New York Lines

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.

posted by Paul Campy @ 6:57 AM