Do not look at the roses. They are a distraction, a colorful blur, as you accelerate under yellow, then red, signals. Look amongst the weeds, the disheveled, distasteful zip of floral disfunction that can be the barrier between those that travel north and those who prefer south.
All the best things are over-looked because they lack such formal amplitude, yet they buzz with oscillations, first this, then that, layer upon layer of dissonant fecundity. Step outside, move toward the river, cross three lanes, real casual, enter the barrier and pull exquisite earthiness from the soil. Do not cross against the signal. Clean. Eat.
There are thousands of Wild Garlic, Allium vineale, bulbs from roughly W12th Street up towards the 40s. Two hot spots: W13th-ish and W22nd-ish and West Side Highway. Be safe, thank me later.