Every time I walk south on Mott Street, I feel as though I’m walking backward through time.
Long before I knew the history beneath these streets, I knew this part of Manhattan through my father. He would take me to Parisi Bakery for bread, Jefferson Market for meat and Balducci’s for fruit before we made our way to South Street and my beloved grandmother’s apartment for a feast.
Near Mott Street’s southern end, the sidewalks narrow. The smell of noodles, bao and Chinese pastries drifts from storefronts while signs bearing Chinese characters climb the brick facades.
It’s unmistakably New York, but also a world unto itself, one of those rare corners where another culture has not merely survived, but taken root.
Chinatown.
There, where Mott meets Mosco, the Church of the Transfiguration comes into view.
It’s not grand in the way St. Patrick’s Cathedral is grand. No broad avenue before it, and no soaring spires rise over the city. Built of rough fieldstone, it holds its ground amid the daily tumult of Chinatown.
At the risk of starting an argument with half of New York … I think it may be the most interesting church in the city.
Not because
