Riding the Beast (Sunday)
So I asked E if she wanted to ride the Beast, warned her that her adrenalin would be pumping, that she might be a little scared and that she would definitely get wet. There was no tone of apology or inadequacy in my voice when I explained it would only last half an hour or so: it would be a bumpy ride and provide an incredible view. All in all a good deal… and I was happy to pay.
Energy was provided by a typically late Mimosa and Bellini-fuelled brunch with M+K. As E and I staggered to Pier 83 afterwards we debated the market for a true brunch place in London, in Wimbledon itself perhaps.
Dining in London is so formalised: if you do lunch it only lasts between 12 and 2 and it’s going to be of this cuisine and this size and the appropriate beverage is x or y. If New York socialising has shown me one thing, it’s the potential in more organic groups, bringing in a few degrees of separation. Maybe it’s just me, due in the past to a fear that different groups of friends would talk and find out things from each other about me that I’d managed to keep separate: mistakes I may have repeated…
But a place where the gathering can start and last from morning til evening, can incorporate a snack or a smorgasbord, can offer a coffee or a cocktail, where I can invite you and you then invite others and it doesn’t matter if each layer takes an hour to get there as there’s no deadline, no rush, no rules.
One casualty of no deadline was no row-boating on the Central Park lake but, given our condition, it probably wouldn’t have been a good idea. Besides, we had bigger thrills ahead. Maybe without the mimosas and bellinis this speedboat ride down the Hudson replete with water bombs and supersoakers for those who managed somehow to avoid the spray wouldn’t have been as fun. As it was we were buzzing: I’ve got to get me one of these… the speedboat, that is.
Rollercoaster weather (Saturday)
We had ambitious plans for Saturday. E and D both have done Hawaiian-style
outrigging on the Hudson and being the boatie-type myself I thought this would be a cool start to the weekend. We were conspired against almost all day though. We both slept through the time we were to meet D and a combination of hangover and lack of sleep (I’ll let you guess who had which) meant we weren’t too disappointed to miss this…. at the time.
Eventually we stepped out into the barmy heat for a spot of brunch. A bagel, schmear and lox and Lonely Planet later and we’d decided on a trip to Coney Island. If anything I was keen to get away from skyscrapers for the day, despite how naff I was warned the environment and peope would be and how dangerous the rollercoasters were.
The subway headed across the river (
no talking, we’re going over water) via Brooklyn ready to snake down the coast. E had mentioned a
botanical garden on the way and as this was due to close in a couple of hours we decided a detour was in order.
Peace, tranquillity & humidity. Well, 2 out of 3 ain’t bad. We admired Japanese
torii, drank orange juice, discussed new career ideas.
Meanwhile the humidity rose and it rose until it could rise no more and the vapour was no longer hiding in the air, it was falling monsoon-style. With zero shelter and a finite amount of time together E and I continued walking: we’re no strangers to reservoirs and lakes so a little bit of rain (okay,
a lot of rain) held no fear.
Eventually, drenched and dripping we returned to the subway: Coney Island would have to wait til another day. Instead we retired to a rather drier Manhattan, spotted a
yakinuki restaurant just a block away from the apartment and returned that evening. The food was as gorgeous as I remember in Japan: the meat platter, though not the special sauce, possibly better. Sacrilege, I know, but at least a third of our 2-person platter was left untouched, uncooked and to the side; now if only I could find one of these places a little closer to home, for visitors, obviously.
The Manhattan Mafia (Friday/Saturday)
After dinner at the vaulted, celeb-friendly
Mercer Kitchen (assisted by
New York restaurant week and a fabulous Marlborough Sauv Blanc) E and I headed off into town by taxi. It was here that I was briefed on how awesome, phenomenal and gorgeous her friends were. I was briefed several times I hasten to add: maybe that was down to the level of awesomeness and phenomenalness, more iikely it was the Marlborough.
Going from a very ‘New York’ venue to an almost spit & sawdust-style British (?) pub was a bit of a surprise but at least the surroundings didn’t detract from the stunning M, D and indeed E herself. A slightly sobering Starbucks later and back into a cab hurtling downtown again to a rather trendier bar where were it not for a surprisingly accommodating bouncer yours truly would have suffered from his first New York faux-pas.
I’d long since dispensed with my exploring bag and had just brought a credit card and cash: I hadn’t counted on needing ID to get in anywhere. I no longer look anything like 21 so was genuinely amazed when everyone else in the group proffered driving licences and passports. This was, hopefully one of my few,
gaijin-style lapses in the Big Apple.
By this stage I was flagging, without much sleep the previous night having walked most of the day and body clock ready for its wake-up alarm on London time: hopefully I didn’t spoil the atmos too much and thankfully it wasn’t the last time I met E’s magnificent mafiosos.
Coffee with Kofi (Friday)
Things start to go well: I manage to fall asleep despite the heat and the noise of the valiant air conditioner struggling and chugging away in the corner. Stepping out and onto Park Avenue there’s a familiar hustle of office workers but not the usual bustle of overspilling pavements as London commuters are squeezed through Victorian bottlenecks.
Intending to start my trip where I left off – on the
Circle Line cruise around Manhattan – I wander up to 42nd, conveniently passing
Grand Central station. It goes without saying that Victoria Station it ain’t. The morning rush is over and, according to trusty Lonely Planet, it’s no longer the hub it once was. Instead it’s a temple to the golden age of the train complete with vaulted ceilings and altar champagne on tap. Truth be told, I’ve seen no finer station. There are British contenders: Paddington is a Brunellian masterpiece but no-one ever looks up to the ornate supports and now diesel exhaust-tainted roof. Canary Wharf on the Jubilee Line is a modern day public transport cathedral, deliberately built over-sized for the future and with budget busting concrete, glass and steel grandeur.
Back at Grand Central my photographic attempts are frustrated: in my mind is stuck that famous black and white print of the sunlight streaming in through the semi-circular windows. I have a problem with taking standard, touristy photos: I want to find an edge, a new angle, a post-production mood. Every attempt is haunted by much cleverer, better exposed and more respectful stock photos.
I probably should have stayed and persevered: a few steps back onto 42nd and it’s the Day After Tomorrow. New York doesn’t seem to do anything by half, least of all the weather. Flashes of light, a bass note that is felt as well as heard and the heavens open. This is no light shower, these rain drops are fast food-gorged, plentiful and unrelenting. Initially unwavering in my steps I take some solace as I huddle with other New Yorkers under the ornings of Barnes & Noble on 5th Avenue. I may be in shorts and a T-shirt with a couple of standard issue umbrellas securely stowed in a cupboard under the stairs 3458 miles away…. but I’m not the only one. Those that are carrying umbrellas are getting drenched anyway: rain is rebounding upwards off the streets and the gutters are impassable streams.
I realise 3 hours on the Circle Line, though under cover, is probably not a great time to see the city. E realises this quickly as well and calls with museum and gallery advice: it’s appreciated as I know my Lonely Planet would last about 5 seconds if I unsheathe it now.
A few amused/exasperated looks exchanged with my fellow New Yorkers later and the downpour subsides. Tens of blocks separate me from the Guggenheim, Met and others and the sensible approach would be to find a cab, a subway train, a pedello. But no, this is my first full day in NYC and I’m a stubborn, soaking so-and-so. Besides I know that between me and said galleries lies the Rockafeller Centre and a mysterious
glass cube which hasn't survived the downpour completely unscathed.
I’m torn, there aren’t enough days. Yes I’d love to spend hours admiring the Guggenheim, and possibly even the art work within. But I don’t do enough of that at home in London and my instinct is to explore given an untrodden street or two. By Central Park my knee is playing up and the weather is clearing. Walk on to walk round some of the best galleries in the world or hit the subway towards a 3 hour boat trip? The Hudson and East Rivers were calling me home.
A bagel later and Pier 83 comes into view. It’s vaguely familiar: after all the Circle Line was the way I spent most of my fleeting visit back in 1999. Another dilemma though… a full 90 minutes until the full 3 hour Circle Line which would leave me very tight for time to get back for evening plans or 30 minutes for the 2 hour semi-circle. There’s a sensible, compromising choice but it feels like cheating; what’s more, though memory of the first time is rather hazy, I do remember that some of the most interesting elements are those parts of Manhattan less-photographed in the North. No, if you’re going to do the Circle Line, you need to do the Circle Line.
Schedule-outwitted and knee-weakened I stand temporarily confused like Buridan’s Ass between options. I never thought inspiration would come from a bus, a Cross Town bus at that. This is 42nd Street… on the East side of 42nd is the
UN and this waiting bus’ terminus.
Even a former PPE student like me learned something new so I can understand why an intellectually-wanting History student like the one who recommended it would do so. Despite the to-be-expected security checks I was still a little surprised to be walking so close to the Security Council chamber, in session, discussing the Israel-Lebannon crisis: my advice not sought on this occasion.
I expected more security, more sense of occasion about the place. Not that I was disappointed: donated works of art from member states were fascinating and the General Assembly chamber was impressive and, yet, impressively very 1950s. It’s obvious that priorities have, understandably, been on the variety of humanitarian programmes rather than renewing décor but it still feels a little strange for such an busy, under-pressure and under-scrutiny organisation.
51C? (Thursday)
One film, two naps and three seats later the flight passes very quickly. The tradition of phoning home from the plane (well, I did it the first time I flew to the US so now it’s a tradition) continued; note to self: check remaining Amex credit limit.
Arriving into JFK is no big deal: the signs look the same, the HSBC ‘local knowledge’ adverts are identical and immigration didn’t take the hours or days I’d braced myself for. There seems to be a real push, everywhere, not just immigration staff but police, other officials, of ‘professionalism, courtesy’ etc setting an expectation that if you’re suitably civil then the person the other side of the desk will be too. Writing this partly at the time and partly at the end of the trip I can report that this generally seems to be the case. I was looking forward to writing a tirade about rude, officious, be-uniformed thugs working to inefficient, knee-jerk, paranoid, totalitarian processes, a tirade that would have my finger prints flagged as persona non grata forever more. But I can’t, so I won’t and therefore hopefully they won’t.
JFK has now got a reasonable link to Manhattan: the automated Airtrain now does the run of the terminals and connects to the subway and Long Island Rail Road. Strange how JFK has evolved by airlines building their own flagship terminals seemingly independent of any overall plan. I took the latter option into Penn Station, choosing to walk the few blocks down and cross town to E’s apartment.
Getting off the air conditioned train it hits you. I was coping with 36 degrees back in London but even with the numbers being lower in New York the humidity and heavy bags made it feel much worse: international readers will not need telling this. I found a nearby bar, downed a be-iced Coke and waited for E to saunter by.
51C (Thursday)
So far so good. One Virgin Atlantic economy aisle seat has turned into three with the whole row in front vacant on take-off. Sitting in the middle I have laptop in front, bottle of water to the left and in-flight magazine to the right.
The only other time I’ve been to the States was also with Virgin: there’s definitely something more relaxed, modern, cool about them. They’re the Apple of the skies.
That said, maybe I’m still on my post take-off high. It’s not as though I’m unfamiliar with take-offs: I do one myself every week or so from Biggin Hill. There’s something about the expectant rumble as the mighty 747 lines up and then screams as the back of your head gets to know the headrest a little better. While your stomach is still heading towards Reading at ground level the world your eyes see is pitched downwards in an unnaturally agile climb.
First stamp (Thursday)
This passport is going to have a stamp from every continent at least once… the last one managed Europe, North America, Africa and Asia: probably more than I expected 10 years ago but expectations of mobility have changed over that time and my feet have got itchier.
Despite a rather cumbersome District Line start ‘this train will now terminate at Parsons Green’ Heathrow was an almost enjoyable experience. DIY check-in skipped the queues (but with no opportunity to try and wangle an upgrade no matter how good one’s computer skills).
Initial ideas of spending 2 hours drinking Bombay Sapphire & tonics in my
Priority Pass-ed lounge seemed to evaporate: a wander and a detour via the
Paul Smith store and there was just about time to have a drink, refresh and discover no free wifi networks in the lounge before heading towards the gate and onto Lady Penelope. FAB.
Bruce is back
I promise I was just passing... heading up 5th Avenue to Central Park and beyond to the Guggenheim. Trying to squeeze the last second out of my time allowance and the last step out of my right knee allowance. Once more my photos of Grand Central and the Chrysler do not do them justice... wonder if I can capture a little magic of the Guggenheim?
It's all over too quickly... just scratching the surface. All will be written up when I get back to London but there's no rush: this blog isn't disappearing....
Coney Island Baby
After a very late night (and I'm still semi-5 hours ahead) a leisurely brunch to start the day... and apparently, yes, it's still brunch even if it's 1 in the afternoon. At E's office now so managed to check my email account filling up with spam in my absence and drop a quick note here.
Plans need to be as changeable as the weather at the moment but Coney Island beckons...
Scrumping
Okay, so this is going to be all out of sequence but I'm here and thanks to an apocalypse-style downpour I've taken refuge in a store on 5th Avenue. Would be rude not to pay my respects, obviously.
http://www.apple.com/retail/fifthavenue/
Home from home
Google Earth never fails to eat up the hours, New York having a very cool 3D building layer as you can see above. It's only a matter of time before you can actually see the buildings themselves: until that day I'll be in the white one near the drawing pin at the bottom of the picture.
(the full image is about 1.3mb so it'll take a min to download)
Energy was provided by a typically late Mimosa and Bellini-fuelled brunch with M+K. As E and I staggered to Pier 83 afterwards we debated the market for a true brunch place in London, in Wimbledon itself perhaps.
