As referenced in a Wall Street Journal newspaper blog(http://blogs.wsj.com/metropolis/2010/06/23/in-the-bronx-a-floating-pool-but-no-shuttle-to-get-there/), the worst feature of The Floating Pool Lady swimming-pool-on-a-barge is the difficulty in getting there.
My friend and I decided not to be put off by others' fear of the Bronx or derision of public pools as being "ghetto." So, after a great morning at Orchard Beach (separate review), we traveled back down on the 6 train to the Longwood stop, prepared for a 1-mile hike to the barge. MTA Trip Planner tells you to go to the Hunts Point stop, then take some bus - don't do this, because after the bus, you have to walk a mile anyway to get to Barretto Point Park.
We surfaced to a dirty street full of no-name discount businesses. No big deal - it looked just like North Williamsburg or something, and there were plenty of people going about their daily business. Walking East, we went under the Bruckner Expressway, and suddenly it was like the post-apocalypse. The pockmarked streets got super wide and empty, and there was not another human being around. There was a four-way intersection with no lights or stop signs. Random trucks and low-riding cars with lights creepily on slowed, honked, and stared.One dude screamed, "Goin' to the POOL???"
At an intersection where there were apartment buildings, hope was restored. But then we took a right onto Tiffany, and then it was all junkyards, auto shops, and warehouses with broken (or bulleted? Seriously...) windows. Here, the catcalls from groups of men, whether they looked like kind grandfathers or teenage thugs, became worse. A couple times, they followed us , making sucking noises, clapping their hands, and shouting. Staring at the stains on the ground, I wondered if they were blood or rust as a montage of every mafia and gangster movie I had ever seen ran through my head. In a moment of hilarity, we saw a wholesome looking "Baby Spinach and Arugula" truck up on a curb...with a shattered windshield. For the first time in my life, my heart palpitated with fear in broad daylight (and I've walked alone in rough and poverty-stricken areas all around the world before.)
The last 100-yard stretch was permeated with an incredible stench of trash and opened up to a tiny little park with a ribboned gazebo. Someone was actually having a wedding reception there, and there were women and children frolicking in fountains. So weird.
As we walked towards the boat, a young girl with a park shirt on screeched "HEY! Over HERE!" We walked to the entrance, where she was standing with a woman who asked us if we were wearing bathingsuits. "Show me your bottoms," she commanded.
The locker room was spotless. One freezing cold spigot in the showers spurted water endlessly. I asked a guard if it was possible to shut the water off. "It's just running," she said with indifference.
A ramp led us to a blue 82' x 52' rectangle of 4-foot deep water filled with tattooed men in wifebeaters and exultant children. I asked how they'd all gotten there, and they'd done The Walk, too. There was no other way.
Finding a ladder by the one roped off lane, we started to enter. A fat local kid who was about 12 years old played police and asked if we were going to swim laps. Don't worry, kid, we said, we'd swim laps. The kids next to him shouted, "You're not even swimming laps!" and I said, "Yeah. You're not even swimming." Scowling, he shrugged, and pushed off into a fat kid butterfly stroke for about ten feet. It was like a scene from "Raising Victor Vargas," but with prepubescents instead of teens.
So we swam. Every once in a while, some 30 year old with crazy eye and gold teeth would jump into the lane and thrash around until one of the vigilant lifeguards would remind him he had to do laps or get lost. And my friend had her breasts touched by the 12-year old fatty perv. But no matter; we did what we came to do. We saw that the pool existed, and that some locals can get there. Yeah, there were about 20 teen lifeguards and tons of rules, but I'm glad they had jobs, and doing them right to preserve a tiny watery haven in a no-man's (or rather, no-woman's) land.
Hey, this is a great, well managed pool, but if you have a vagina, pack a crowbar and some thugs to get to it. I worry about what the people in the East Bronx (especially women and children) have to go through to get to their local pool. As for me, having a choice in the matter, I will probably never come here again. I doubt that this sentiment is the intention of the floating pool; I mean, is the moral of this story that I should on my side of "The Line" (96th and below), where the scariest thing is wealthy white women in designer gladiator sandals? I hope not. read more