Major streets are blocked off. The subway is packed. Sidewalks are crowded and Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger” blares from multiple directions, the bass turned up so earth-shatteringly loud that it can be heard through the Nassau Station underground. Despite all the commotion, the atmosphere in Greenpoint is not one of stress. It seems that today, on the morning of the 2017 TCS New York City Marathon, New Yorkers do not mind the disruption to the city’s sights and sounds.

At the corner of Manhattan Avenue and Greenpoint Avenue, spectators crowd along the street to see runners prepare to cross the Pulaski Bridge, marking the halfway point of the race. Neighborhood residents and international travelers alike bring the enthusiasm, practically dangling off fire escapes to wave posters and handing out free bananas by the bunch on the sidelines. There is a slight drizzle in the air, but that doesn’t deter the bands set up every few blocks playing covers of 80’s rock songs.

Christina, a resident of the neighborhood, came to the bustling intersection to cheer on three of her friends. “I’m two for three so far. I missed one,” she says, her neon pink poster rolled up below her arm. She has watched the race here four times now, though she claims she would never want to run it herself. Still, she loves the energy that the race brings to her area. “I think it’s really inspirational, and the camaraderie is great.”

While some only have to go out on their balconies or sit on their porches to see the race, others have to plan their trips months or even years in advance. Sharon, a woman in her mid forties, came all the way from South Africa with her husband to cheer him on in his first marathon. She stands on the sideline with a friend waving a full-size South African flag. She has never visited the city before this week, but her husband’s decision was more about timing than location. “Basically, it was in a year’s time from when the decision was made, and that’s enough time to train,” she says with a shrug.

A sight that brings a smile to the faces of nearly every runner that passes is a man in a full cow costume leaning over the sideline barrier, furiously rattling a cowbell and screaming cheers. Brian, who is from Seattle, is donning the outfit to cheer on his girlfriend and her sister, and chose the location because it’s nearby their Airbnb room. His favorite part of the race so far is the reactions of runners when they see total strangers cheering them on. “You can call anybody’s name here,” he says, then proves his point by screaming, “LET’S GO, MARY!” at a passing runner in a pink t-shirt with her name printed across the front.

The Butterfly Conservatory at the American Museum of Natural History in New York is now open for its 20th season. This year, organizers’ plans for the conservatory were disrupted by hurricanes.

The Butterfly Conservatory features species from Costa Rica, Thailand, Malaysia, Ecuador, Kenya, Australia and Florida that fly freely around visitors in the museum’s 1,200-square-foot vivarium, according to a news release. The vivarium is kept at around 80 degrees and is filled with tropical plants to recreate a tropical environment within the museum.

In past years the tropical plants came from Florida. This year, though, the plants were sourced from the New York City area after hurricanes destroyed many of the plants originally planned for the vivarium, said Daniel Jacobs, a volunteer who has been working at the conservatory for the past 18 years. “We had to scramble to put it together,” he said.

Jacobs said the type of plant is important for the health of the butterflies. “We were very careful when we acquired these to get the proper host plants for the butterflies,” Jacobs said. Still, because the plants are not from Florida, Jacobs said the butterflies would need to be carefully monitored to ensure they are compatible with the plants.

Jennifer Birdie, a higher education worker who recently moved to New York City from Coconut Creek, Fla. – known as the “Butterfly Capital of the World” – said she came to the museum specifically to see the butterflies. “I think part of it is nostalgia from back home,” she said.

Birdie said after living in New York City for three weeks, it was refreshing to see the nature and wildlife in the vivarium. “We take it for granted where I just came from. You walk down the street and there’s butterflies everywhere.”

“I think this is a good educational opportunity for kids, but also for adults,” she said.

Visitors to the conservatory can watch butterflies emerge from chrysalises inside the vivarium, and displays outside the vivarium educate visitors about different butterfly species, efforts to protect butterfly habitats and the ways butterflies help researchers study ecosystems.

Nick Krachler, a Cornell University doctorate student from Austria, visiting New York City for the weekend, said he appreciated conservatory volunteers’ willingness to teach visitors about the butterflies. Referring to one of the volunteers he said, “She had a piece of orange, and there was a butterfly sitting on it, and she showed us the butterfly closer and told us a bit about it.” He said he enjoyed being able to walk freely among the butterflies, and added that butterflies had landed on his shirt.

The Butterfly Conservatory, open now through May 28, has been visited by millions of children and adults in its time at the museum, according to the news release.

Explaining why he thought the conservatory was such an attraction, Jacobs said, “In the middle of winter, this is an oasis. Where in the city are you going to find a tropical environment at 82 degrees?”

My grandfather and I like to sit on the patio. When I lived back in Costa Rica, we did so every Sunday. He enjoys reading “La Nación,” a conservative Costa Rican newspaper, while I would take “Revista Dominical,” a weekly supplement about culture.

The silence was serene and every so often we would comment on the news of the week. “They’ve stolen a lot of money,” he would say routinely. I would agree, and the quiet, peaceful, satisfactory reading goes on.

The afternoon’s sun would fall and the wind from outside would progressively chill our faces. Around that time, my grandmother tends to join us outside. She hands my grandfather a sweater, and sits down beside us, contemplative. Looking toward the pool and the large looming wall behind it, where a great backyard used to be.

Fernando Cruz and Ana Rosa Lizano ran into some money troubles back in early years of this century. Those tumultuous times are forgotten now, gossip is no longer whispered in phone conversations between sketchy and irrelevant members of the non-nuclear family. Yet, the large looming wall continues to be a symbol of tougher times, of not getting too decadent with opulence. A remainder of an earlier epoch, of their old Miami apartment, of luxurious Mercedes Benz cars, of buying their own house in the affluent Escazú neighborhood.

But that is too recent when recounting my grandfather’s story. It begins in a small Costa Rican town called Grecia. His mother fathered a lot of children, many whom she abandoned. The fact that his own father didn’t recognize him didn’t help.

As a young boy, many nights were spent sleeping on strangers’ porches. He couldn’t get further than the second grade. He had to work to feed himself. He sold gum on the streets. Every once in a while, one of his uncles acknowledged him, when he was feeling up to it.

I’m convinced my grandfather’s positive attitude towards life was the key to his success. To this day, he looks back on his life with pride. He recalls anecdotes with a sense of nostalgia that I find surreal. “When I was about fifteen, I got a job washing car tires,” he said and continued, “In the old times, people got that service at gas stations. It was like something everybody did. I would throw buckets of water at the ties. I was pretty good! The richest people in the country would come to get their tires washed.”

Later on, my grandfather managed to get a truck driver gig. He did endless commutes around the country, transporting wood. We seldom talk about that time, probably because the sheer monotony of it doesn’t lend itself to much storytelling.

Afterwards, he became friends with the owners FACO, a profitable Costa Rican car agency. They gave him a job not because of his professional background, but because of his stupendous social skills with clients. My grandfather is a charm. He’s funny, he has a great personality, and he drinks. His health doesn’t allow him for more than one occasional whisky now, but before, social drinking was a nightly custom.

Eventually he became one of the company’s main executives. My heart breaks when I think about a boy, from Grecia, all white-skin, blond, and green-eyed. He barely looks Costa Rican. He’s sleeping on a porch. He’s working mundane jobs to survive. He can’t continue his education. At the blink of an eye, the shift of the cosmos, and he’s a car agency executive.

Suddenly, he has enough money to start his own car agency. He creates NASA from scratch, traveling around the world, making deals with Ford. He introduces their brand to Costa Rica. Trips to Tokyo are now customary. My grandmother still conserves a beautiful kimono from that time.

Somewhere along the way, my grandfather met my grandmother. She’s originally from Alajuela. Both of her parents were teachers, and she became an educator herself.

My grandfather arrived very late to his own wedding. Only two people in the world know the story behind it: the friend that drove him to the ceremony and himself. Whenever we arrive at that topic, he whispers to me, “One day, you’ll be the third,” and he continues, “It’s such an incredible story, truly unbelievable. It could be made into a movie.” He has me whining and begging in a second. “But I want to know now,” I say and continue, “You always say the same thing. When will you tell me the story?”

“Someday,” he says.

When I first inquired to my grandmother about it, she shrugged her shoulders. “I almost thought he had left me at the altar,” she said and continued, “He’s always been mischievous. I wouldn’t believe a word about some sort of incredible story.”

“But I do,” I said and continued, “He said it was movie-material.”

“He probably just took too much time getting ready,” she said and continued, “You know your grandfather, when he gets ready, he’s worse than a woman going to a party.”

I can attest to that from personal experience. We are always late to dinners and parties and other events because of his calm approach to time. “We’ll get there, don’t worry about it,” he says. He flashes me the gentlest smile.

My mother says he only shares that look with me. He used to share it with her, but stopped a few decades ago. They drifted apart, but that’s a story for another time.

My grandmother’s screams echo through their home. “Fernando! We should have left thirty minutes ago,” she says. He ignores her when she’s being too pushy.

I spared a glance at my mother, who lights a cigarette, “Oh, Dad, I can’t believe Mom hasn’t get used to him by now,” she says.

My mother says my grandfather used to be very intense. Very angry. He used to be known as Macho Tigre, which translates to blond tiger. I’ve never seen him live up to that nickname.

He doesn’t scream as he used to anymore. At least that’s what my aunt says. My grandmother disagrees. “Your grandfather still conserves that spark,” she says.

My mother says the last time she saw him truly angry was when they had to build the big looming wall. Bills were adding up. My grandfather had to sell his own company: reckless spending of money by someone who recently acquired it. That sort of lifestyle doesn’t last forever.

I think his face carries the remains of a life lived. Each wrinkle is a struggle, a trip, a work, a client, a car, a drink. Many of them are drinks. He gained a lot of money; he lost it. The apartment in Miami is gone, so is the large backyard. Their home property used to be twice its size. Now, the large looming wall bisects it.

My grandmother stares at that wall a lot. My grandfather sits in front of it with sort of easiness I cannot comprehend. It’s very much like his current approach to life.

“I’m happy now,” he says and continues, “I have a beautiful family. Your mother, your aunt, you. Your two little cousins. Your grandmother. I keep my home. You’re getting a great education. I cannot ask for any more.”

I’m humbled by such statements. My eyes get watery, but I don’t want him to notice. Suddenly, he stands up from his chair in the patio. He looks at both my grandmother and me. “Who’s up for a game night?” he asks and continues, “Let’s even bet money…I’m going to go get some quarters.”

By Ismail Ibrahim

On Wednesday, February 1^st the Muslim Students Association held a rally on the Kimmel steps to show solidarity for students affected by the travel ban, as well as those who oppose the president’s proposal to build a wall along the Mexican border. The student association brought in a diverse group of speakers, including some personally affected by the ban and some who grew up along the Mexican-American border and are opposed to the wall.

The president of the Muslim Students Association, Afraz Khan, spoke last, leading the rally in a dua asking God for strength in these trying times. I spoke to Afraz after the prayer service, and he told me that the goal of the rally was “not only to raise awareness on campus, but also to reinvigorate a spirit in people to make sure they keep pushing forward. The spirit of compassion and the spirit of empathy.” After the speeches in Kimmel, the Muslim students completed their obligatory Isha’a prayer under Washington Square Arch, which Afraz told me was “a way for Muslims themselves to unapologetically display their identity.”

A hat worn by one of the rally attendees that reads “love” in Arabic

The ban has deeply affected members of the NYU community. Khalad abu Tawas, an eighteen-year-old Palestinian-American student said that he believes “the recent news is indicative to me that the nation is making a shift towards something negative and dangerous and could jeopardize not only the Muslim community but every minority community in the States.”