Last day in NYC
There’s no natural light yet, doesn’t stop me looking out the window at the sky and all that scrapes it. I’ve been checking on it hourly, don’t want to miss a thing. Passing planes are the stars for the upward gazing night time New Yorkers, the light generated in this city is more penetrating and intense than interrogation. However, it’s not population nor contamination, it’s compelling. I wouldn’t call myself a city person but if ya gonna do it, do it big. My back is against the desk in this small 23rd floor room, why would I use this time to catch up on a diary when there is so much to see out of my suicide proof window. I put the strap round my wrist and squeeze my phone out of the gap. I’d be suicidal if I dropped that, with its month’s worth of photos of a full-on aesthetic trip from New Mexico to New York that never stopped giving.
Recall the Touratech Twins from In Search of Greener Grass? Fully sponsored, obligated to complete their trip from Austria to China but out of their depth and dependent. That’s why I rode through the river to give them content and soon found I was out of mine.
Anyway a friendly native in Kazakhstan had pulled us over and invited us to his place for dinner. The Touratech Twins turned him down to go into an internet café to write their blog. They exchanged the chance of a real-life cultural experience for a brightly lit cage of screens to log all they were missing. I always recall that incident when a dawn sky entices me away from writing yesterday’s events in my diary. Take any opportunity, don’t turn your back or screen gaze when real life is knocking.
When the last of the atmospheric dawn light has left, the sunrise first glistens on the high-rise peaks, and then reflects off the intricate curvatures that are the Art Deco Empire State Building, one block away.
I figure out how the fool proof coffee machine works, and then along with every other weekday New Yorker, I hit the streets.
I spoke to a dude on the train the other day, well he spoke to me, my Arizona Cardinals hoody had been what instigated the conversation. It soon changed direction when I told him I couldn’t name a single player but am a fan of quality clothing from Thrift stores regardless of the branding emblazoned on it. We covered multiple topics from game show momentary fame to Indian passenger train altercations, which climax not in a shooting but an aggressively removed flip-flop held in a threatening manner. He told me New Yorkers have a reputation for being harsh and rude, but generally they are not, unless aimless tourists block their way on the sidewalk, I take heed. I’ve certainly seen no insolence, dulled I’ve assumed it is by the omnipresent aroma of weed in the air, and like a rat in London you are never far away from a ranting crazy. So with obstruction in mind, I weave like a local with clear direction and purpose, through the dithering throng to the bakery and pick out an assortment of pastries, sweet and savoury. Then ask they are put in a box to go as despite being a foreigner, this Englishman in New York has the power to converse and comprehend, a common language is such a treat on the street, brings the interaction level up a notch, part of me belongs here more than in Bulgaria.
I take what I’ve gathered, walking back past the local homeless who sleeps on cardboard by the subway entrance next to two gallon plastic bottles, one clear and the other with a more yellow content, his en suite convenience. I saw the police move him on yesterday but lacking 24hr surveillance he’s back under his preferred overhang. Mrunking, it’s Bulgarian for moaning, whingeing, complaining. And it’s what I’m hearing from my stepdaughter about school next week. I remind her she’s eating donuts in bed, iPhone in hand, fast Wi-Fi and a world class view out the window, as a decaf brews by the bathroom door where white towels are draped and drying.
Two and a half hours later, during which I’ve refrained from mrunking, eventually packed up and we deposit our limited luggage at the complimentary storage facility. Sleep has been inadequate, stimulation constant, an itinerary packed more densely than our cases, our clothing compressed in cling film.
Ice skating at the Rockefeller Centre, open top bus rides – day and night…
…a boat cruise to Liberty, and midnight at Times Square, Starbucks and Dunkin Donuts, pizza and hot dogs, street food and fast living, poignant songs about the city and making connections, adopting a New York state of mind.
Now we have 12 hours to cross off what we can on the bottomless bucket list. Past the outside en suite and down to the subway. The train’s destination is Coney Island but we get off before, pop up on Canal Street to walk the Brooklyn Bridge.
This is where a NYC baseball hat has to be purchased, we’ve passed countless sellers over the last few days but apparently it has to be bought here. I’d been fretting about imminent disappointment but it turned out I’d worried needlessly. Seems this is quite a popular tourist spot, who knew? I thought it was just a commuter bridge; I somewhat underestimated its appeal, makes Times Square seem positively unpopulated. This was the first request when I said we were going to NYC: to walk the Brooklyn Bridge and buy a baseball cap. I’m loving watching the fulfilment of a dream and the pleasure of the moment that is shared via a phone with tomorrow’s recipient of the hat in Bulgaria.
I watch my girls crouch to peruse the merch and look at the unfathomably vast skyline, more landmarks in one panorama than you can point a phone at but still we try. All the time as this autumn sun shines and I stand one step back from the masses, I’m thinking about the lyrics of Van Morrisons’ Coney Island. Such an emotive song, what he did there was capture a moment, a few lines say so much (not a trait I’ve ever mastered) but to convey a sensation be it in music, written word or song is art at its most powerful.
Windblown and mind blown a million selfies later and topped up with tacky Chinese made souvenirs we get on another train, this time to Central Park.
Gotta squeeze in a visit to the art museum while I force one last burrito down my throat. No time to digest, we have matinee tickets and the girls hail a cab to Broadway but I need a moment, this moment. I have a want to jump off the schedule. So I let them go with the Bluetooth transferred QR code tickets and walk down the affluence of Park Avenue, where tiny dogs pull big wealth along on a lead and labourers with leaf blowers keep the sidewalks free of colourful fallen foliage. This wealth would be unfathomable to me if not for a helpful sign I saw in midtown Manhattan, how much is 37 trillion?
With Nature Boy needs I opt to go off road and into the park, I pass performers with Broadway aspirations and I feel their authenticity. Artists display their offerings; one piece grabs me but unfortunately not tight enough. A dark canvas with a beam of light shining onto an abstract figure, could be a composer, a conductor, a writer, a self-portrait but it’s striking. From Nepal to China the art that hangs on my humble walls has always found me. I glanced, I stopped, I looked but I continued on my way and now wish I’d made that purchase. I even honoured the ‘no photos’ sign so the picture will have to remain in my head. I sit on benches and eavesdrop conversations, look for Moby’s ‘sky castle’ the El Dorado building on the West side of the park. I watch the sun shine through autumn leaves and contrived wedding couples pose self-consciously, displaying lens-forced affection as pedestrians pass by the photoshoot.
I make it to the theatre at the intermission. Everyone’s talking about the drama, a compelling performance, the ushers are apologising for it, the disturbing adlib. Apparently besieged by fury and appalled by the disrespect and inconsideration to surrounding audience and performing players alike – a phone was ripped from the hand of an insolent user and thrown out into the aisle. A performance I wished I’d witnessed and support whole heartedly. The world needs more of this behaviour, at concerts, and any… every venue in fact where the light from the screen is an irritation to others. I hope this hurling starts a movement. Unjustly it was the thrower who was thrown out.
After a standing ovation we have a 2-hour city encore before our trip is over. Take a walk around Times Square, now seeming a bit tacky, the awe from three days ago has worn thin and the glare lacks the class of October sunlight through tenacious yellowing leaves. Overall I’m still a city fan though, more so than of the Arizona Cardinals. So I look out for one of the $25 NYC hoodies I’ve seen on street vendor hangers, something to wear in the shed. But it’s not to be, the girls make a few more branded purchases, and as they consume Dunkin Donuts sugar and Starbucks caffeine, I send a postage label to the dispatch department, as under these luminated screens of come on commerce I’ve just sold a book via a website sale. Well that’ll pay for the designer coffee, oh wait, no it won’t, not after postage.
So now with luggage we go back underground, under Long Island, under Queens and over towards JKF airport via the confusingly named Jamaican Airway to the terminal. Where, unbelievably, I find an NYC sweatshirt for $20! How airport souvenir shop uncharacteristic. I’ve still got some money left but my crowd tolerance has departed. As French tourists sneeze without covering their mouths and kids go-cart on wheely cases up and down the concourse, I head to the bar for a $16 bloody Mary, a departing toast to another trip of a lifetime and all the time I’m thinking:
Wouldn’t it be great if it was like this all the time?
