvis Costello rarities, three CDs by the British folk-rock legend Richard Thompson, a new rendering of Beloved Steppe Favorites by Valery Gergiev and the Kirov Orchestra, and the first album Wes Montgomery ever made. The 12 CDs -- none of which I needed, all of which I wanted -- set me back $125. Name a rustic village where I could make off with a haul of swag like that. Name one.
The cashier at Best Buy told me that the best restaurant in the mall was a Japanese place on the top floor called East. Its selling point was a conveyor belt that trundled tasty comestibles past the diner at eye level; you simply grabbed whatever tickled your fancy and the waitress totaled up the damage later. The food was the usual predictable suburban sushi -- save for one memorable offering: the Philadelphia Roll, which consisted of salmon, caviar, avocado and the obligatory dollop of cream cheese. As is the case with just about every cheese steak or soft pretzel I have ever eaten outside the Delaware Valley, the Philadelphia Roll was culturally inauthentic but by no means inedible. Just for the record, however, and to mollify Keystone State purists, there is no such thing as a Philadelphia Roll, just as there is no such thing as Baked Alabama or a New Mexico Strip Steak.
After dropping by Books Kinokunaya to page through some riveting special-interest magazines aimed at Japanese Goths, I spent a few minutes inspecting the oversized mariachi guitars and squeeze boxes at Rincon Musical. Rincon Musical is one of those lovable establishments that does not fit the Ann Taylor/Nine West template, a store whose very incongruity makes it a source of delight to the weary shopper.
I bought a Hohner harmonica that I intend to learn to play once I officially enter the crusty old varmint phase of my life, then headed down to the Pet Company to inspect the parrotfish. A fish lover from birth, but not enough of an ichthyophile to travel all the way from suburban Westchester to the Coney Island Aquarium, I relished the opportunity to watch these fugitives from the briny deep gambol and frolic.
The pet store, which also does a nice trade in schnauzers and Rottweilers, was ingeniously positioned between Kidzy City, a theme restaurant for the preadolescent set, and a tattoo parlor called Body Ink. This arrangement required toddlers to brush past stocky, self-involved young men whose supply of epidermis that had not been pierced or adorned in some way was rapidly dwindling, but who nonetheless lacked that aura of funereal menace long associated with tattooed men back in the Shanghai Pete and Vinny the Leech Era. As usual, the kids looked scarier than the guys marinated in body art.
After the statutory consultation with one of those aggressive purveyors of Dead Sea salts that haunt such establishments, followed by a pit stop at the ethnic ice cream store, I strolled into the video arcade to rub shoulders with hoi polloi, who were well represented that afternoon. Then, eschewing the Imax theater, which was offering a thrilling program about dinosaurs, I took a merry carousel ride followed by a solitary game of pool.
What I didn't do that day could have kept other visitors amused for hours -- sports-theme bars, upscale department stores, a gift shop specializing in heavy-metal accessories, and even a gallery displaying those ingratiatingly hideous paintings that make Norman Rockwell's work look as if he studied with Velazquez. I had covered all of my bases here -- culture, cuisine, Americana, nostalgia, irony, exfoliation; the only thing missing was the Louisa May Alcott connection. Or maybe not.
On the way back to my car, I happened to notice a tidy wave of gravestones on a hill that was otherwise completely engulfed by the parking lot. Mount Moor Cemetery, I soon discovered, was home to African-Americans, many of them war veterans from conflicts ranging all the way back to the Civil War.
Say what you like: Neither the Mall of America nor the West Edmonton Mall nor any other mall you can think of can boast of a 19th-century cemetery filled with African-American war heroes right in the middle. So take that, Cooperstown; take that, Amherst. I had entered the Palisades Mall in the morning expecting almost nothing; I left it at the end of the day filled with glowing respect. From Kidzy City to the Mount Moor Cemetery, this place has you covered from cradle to grave.
[Illustration]PHOTOS (PHOTOGRAPHS BY ALAN ZALE FOR THE NEW YORK TIMES; ILLUSTRATION BY THE NEW YORK TIMES) (pg. F4)