The elevator doors opened and the sun greeted us, softened by the multiple, rain-collecting, bell-shaped towers and looping, flowering and fruiting archways. When the garden sprawl came into view, I couldn't help but immediately smile. Our artfully cared-for rooftop garden, the crown of the Bean Tower, was my favorite place in the world.
As Sinclair and I stepped out of the elevator, a crisp wind greeted us. About 15 stories above the ground, it certainly wasn't a massive building, but it was more than tall enough to get a cool breeze. Even better, it was plenty tall to get a spectacular view.
I threw a bright smile back at him as I stepped out onto the walkway, paved with colorfully-speckled blocks and curls of flowering weeds. "Follow me!"
The pillars standing up from the gardens were small compared to the pillars that supported the train station and our buildings; these were about three feet across, with spirals of flowers, fruits and vegetables in full bloom shooting out from each one. The pillars bloomed outward at their apex, allowing them to collect water, and also shading and sheltering the space. Multi-colored roses climbed the towers and mingled with pink pea flowers, while white daisies, yellow and orange lilies and light pink milkweed reached their flowers outward, and bright red tomatoes, orange, red, yellow, and even purple peppers, and lush, soft peonies, hung down. Each narrow tower, with its riot of color, seemed both perfectly and imperfectly spaced, leaving room for each bloom, while leaving their reaches to whisper and tangle.
Below the towers, loose pathways snaked between teardrop and oval gardens. Trellises made from wood branches and twine held flowering and fruiting vines. There was some order to the grains and vegetables that grew there, but the vibrant colors and tangled leaves and stems almost seemed overgrown.
There were foods and flowers and herbs at every level; long arms of melons and gourds, cucumbers and tomatoes, stretched across the soil, showing colors and shapes many might not have known. Between them, a thick carpet of purslane, coltsfoot, shepherd's purse, mugwort, mustard greens, chrysanthemum greens, amaranth, groundnuts and dozens of others. Climbing just over the lush plants, long beans looped up trellises and dropped their long fingers down, accompanied by thick pigeon peas and cowpeas. Through the different plots, I glimpsed the thick thumbs of pearl millet, quinoa, and flint corn.
Over the pathways snaking between the gardens, fruit trees spiraled and looped their arms together in arches. There were dozens of fruits from around the world, all lovingly pruned and guided into living, woven shapes overhead. There were pawpaws and horned melons, kaffir limes and rose apples, passion fruits and rambutans, African peaches and karissa fruit, marula and yuzu, dragonfruit and guava, lulo and lychee. Some flowered, some fruited, each extended their own branch toward a gorgeous canopy, the only of its kind in the world.
Beneath the soil, I new even more edible artifacts from around the world waited to be enjoyed; cassava and mashua, olluco and oca, ginger and elephant foot yams, taro and turnips, jicama and daikon, tumeric and galangal.
The last show of the garden's long-reaching legacy came to me on the wind as it rushed past my face. Sweet and spicy smells, the smells of sugar and licorice, herbal lavender and piney rosemary, bright saffron and lemongrass, clean mint and earthy basil, mixed on the breeze across my nose. For a moment, it sent me back to the cozy stove of my parents' kitchen, the noisy, delicious family restaurants where I'd met with my friends, the long lines of street food stalls where I'd enjoyed respites during adventures. Taking a deep breath of the most luscious smells of the world rising from the ground, my shoulders relaxed and the comfort settled into my bones. That invisible hug from the top of Bean Tower never lost its power.
Opening my eyes just a bit and turning my head just enough, I snuck a glimpse at Sinclair, standing at my side. I tried to bite back a smile when I saw his eyelids slack, his shoulders rising with a deep breath. When his eyes opened again, he gazed around at the garden, his mouth agape.
I watched Sinclair's gaze travel around the gardens, up the towers and down, across the gardens, around twisting archwards of woven fruit trees, then back up and down again. His eyes lingered on some spots, peering and studying. There were certainly a number of plants he didn't recognize, and was trying to figure out.
"Wow," he said quietly.
I smiled. I had already learned that Sinclair wasn't easily impressed, and if he was impressed, he didn't show it. This time, the hush in his voice told me enough. It was the kind of voice I used for a museum masterpiece, though I didn't dare hope for that kind of reverence from him.
"Are these..." He must've noticed the daisies climbing up the towers and roses winding around the fruit trees "these aren't all edible."
"Some are decorative." I started forward, and gestured for him to follow. "Most are edible. Some are both."
Sinclair followed. "I'll have to get a photographer up here," he muttered, almost to himself, as he looked around at the lush plants filling the space.
"We have plenty of pictures. I can send some to you."
"Sure. Yeah." Mouth open, he looked up at the archway just ahead of us, made of interwoven fruit branches and vines. Pale yellow marula fruit, red-orange tamarillos, bright orange tangerines, and rich green limes hung from the archway. A breeze rustled the leaves as we walked underneath the arch, filling the air with a spicy-sweet scent.
Sinclair slowed, studying the interwoven branches. Their branches had been carefully pruned, shaped, and guided to twist around each other like interlocking threads on a delicate lace pattern, supporting and protecting each other. "These are fruit trees," he observed.
"You bet. We grow their branches like that so they make these nice archways, and so they're not so susceptible to the wind. And, you have to admit, they look really pretty."
"Hm," he grunted, his unimpressed facade returning. "I admit, some of these I don't recognize." He reached slowly for his notebook again, though he hadn't looked away from the trees arching over him.
"A lot of people wouldn't recognize a lot of the plants here. Our rooftop gardens grow fruits and vegetables and herbs and flowers from all over the world. Some are even new breeds!" I pulled a tangerine gently off a branch and tossed it to Sinclair. "This is just a regular tangerine, though. Give it a try."
Shrugging, he stowed his notebook again and peeled the fruit. As he took a slice, I watched his expression. With one bite, his eyebrows shot up. "Wow," he said, almost involuntarily, for the second time.
I smiled. "We get that a lot. Most fruits and vegetables nowadays are selectively bred for size, hardiness, things like that. And they're grown over and over again, on the same soil. With more variety, a little more care, a little more attention to flavor, our stuff really is different."
He nodded, popping two more slices into his mouth. "It's good."
I kept walking, and gestured up towards the top of the horn-shaped pillars. "These collect rainwater and filter it to the gardens, and to the rest of the tower," I explained. "We also take some water up from the ground. None of this is accidental, and we've had some trial and error to make it really work. We have some water storage in the towers and underground, but we also plan for the water to make its way back to the soil, back to the ground, when it can. This distribution, and the big-time vegetation regrowth of the surrounding area, has pretty much stopped the flooding problems that used to devastate this area years ago."
Sinclair was scribbling again. "Does every tower have these?"
"That's right. And," as we neared the edge of the roof, I pointed to a line of thin, tall tubes standing sentinel at the edges "these are wind power generators. They're completely bladeless, and use vorticity to generate power." As the wind passed over the roof, it passed over the lines of tubular wind power generators, creating small vortexes in each one.
"Ah, okay, yeah." Sinclair nodded. "I've heard of these."
"Wind power is great, but some of these large-scale wind power generators can be 100 tons, you know? Some of these blades are the size of a city block. They're enormous. That's great for some applications, but we couldn't really use those here. These," I pointed to the lightly rattling and whistling tubes "are perfect. They're much cheaper, there's no gearboxes or bearings, a lot of the materials are recycled and repurposed, and they're easy to repair. Larger wind power generators harness about 80 or 90% of kinetic energy, and these harness about 70%. So, still pretty good."
"Vorticity," Sinclair mused, scribbling in his notebook.
"These little tubes are all over. We've monitored wind movement through and around the towers, and placed them where the winds are most steady. That, with the solar panels, and some other renewables--thermoelectric power generation from compost, wave power from the coast--completely powers The Sink. Most days, we send tons of clean power back to the grid, too."
"That's impressive." Sinclair nodded, writing.
"It is." Turning, I noticed the cafe on the corner of the roof was quiet. "I'd love to tell you more. Do you wanna get some tea or kombucha and have a sit?" I gestured towards the cafe. "You can try some more of the foods gathered from the Bean garden, too."
Sinclair looked up, and followed my gesture to the serene cafe, nestled under a dome of vines and fruit tree branches.. "Oh. Um, sure. All right."
I noticed his hesitation. "Are you in a hurry? We've got plenty of time."
"Yeah," he agreed, though he still seemed hesitant. He stowed the notebook again. "I guess there is."
"Come on." I waved a hand for him to follow. I got the feeling Sinclair found it difficult to relax unless he had designated time especially for it. Probably during his designated relaxing time, too. But The Sink was a good remedy for that.