LSD, John Lennon, and Lime Popsicles

“Bottoms up,” I joke as we press small slivers of blotter paper against our tongues, swallowing them before hustling down the metro stairs to catch the L train. There’s just enough time to make it to Central Park before the acid kicks in. This is how Alex and I are ringing in summer solstice of 2021.

This is my second visit to Central Park in the four days since landing in New York. I am 36 years old and a seasoned traveler, but New York City has intimidated me too much to brave a visit until now. When my friend Gerry packed his belongings and moved to Brooklyn in the thick of the pandemic, I took that as the perfect excuse to finally give New York a whirl, once vaccines rolled out. Although the summer of 2021 was not to be as “hot and vaxxed” as many had hoped, here I am at last. And I fell for New York as soon as my feet touched the pavement. I love its grit and its grime, its determined pace. I love the bagels, the pizza, the street art. Most of all, I love the human soup. There is not one group of people, nor subculture, that is not represented here.

Alex and I have not been dating long. It’s so new, in fact, that I’m still not sure about the relationship, although that is slowly changing. Despite my doubts, we moved in together a month ago, and when he asked to join me here in New York, I said yes. He has bumbled through this city many times and knows how to get around, making me feel like slightly less of a tourist.

Before he arrived, Gerry somehow convinced me to ride bikes from Williamsburg to the Upper East Side, even though it was during rush hour traffic in midtown Manhattan and I rarely ride bikes. I thought I was going to perish many times, and I suspect a few other bikes and skateboarders wished I would. But after what felt like an eternity of huffing, puffing, and near-misses, we arrived at the maw of Central Park and sprawled out with a spliff on Sheepshead Meadow (New York has recently relaxed laws around cannabis, and the freedom to do this openly is sweet like an orange). Evening clouds chugged slowly across the blue June sky, and as all fell quiet again, New York City softened into a landscape of rolling green and colossal trees against enormous spires. “Welcome, finally,” it seemed to say.

I cannot recall if Alex or I hatched the idea to dose in Central Park. However, if I had harbored any uncertainty about using psychedelics in this new setting before, that first experience there with Gerry melted it away. I wanted to spend an entire day elevated in the beating heart of New York, and to do it in technicolor.

We planned to begin our adventure at Strawberry Fields and headed toward the West 72nd St. entrance. I don’t know why I failed to make the connection earlier that the Dakota, the apartment building that John Lennon called home for years before he was shot to death in front of it, would only be feet away from the famed Imagine mosaic here honoring him. Feeling a strangely strong pull, I ask Alex if we can make a brief detour.

No one else is in front of the darkened, elegant arched entryway of the Dakota; the energy is appropriately haunting. As I stand there, it dawns on me that Lennon himself would have highly approved of our plan for this afternoon. His appreciation for Central Park, and for LSD, was legendary. I don’t tell Alex, but secretly feel his spirit will be with us for the rest of the day.

Strawberry Fields is a designated “quiet zone” of Central Park, but the first thing we notice beyond the Imagine memorial is a child’s birthday party. It seems idyllic at first, until punctured by an aggressive howl. We see a well-dressed mother sternly leading a red-faced boy in a dapper suit away from the park as he shrieks, “This is the worst party ever!” This drama strikes us as comical and we break into a cackling fit. I ask Alex if he’s feeling anything yet. “A tickle,” he tells me. We take the sylvan trail through the bird sanctuary, and the leaf-shaped shadows on the path seem to expand and contract as iridescent sunlight flows between them.

Suddenly, we’re stepping out into the sunlight and we’re at the iconic Bow Bridge. I’m peaking now, and everything is shimmering. Central Park Lake is the color of glittering jade stone, peppered with paddleboats drifting along with friends and loves. Manhattan stretches up like a series of rising giants toward the summer sky beyond the tree line. Someone is playing a Chinese violin on the other side of the bridge, and I can practically see the notes floating like sweet incense smoke tendrils through the air. Existence is so exquisite in this moment that my chest hurts.

Alex leads us around the lake. I am in awe of the giant boulders; rocks of this size are common along the rivers and cascading waterfalls of the Blue Ridge mountains I call home, but it is surprising to see them in the middle of a megacity. We climb some and share one of several joints rolled for the day. The ducks and turtles are basking on this afternoon as well. As we continue walking, we come across a gaggle of teenagers with neon hair. “Look at the turtles!” they gasp in amazement, mouths agape, hugging each other. “Oh my God! How cute are they!” We notice that all their pupils are dilated like saucers, and we hold our laughter until the teens are out of earshot. “Do you suppose they’re having what we’re having?” I ask.

Psychedelics suppress the appetite, but when we reach the Great Lawn and its food carts, I am struck with a fierce craving. Twice in the last two weeks, my desire for a lime-flavored popsicles has been thwarted: the first time, a group of children beat me to the punch when popsicles were brought out at an outdoor gathering of friends, and the second was here, days ago when Gerry and I arrived after that harrowing bike journey. I had nearly keeled over with joy upon finding a popsicle cart, only to be crushed when the vendor explained he had just run out of lime. The coconut flavored one that I settled for had not quite cut it. Now, glinting in the sunlight, was another cart, I sprint towards it in a beeline, shouting something unintelligible to Alex. Lo, this vendor has what I have been seeking: a frosty, electric green lime popsicle.

Peeling off the wrapper feels like accepting an achievement award trophy. Alex teases me briefly and then pulls out his camera and tripod to get a few shots of the performing jazz band that has spontaneously appeared; live musicians of all genres seem to be around every corner in Central Park. I select a tree to sit under in the meantime, the shade slowing the dripping of my popsicle. This is the best thing in the world to me right now, and I want to savor each second of it.

I have a startling realization halfway through my popsicle that, this time a year ago, I wanted to die. The suicidal ideation followed an unearthing of personal betrayal, lies, and injustice (oddly coinciding with the rest of country exploding with rage in the wake of the murder of George Floyd, the pandemic’s strain reaching its flashpoint). I was more alone than I’d ever been before; a year later, the hundreds of people around me today in Central Park right now haven’t a clue about this world of difference.

Had I my druthers this time last year, there would be no glorious turtles in Central Park for me today, no violin notes on the Bow Bridge. I would never learn, as I would later that day, about the massive bronze Alice in Wonderland statues near the boathouse in Central Park, or find out that Gerry has scored us tickets for a DJ event in Bushwick that night. Alex and I never would have taken the autumn hike six months ago that turned out to be a first date, which would lead to us being here at this moment in time and space.

This epiphany does not trouble or sadden me. Truly, it is more bewildering than anything. Trippy, I think.

All of a sudden, I am left with a barren, green-tinged stick in my hand. I tuck it away, deciding to keep it as a souvenir of the sweeter things life can bring, before scampering off to meet my partner to seize the rest of what this summer solstice has to offer.