New York Botanical Garden: Smelling Death, finding Love

It was back in high school when I read about “Amorphophallus Titanum” — a flower that might bloom once in more than a decade. No guarantees.

And when it does bloom after years and years of nothing, it’s infamously known as the “corpse flower.” Because its odor, scientists can only describe as smelling like a rotting corpse or carcass.

I’m not kidding. This flower exists. The thing blooms and smells like death.

I decided to write a tragic love poem about the amorphophallus titanum in high school after reading an article about the last time it bloomed.

Poetic: the symbolism of waiting for years for a flower to mysteriously blossom on its own timeline, only to have it smell the worst kind of awful. I know it’s somewhat of a dark-yet-funny poem, but, what a story.

So, as luck would have it, my next destination review is the New York Botanical Garden.

After researching too much about this thing, coincidence and serendipitous timing led me to the greenhouse where it grows.

Hours before, I get on the subway, travel deep into the Bronx — about an hour on the train from Manhattan to look and smell this darn thing. $23 at the gate, and a long trek around the botanical garden to the main attraction, here I am, in front of The Amorphophallus Titanum.

Now, I have an awful sense of smell. This sort of worked in my favor.

Except, the botanical park guides told us the gaseous odor is (un)fortunately on its way out — I guess the peak of the gnarly smell happened the afternoon earlier. And I guess people couldn’t stand in the greenhouse for long before they decided they got their share of the whiff.

Yup. Fast-moving crowds who came from all over the world to smell the death flower, and only for a moment.

I Missed it by One day.

So I didn’t get to really sniff the corpse flower — it didn’t smell like roses, just kind of muggy, that’s if muggy has a smell.

Apparently, I traveled all the long way to miss the entire essence of amorphophallus titanum. But at least I got to stand there for a bit longer, marveling at a plant drawing tourists all around the world.

Is there symbolism in that? Knowing about something for so long, by coincidence and happenstance being in the area as it finally blooms, only to miss its peak. Swing and a miss? Or is it even better to miss the “death” part and only see the captivating blossom.

You following my long-winded esoteric, existential thoughts? Is that sad or is that maybe even better of an experience? I haven’t decided.

Comment below if you think this was good or bad luck. I’m curious.

So, destination: The New York botanical garden. I have more than one story for you at this beautiful spot.

There’s a good walking path around the whole park and small roads diverging … into the woods. Cue poet Robert Frost, “Two Roads Diverge in the Yellow Woods.” And I took the one less traveled by.

I digress. Back to the botanical garden.

It’s a beautiful park that made me feel happy to walk around, taking everything in. It’s the sort of a leisure activity easy to do alone, lending itself to some good photography, so I’m very much enjoying my afternoon.

And you know this blog is all about encouraging you to travel solo. Or at least, try what’s on my plate.

I’m glistening like swine, and huffing and puffing as temperatures in New York City reach over 90-degrees. And I’m only carrying a backpack. There was little shade. There also isn’t food or water stands anywhere on the path. Very unlike Disneyland.

I see a tram that circles the entire park and get on, asking them to alert me when we’re near the rose garden.

This is where I catch the moment, because everyone seated stops talking on the tram nearly all at once.

There’s a woman, gray, slightly hunched over, sweating more than anything. She actually has a cloth, wiping off her intense perspiration. She’s pushing a wheelchair with a man, salt and peppered hair, towards the tram.

He looks much bigger than her, heavier. This can’t be easy.

The guides wave to them and help the man in the wheelchair and his … wife? Cousin? Mother? They help the pair onto the tram.

People are whispering, and I hear someone say, “That is Love.”

Those seated mumur in agreement. And I can’t help but also nod.

I felt like I was seeing the kind of love in this botanical garden some dream of — but after much disappointment, I’d guess most have given up on this kind of love, the one right in front of my eyes.

I’m not kidding when I say I was truly panting in the heat. And here she is, what? Triple my age?

The woman doesn’t complain, gingerly pushing the man towards the tram so they can ride to their next stop.

I watch them for a little bit, very curious about the story behind this. I know, true reporter over here.

I snap some photos of her, because I sincerely want to remember this moment, perhaps as a love litmus test for years to come.

And, well, I take these pictures because I simply wanted to share this story with you here.

I watch the two for most of the ride, wondering how they know each other. She wears a wedding band, and I wish I knew more. I only know, whatever it is, it is Love.

The tram continues, and now I’m only thinking of Love.

My aunt loved roses, so I wanted to get to the rose garden on the other side of the park, even though it felt like a thousand degrees out.

Another type of Love, indeed.

I make it to the rose garden, and… it, like the corpse flower, was sort of an odd letdown. Sigh.

I can imagine how if I visited just a week earlier, this rose garden would have been magical.

The roses are a touch past their prime, some of the most colorful pink and red petals now frying in the sun, withering away. Another swing and another miss.

I walk through the garden for a bit, trying to find some surviving roses to photograph. There’s some good ones, but they’re more difficult to find. More poetry.

I’m wandering around deep in my thoughts when I pause and wonder what my aunt would have said about this place.

I would have loved to show her this garden, maybe when it was better looking.

I’m not trying to make this beautiful destination a downer, these memories actually made it more special. My aunt asked to be buried at Rose Hills Memorial Park in California, surrounded by flowers and roses.

Walking around the garden made me happy.

A spiritual connection where I just feel closer to it all. Regardless of how this rose garden looks.

I walk around thinking what she would have said seeing this. And then I hear it. Part imagination, part strong memory with the faith she would never actually leave her niece.

“How funny. And sad,” is what she would have said describing the burnt roses.

And I had to laugh to myself, thinking about how she would have also laughed, finding those shriveling flowers hilarious.

I did laugh quite a bit too.

There’s even more Love in this botanical garden.

Somewhere I decide she would have liked me to actually stop and smell the roses before heading onto the next exhibit.

So, I do.

They don’t look very pretty, but they smell great and it makes me smile.

Somehow, that’s enough.

I walk around and explore a little more, and I stumble upon an exhibit showcasing Hawaii.

The exhibit is called Georgia O’Keefe: Visions of Hawaii. And walking around, I’m quiet, reflective.

Along the exhibit, there’s specially plucked poems matching the native plants.

It’s beautiful.

The exhibit takes me back to the years I lived in Hawaii, and I feel so much of the love I have for the beautiful plants and nature on the island, and I think about how much love I’ll always have for my students still in Hawaii.

I take a lot of photos — and photograph some of the poems I wanted to share with you.