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A Sudden Urge to Study, Dylan’s Candy Bar and the Carnegie Deli, New York, May 2012

Tuesday May 15th – Well-slept and raring to go, I made my way to the New York Public Library – the famous one, on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 41st Street. I’d like to say that my love of the building comes from a deep intellectual place, but if I’m honest I have to say that I love it because I grew up loving Ghostbusters. That opening scene with the old librarian… classic! Not to say that I don’t love books, of course (I am a nerd, after all), but my glee at seeing the place was really not that cerebral! I ran up and down the stairs out the front, trying to get a good look at the two lions, named ‘Patience’ and ‘Fortitude’ (what else?), which stare regally over the heads of us plebs. I then made my way through the huge entryway, past the massive Lego versions of the lions (quite impressive, really), and up the stairs to poke through grand reading rooms and enticing small annexes. The highlight for any visitor, though, has to be the Rose Reading Room upstairs. It really is like the place you wished you could study in when you were at school; a place where you could chew the end of your pencil and gaze artfully out the window without feeling like a poser (well, not too much of a poser, anyway!); a room to best Belle’s library from Disney’s Beauty & The Beast; it’s reading nook heaven. The big, bright arched windows and the stacks of books, complete with a balconied gallery level, were beautiful enough; the sunset-cloud mural with gilded edging on the ceiling left me gaping open-mouthed, eyes wide. It almost made me wish that I was still studying, just to have an excuse to rock up and look all scholarly.

From the library, I made my way further up Fifth Avenue to get a taste of how the other half shops. I dropped into H&M, passed a number of other mainstream stores, and peered in the windows of Saks Fifth Avenue (which was nowhere near as interesting as I might have imagined). I had a wander in Uniqlo (the t-shirts were a bit young for me but they have some great basics), and kept going up Fifth Avenue until I reached Henri Bendel, near 56th Street. It had the air of being one of those old stalwarts that had been on 5th Ave since the 50s, but I suspect it’s actually much newer than that. The windows were what I was really there for: apparently, they were designed by Rene Lalique, who was famous for his glassworks. I don’t know a huge amount about the Lalique brand, but I remember hearing his name bandied about a fair bit in the 80s so I figured the windows would be worth a squizz. And… well, they were. Not quite the colourful stained-glass mosaic I’d imagined, but actually quite a bit nicer; just an understated pattern of flowers marked into the glass. I decided to have a look inside the store; it looked pretty sophisticated and out of my price range, but I figured a look round couldn’t hurt.

The first thing I noticed as I walked in was that they were playing ‘Goodbye Horses’ by Q Lazzarus – a song which, in my head, is irreversibly connected to THAT scene in The Silence of the Lambs with Buffalo Bill prancing about in his silk dressing gown. I was in the middle of thinking, Oooh, wierd choice for a girlie store like this’, when BAM! I was accosted by a series of ladies, one after the other, all of whom seemed intent on smearing something on my face and/or body. I felt like a hapless camper batting away mosquitoes: “Can I put some makeup on you?” “Check out our new summer shades!” “Do you want to try our new self-tanner?” “Perfume?” And, my personal favourite, “Can I fill in your eyebrows?” Uh, fill in my eyebrows? I didn’t realise my eyebrows needed filling!!! That was not the only blow my self-esteem took in that store; the makeup lady seemed disgusted that I wasn’t wearing any in the first place, and when I told the eyebrow woman that no, she could not fill in my eyebrows, she actually wrinkled her own brows and said, “Uh, really? Because it looks like you need it.” Uh, THANKS. Less than three minutes after I walked in, I walked out again, feeling slightly shrivelled and less confident than when I entered. Bloody hell. I’m sure they didn’t mean to be raging, judgemental bitches, but that sure is how their actions came across!

I kept on keepin’ on along 5th Avenue, and the fog got thicker and thicker. By the time I turned the corner to head east, the middles of the buildings were barely visible, let alone the tops. I made my way to the Lipstick Building (aka 885 Third Avenue) and was thoroughly underwhelmed. Maybe it was the weather. I don’t know what I had been expecting, but previous reports of ‘stunning architecture’ kind of fell short. I mean, it was pretty (shaped like – you guessed it – an oval lipstick tube, and pinky-red in tone) but I certainly didn’t get the same feeling of architectural awe that was inspired by the roof of the Rose Reading Room, for example. Still, I didn’t regret it. I had finally seen a part of NYC that I’d never been to; this part of the east side had never been on my radar before. It’s definitely business-oriented. Lots of little delis serving fast food, print shops and shoe-shine places, and lots of stressed-looking guys in expensive suits and women in power heels yammering urgently into mobile phones.

I kept wandering up Third Avenue, making a small detour off the street and into the massive Bloomingdale’s department store on the corner of 59th Street, resisting the urge to buy one of those famous little brown bags. The flourescent lights were quite violent on the eyes after the dim, foggy light outside, and the store was full of stuff that I could probably get elsewhere at a better price, but it was nice to see the fully-restored inside. The last time I went in, it was 2002, and I had snuck in just to use the loo (one of the very few free, keyless, not-attached-to-a-restaurant bathrooms I had found up to that point), and I’ll be honest – the place was a mess. I don’t remember much about the shopping area itself but the toilets had insulation exposed in the walls and wood scaffolding hanging around, and half the locks didn’t work. Going in this time, everything was sleek and glossy and ultra-modern glaring white. Definitely an improvement. I did not revisit the bathrooms, but instead wandered past the Magnolia Cupcakes stand (which definitely piqued my interest) and exited at the northern corner of the store back onto 3rd Avenue, pointed straight at my afternoon culinary target: Dylan’s Candy Bar.

Oh my. Shining like a vivid, multi-coloured neon beacon on the corner of 3rd Avenue and 60th Street, Dylan’s Candy Bar looked like Santa’s Workshop, full of the stuff that dreams are made of. Candy stripes line the walls and giant plastic lollipops spray out from the ceilings; huge gumballs and giant chocolate rabbits appear everywhere, in corners and on walls. God forbid anyone should take LSD and pay a visit; it would be like pop rocks going off in their brain. I walked in and found myself wishing I could just go all Augustus Gloop on the place, shoving my mouth full of all the various goodies on the shelves until I found myself drowning in a fountain of chocolate. Three stories of sweets, chocolates and sugar-related indulgence awaited me in this brightly-lit nirvana. I resisted the candy-printed towels, the giant jugs of jelly beans and the old-school sweet selection, but I definitely got my hands dirty by buying my cousin a frozen chicken lollipop and going mental on all their custom chocolate bars. I was halfway through salivating over my choices when I noticed that the music playing in the background was, in fact, the theme from the Gummi Bears. I smiled like a loon and sang along to childhood memories, and as I continued to listen I realised that all the songs were sweetie-related. Awesome! I ended up buying ten (count ’em, TEN) chocolate bars that day… I tried not to eat them all at once, even though it was damn hard! Their selection includes all kinds of interesting flavours, but in the end I went for the following: Brownie Batter, Caramel, S’mores, Toffee Crunch, Dark Raspberry, Banana Cream Pie and… oh my god, I’ve eaten them all and now I can’t remember what I had!!!! *sugar hangover*

After spending most of my budget for the day on sugar, I realised that it was time to eat some real food… or at least, some semblance thereof. To that end, I got on the subway at the diseased Lexington Ave./59th Street station, which honestly looked like it had the plague. The walls were dripping, there was wierd green, yellow and brown ooze everywhere… I couldn’t wait for the subway to arrive, and I just tried not to breathe too deeply! Of course all subway stations have their varying levels of grossness, but I actually felt like I could catch consumption in there just by looking at it!

I got off at 7th Avenue station and walked to 854 Seventh Avenue: home of the Carnegie Deli. I figured this was about as close as I was going to get to Carnegie Hall (I’m not a huge classical music fan and that’s all they seemed to be playing there at the time), and it is a bit of a legendary establishment… a bit like Katz’s in the Lower East Side, running since ‘the good old days’ and servicing old-timers, theatre stars and new bubble-gum pop celebs alike. I went in and was shown to a table at the back, near the toilets, next to the only other lone diner in the place. We gave each other a commiserating glance as I sat down: the ol’ “stick ’em by the bogs” routine, hiding the undesireables, how lovely. I know I should have ordered one of their smoked-meat or pastrami sandwiches (they’re famous for it, and it would have given me a chance to size them up against Katz’s), but after much deliberation I just went for bacon and eggs for dinner! As my food arrived, my neighbour decided to launch into conversation with me… and really, I didn’t mind. We got round to talking about what we’re doing in New York, and he casually mentions that he’s here for a meeting with some network executives. I thought, “Oh dear god, not some wannabe TV actor,” and I skirted around it. Then later we got to talking about what we do for a living; I told him I was an English teacher and asked him what he did. He gave me an odd look as if to say, ‘You don’t already know?” He then said that he had a TV show, but when I asked the name, he said not to worry, that it was really crap and that I would lose IQ points just watching it…! Turns out he’s the host of Storage Hunters, or Storage Wars, something like that. It’s a TV show where they open storage boxes and auction off the goods… I think! I had only heard of it because my cousin in Vegas had seen an ad for it while I was there, and incredulously asked, “They made a TV SHOW out of THAT?!?” I didn’t tell my companion that, of course! His name was Sean Kelly, and he was a very, very nice man. He spent some time in Europe while growing up, travelled a lot, spoke fluent German, and really had a healthy view of who he was and what he was doing. I have this image in my head that all reality TV stars buy into their own bullshit and are generally airheaded, self-centred asses, but this guy proved me wrong. He was proud, but not a shit about it, and humble to boot. It was good fun to have some interesting company over dinner… even if we were right next to the toilets, ha ha ha! I googled him later and found out that he spent some time working for the US military as a translator in Iraq, and that he does a lot of charity work. Pretty cool for a chance encounter!

After polishing off my ‘breakfast’, I decided to give the cheesecake a try. The Carnegie Deli is reputed to have some of the best in New York, so I figured I’d give it a whirl and see if it held up to other competition I had yet to come across. The slice was MASSIVE, but the base was nice and crunchy and the cheese part was creamy, if a bit dry. It was so big, actually, that I had to get more than half of it to take away, to be squirrelled away in my fridge and eaten later. I hadn’t tried the other famous cheesecakes of New York at this point, but I reckon there’s got to be something out there that’ll beat this one, as good as it was.

By this point it was about 9:30pm, and time to move on. Sean and I said goodbye, never to meet again, and I walked down 7th Avenue towards Times Square, which was even shinier than usual with the fog diffusing all the light far and wide. I walked past Ellen’s Stardust Diner, a 50s-style burger joint that looked full of life, and got the subway down to 23rd Street. I still wasn’t ready to go home, though, so I had a peep at the schedule in the window at the cinema at West 23rd Street and 8th Avenue, and found that a screening of Dark Shadows, the latest Johnny Depp offering, was due to start at 11pm. I figured, “Well, it’s 11pm on a Tuesday so I’ll probably be the only sad-sack in there, but it’ll be fun.”

I bought my ticket and walked upstairs, and was shocked to find the place was thrumming with activity, even that late on a weeknight. Ah, New York. The theatre I was in was chockablock, and I was lucky to find a lone seat at the end of a row. The lights went down and the trailers came on, and then just before the movie started one of the young guys working there came out, introduced himself and, in person, reminded us to please switch off our mobile phones. He then said that he hoped that we enjoyed the movie, before making a swift departure. I thought that was actually a really nice 50s-style touch, if not for the anachronistic mobile phone reference! I settled in and watched the movie, which was a good ol’ fashioned piece of mindless comedy fluff, with a few standout jokes. Johnny Depp is never a waste of time! 🙂

After the movie was over, I walked the measly three blocks to my place in about 5 minutes, and again gloated to myself about the incredible, wonderful location of the apartment; I was still so excited to be where I was, and I loved living so close to everything. Little moments of triumph! I snuggled into bed a happy woman.

Thanks for stopping by,

Tara.

Tags: 885 third avenue new york, best cheesecake in new york, bloomingdale's, bloomingdale's new york, carnegie deli, carnegie deli new york, chelsea cinema, chelsea cinema nyc, dark shadows review, dylan's candy bar, dylan's candy bar new york, dylan's candy bar new york review, fifth avenue, food, ghostbusters, ghostbusters location, henri bendel, henri bendel new york, henri bendel windows, lipstick building, lipstick building new york, new york, new york city, new york public library, new york public library lions, new york public library rose reading room, new york subway, nyc, rose reading room, saks fifth avenue, sean kelly, sean kelly comedian, travel

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Categories New York City, New York State, USA

Nerd Heaven, Broadway, SoHo and a Glorious Peanut Butter Overdose, New York, May 2012

10 Sep

Sunday May 13th – Not having those freight-train snorers in the room with me meant that I slept like a baby, straight through the night and well into the morning. I must have needed it; I was zonked until nearly midday, and I woke, stretched and felt like a queen.

I took my time in the shower and dressed (in my own bathroom! Which I didn’t have to share with hundreds of other gross backpackers!), and then set off with a mission: to find the Forbidden Planet comic book store. I had stumbled across this Mecca of dorkdom on a previous trip to New York, and I had felt right at home. This time, I was on the lookout for a card game that Charlie had pointed out in a comic store in Philadelphia; something called ‘Munchkin’. Back story: on another trip, in another country, there were two guys I met called David and Darren. They were just lovely, and one sunny afternoon at a rooftop bar when they produced a dorky card game called ‘Citadels’, I knew we would be very, very good friends. After hours of competitive scheming and stealing of each other’s ‘gold’, they mentioned that they were always on the lookout for more fun and games. Well, when I saw Munchkin, I knew that it would be the perfect thing for those gents, but I didn’t want to have to carry it all the way to NYC from Philadelphia. However, now that I was IN NYC, and not going to have to move any time soon, I decided to find Forbidden Planet and pick up a copy to send to David and Darren in the UK. I remembered that the store was south of Union Square, somewhere along Broadway, so I figured that I’d start with Union Square and follow my nose from there. Besides, there were a couple of things I wanted to check out while I was there, anyway.

So, off I hopped, and when I came out of the subway I saw, much to my delight, that an unexpected street market had popped up on Broadway, and thus not only were there delicious smells to be explored at food stalls, but the whole place was closed to traffic. There were people lazing about on the steps in the sun, and some intense games of chess were going on too. First things first, I looked around Union Square to see if the Virgin Megastore was still open, and was not surprised to find it had disappeared; another sign of changing media times. So instead I plunged into the markets and paraded down Broadway, unhindered by cars and traffic lights. I put my blinkers on as I passed Max Brenner (“I will NOT be swayed by chocolate indulgence this morning!”), but did give in when a girl from a stall offered me a large cup of delicious kettle corn (which I believe the rest of the world just calls ‘buttery popcorn’!). Yum! Some of the food stalls looked really amazing; there was one stand called Fortunato, that advertised the “best cannoli, imported from Brooklyn”. I suppose there are some Manhattanites that see Brooklyn as altogether another country…!

I found an old shop that was the most amazing space – high ceilings, more like a theatre with a balcony around the top, old-school giant mirrors on the walls and tattered wallpaper; everything seemed to have gilded edges. The store itself wasn’t much cop – it was closing down and just had clothes dumped over tables everywhere – but I could really imagine someone getting hold of that space and doing something awesome with it (I will try to pretend that it isn’t just going to be turned into a Starbucks or something similar…!).

I finally fell upon Forbidden Planet, and handed over my bag to the guy at the entrance, as is the custom there. (Nerd thieves! Really!) I made a huge effort not to browse. Two storeys of nerdvana, filled with toys, comic books, t-shirts, games and the like… too much temptation for this girl on a budget. So I asked the security guy which way I should go for Munchkin, went straight upstairs, and made my purchase as soon as possible to avoid falling in love with some random geekcessory. The girl behind the counter was really helpful, telling me how to find two-player instructions for the game and other ways to approach it, but I could not be upsold into anything else and ran for the door as fast as my little legs would carry me, making sure my wallet stayed well and truly closed!

After exiting the store, I took a breath and admired my Munchkin box; I couldn’t wait to post it to David and Darren. Then, of course, I had no idea what to do with myself. The whole of New York at my feet and I was short on inspiration! Unbelieveable. I wandered for a bit, found the nearest subway, looked at a map, and decided that today would be as good a time as any to have a look at the cast-iron district. I pointlessly jumped on a subway to Prince Street (not far at all; it would have been just as fast to walk from where I was, really), and then mooched around SoHo (SOuth of HOuston Street) along Mercer, Greene and the surrounding streets.

I’ve always been a bit critical of SoHo, especially that area of it, because I just saw it as a pointless area filled with housebunnies with endless budgets and no brains shopping in designer stores, but I have to admit that giving it a closer look, it was a really nice area. Lots of beautiful old buildings with great views along the street straight downtown to the new World Trade Center tower; most of the buildings had old metal fittings and old-fashioned fire escapes (of the kind made famous by West Side Story!), which I suppose is the source of the moniker ‘cast-iron district’…? And it wasn’t just designer stores; there were independent boutiques, too, and some more mainstream chain stores. I guess if you’re into shopping, it really is a pretty great area to be. I personally just enjoyed walking around, people-watching and looking into strange shop windows. I stumbled across a piece of street art that had been on my to-do list; a subway map made of metal rods and inlaid into the tarmac on Greene Street, between Prince and Spring. Little lights embedded into the map represented stations, and I have to say that at, nearly 100 feet long (I think), it was pretty impressive. Mental note to self: come back at night to see the lights on!

I kept wandering, and visited the Top Shop on Broadway. When I was living in the UK I swore by Top Shop… their socks and underwear were particularly excellent, and it was an affordable way to get hold of nice, good-quality clothes. However, I think it’s lost something in translation with its expansion to the North American market; they’ve approached it more as a high-end designer label, with ‘London fashion’ as a major theme. Gone are the awesome wardrobe staples; gone are the socks and undies and funny little toys at the check-out; instead the items seem totally fashion-based and, for what it is, it’s quite overpriced. I went in hoping to top up on socks and maybe grab a new pair of jeans, but there were no socks and the selection of jeans was pitiable; it was all about animal prints and other wear-them-once-and-lose-them-at-the-back-of-your-wardrobe couture items. Sigh. Well, I’m sure someone will enjoy it… but that someone will just not be me.

I turned back around and realised that my stomach was complaining quite loudly. It was time to eat. So I made straight for 240 Sullivan Street, NoHo, to knock a culinary must-do off my list: Peanut Butter & Co. If you love peanut butter, you have just entered heaven. I read an article about this place a while back and was fascinated: really? A whole cafe just for peanut butter lovers? But I tell you what – it was DELICIOUS. I mean, we all love a fancy meal in a swish restaurant but sometimes you just want your basics, and this place does it in spectacular fashion. The whole menu is based on peanut butter sandwiches, snacks, cookies and shakes; you’ve got everything from your standard PB&J to your ‘fluffernutter’ (peanut butter and marshmallow fluff spread), but I was here for the Big Daddy of all peanut butter sarnies: The Elvis. Oh yes. Peanut butter (smooth or crunchy, your pick), banana, honey and bacon, grilled to perfection, and served with a handful of carrot sticks and a small packet of crisps. I could almost feel my veins clogging with every bite I took, but DAMN it was good. I ate it down to the very last bite, greedily licked my fingers afterwards, and issued a happy sigh. Afterwards, I perused their collection of take-home goods; they really have an amazing range of peanut butters. There are, of course, your normal crunchy and smooth varieties, but they also have more exotic flavours like dark chocolate, maple, honey, cinnamon raisin, white chocolate and some sort of spicy chilli concoction too. Overwhelmed by choice and clutching my bloated belly, I decided the best path of action would be to leave empty-handed!

I opted for a nice long walk home. It’s funny, because when at home I would never bother if given the choice between that and a quick public transport ride, but in New York there’s always something to see and do while walking. From Sullivan Street I walked west to Sixth Avenue, and then turned west onto Greenwich Avenue for a wander through Greenwich Village, by which time it was dark. I found a small September 11 tribute that I had first seen on my first trip to New York in 2002: a collection of small, hand-painted tiles made by schoolchildren all across the country (and, indeed, the world), hung up on chickenwire fence, sending love and best wishes to the people of New York. In 2002 they had been shiny and brand-new; now, 10 years later, they are slightly faded and weather-worn but (whether for better or for worse) nobody has made any move to remove them. I wonder if any of those kids, now much older, have ever passed by here to see that their tiles are still around and still being read by passers-by.

From Greenwich Avenue I turned on to 7th Avenue and headed for home, where I stayed up way too late, pottering, reading and dawdling. The whole ‘having space to myself’ thing was not getting tired at all! And that was me for the day.

Thanks for stopping by,

Tara.

Tags: board games, broadway, cast iron district, food, forbidden planet nyc, greene street subway map, munchkin, new york, new york city, noho, noho nyc, nyc, peanut butter & co, peanut butter and co, soho, soho nyc, subway art nyc, the elvis, top shop nyc, tourism, travel, union square

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Categories New York City, New York State, USA

A Zig-Zag Through The Park, Rubbing Shoulders With The Stars, and Jelly Roll Morton, New York, May 2012

7 Sep

Friday May 11th – And so, with Calvin and Hicham gone I was once again in the company of strangers at the hostel, so I allowed myself the luxury of sleeping in. I haven’t mentioned it in the last couple of entries, but rest assured that four of my five room-mates were still snoring their heads off all night long, and I had to keep track of my teenage-pig bunk mate’s food spillages to minimise the return of our mousey little friends. I still heard scampering once or twice, but I just tried to ignore it. So… yeah. I had a good, long sleep after my room-mates had departed for the day, and rushed downstairs just in time to grab my bagel before the canteen stopped serving breakfast.

After a peep out the window in the common room, I realised that I had just slept through one of the most beautiful mornings I’d seen since arriving in NYC, so I raced upstairs to shower and throw some clothes on before heading to the subway. I still wasn’t exactly clear on where I was going, but I knew I needed to be outside! It wasn’t til I was on the subway headed downtown that I decided to visit Central Park. It was sunny and it was beautiful, and I didn’t know how many more days like this I would be lucky enough to have! I whipped out my map and discovered there was an entry to the park on 72nd Street, and so that’s where I hopped off.

Emerging from underground, I found myself at the intersection of Broadway, 72nd Street and Amsterdam Avenue, surrounded by stately apartment buildings and well-dressed types. Right behind me was a Gray’s Papaya hot dog joint, and I figured that today was as good a time as any to start my “Who has the best hot dog in NYC?” research. Gray’s Papaya has a couple of locations in New York where they churn out hot dogs 24 hours a day and are frequented by a bunch of die-hard loyal enthusiasts. Major competition comes from some of the other ‘Papaya’ chains (so named for the papaya juice and other fruity concoctions that they sell), and more specifically from Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs and Ruby’s Hot Dogs at Coney Island. I figured I’d have to keep it constant to be fair between the contestants, so I ordered it fairly plain, with onions and cheese only. I’m not really a massive hot dog fan, to be honest, and this one didn’t do much to change that. The bun was great and the sausage was nice, but the onions were in a sloppy tomatoey sauce and the cheese was – not surprisingly – squeezed out of a can. Still, at $2.45 I guess a person could do worse for lunch!

Feeling slightly queasy, I started walking eastwards along 72nd street towards Central Park. Wow, what a street. There was stuff going on everywhere – lots of colourful human activity and people singing and shouting. I was actually quite surprised – I mean, the Upper West Side is more known for its gentrified money magnates and stuffy conservative types than its raucous soul, isn’t it? I stopped to enjoy the sight of an old man playing a great rendition of ‘Somewhere Over The Rainbow’ on his saxophone, and smiled when I saw a man and his blind friend sitting in the sun; the man was reading a book aloud to his friend, and the friend was snorting and guffawing at events in the narrative. I briefly considered getting myself a (hippy hippy) shake from a juice bar which was packed with people, only to discover that all the shakes were made with soy milk, none of them contained any fruit I actually liked and (third and final nail in the coffin) I was still feeling a bit iffy after the hot dog, so I just enjoyed the sight and gave it a miss. I stopped at a shoe shop window to admire a pair of high-heeled shoes that I would NEVER be able to pull off (or, indeed, stand upright in), and nearly jumped out of my skin when a shout rang out nearby. A VERY large African-American woman with purple hair and electric blue sparkly leggings (with matching jacket, no less) had spotted another woman nearby in a sexy summer dress. “CUTE OUTFIT!!!!” she screamed, with an approving wink, “GO GIRL!!!! GO ON WIT YOUR BAD SELF!!!!” With a flourish of her wrist and a wave of her hand, she disappeared into the throng, and I was totally charmed. The woman she had been addressing looked a bit befuddled before realising she’d just received an awesome compliment; she smiled with more than a hint of pride, adjusted her dress, and kept walking.

I turned from this nice little scene, and not long afterwards found myself face-to-face with a building I knew very well, but had not remembered was on this street: The Dakota. Ugh. Like a dark little troll, it squats on the corner of 72nd Street and Central Park West. Look, I know that lots of people yammer on about its brilliant features and its late-1800s wicked-ass French architectural influences and yada yada yada, but quite frankly, I think it’s ugly. It looks like somewhere the Wicked Witch or the Evil Stepmother/Queen would live. Not only that, but it also happens to be the place where John Lennon lived and (more famously) died, right in the front entry way. For me, it’s hard to separate the event from the place. Ugh. Apparently, though, Yoko Ono still lives there; I’m not sure how she does it, every day passing by the place where her husband was shot by a nutso fan. Apparently the building is on some National Register of Historic Places; it’s one of the oldest buildings – if not THE oldest – in this part of Manhattan, built when New York life was still pretty much focused on Lower Manhattan and the area around it was basically empty. It’s been home to the elite rich and famous since it was built. Whatever. It gives off evil vibes and I don’t like it! I walked past the entrance as quickly as possible, unable to stop myself from rolling my eyes when I saw a South American couple taking smiling pictures of each other in the doorway where Lennon was shot. Good lord. I can see them sharing the pictures when they get home. “So this is me LAUGHING in the spot where a man was brutally gunned down in COLD BLOOD, isn’t it awesome?!” Lovely.

I came out from under the shadow of the beast, crossed the road, and before I knew it I was in the sunshine in Central Park. Yippee! This area of the park, closest to his home, is Strawberry Fields – a memorial garden for John Lennon. It was designed in a tear-drop shape, and its most popular attraction is the ‘Imagine’ mosaic. I’d seen it once before, towards the end of a long day of walking. The sun was going down and nobody was around, so I came, I saw, and I ran back out to the safety of the street. This time was a very different story, however. I came upon the mosaic seen at its best: dotted with dappled sunlight streaming through the leaves above, surrounded by people, and decorated with flowers, pictures, fresh strawberries (!), stuffed toys and other memorabilia left there by fans and friends. The afternoon was presided over by the self-proclaimed Mayor of Strawberry Fields himself, a Mr Gary “something”, who told the assembled crowd a little bit about himself and John Lennon. Apparently Gary’s been decorating the mosaic and talking to crowds here for years and years, making his living through tips from tourists. There was a group of bored-looking teens, obviously on a school trip from some country backwater; one or two of them looked interested but the majority looked positively catatonic, staring at their feet or their phones or anything else rather than listen and look. I was about to get all indignant when I realised that Lennon died nearly 20 years before some of these kids were even born; they have their own pop icons to be interested in, even if I don’t really find any of them particularly good. Is the music of John Lennon still relevant today? Does the message of ‘Imagine’ still resonate? Well, with me it does, but that’s not necessarily the case for everyone, especially for kids who missed the whole phenomenon. I suspect they were in Central Park because their teacher wanted to be there, and that they would much rather have been out misbehaving in Times Square or shopping on Fifth Avenue or just chasing members of the opposite sex around their hotel corridors.

…But then again, what kind of heathen Philistine ratbag doesn’t like The Beatles? Scum! ;P

I had a little tootle around the hills and dales of Strawberry Fields, enjoying the feeling of the sun on my skin, and watching locals and tourists alike lolling on the giant stone karsts that stick out of the park landscape at various intervals. I then pushed further into the park, crossing the main peripheral road and skirting the bottom of a lake. I climbed around the edge of Cherry Hill before making my way to the Bethesda Terrace, resplendent in the sunshine with its beautiful centrepiece fountain. You would probably recognise the fountain from the zillions of movies it’s been in (everything from Enchanted to Elf to Home Alone 2) – a great big angel in a circular pool, surrounded by a large red brick terrace. The lake was full of rowboats; so very, very corny but so very, very awesome. Central Park has got to be one of the most stunning man-made green spaces in the world; on a clear day, the crisp, sharp edges of the surrounding skyscrapers contrast beautifully with the greenery and the open space. It’s amazing. I dawdled on the terrace, enjoying my little bit of people-watching. A TV crew was doing vox-pops with randoms as they passed; I lingered to find out what was going on and was surprised to find they were asking some rather graphic sexual questions. Even more surprising was how willing these random people were to just answer those questions, seemingly without a moment’s hesitation! Ah, the power of TV. I wonder how many of them regretted their honesty later!

A young boy played his guitar, and an old fella on a rickety tricycle clattered past, his boom box (strapped to the rear of his trike) playing Tina Turner at ear-splitting volume. A newly-married Japanese couple came to pose for pictures in their bling, and I went to the water’s edge to get a closer look at the rowboats (mostly filled with couples) and the boathouse on the other side of the lake. I know that a scene from When Harry Met Sally was filmed out there, but I didn’t really feel like traipsing to the other side of the lake just for that, so I satisfied myself with a photo instead. I followed the edge of the lake to Bow Bridge, a beautiful old span across the narrow point of the lake, floored with hard wood. I was watching the boats slide past and enjoying the view of the city when I noticed a very odd couple in one of the boats near me. She was dressed in a stunning mango-coloured minidress; he was very handsome in his sky-blue shirt and charcoal trousers. Both were Indian, or perhaps Anglo-Indian. A little bunch of flowers sat on the bench next to her while he rowed. They would cuddle and nuzzle and stare adoringly at each other for a few minutes, and then bicker fiercely while she criticised his rowing technique and he told her off for being a bitch before asking her if she could do a better job. Then they’d go back to staring lovingly, gazing into each other’s eyes, him cupping her face and her laughing and arching her back, before launching into another round of apparently spontaneous arguments. I was so intrigued that I moved along the edge of the lake with them, following their progress, until I spotted a photographer taking snaps of them. Aha. When they got close enough, he shouted a few directions; turns out that they had just got engaged and he was taking pictures of them for the wedding invites, or something similar. Bloody hell; in between poses, they were tearing each other to shreds! When I caught the photographer’s eye, he gave a theatrical sigh and rolled his eyes heavenwards, gesturing at the two of them, whose faces were contorted with rage and spite once again. Hmmm. Well, what lovely memories they’ll have of that day… not!

I went back to the terrace, passing the guy on the trike again (still playing the same Tina Turner number… he must have had it on repeat), and entered the Lower Passage. This tunnel, fronted with stunning archways, cuts underneath the main road through the park, and leads to other areas of the park. Inside, it’s decorated with incredibly ornate tile work on the ceiling (in shades of blue and gold), painted with patterns on the walls and lit with a beautiful orange glow. Awesome, considering it’s just a passage from one place to another! I wandered through it until I came upon another open space, topped by the Bandshell. I had been hoping to find the legendary Disco Skaters here, but instead found a group of young boys on their skateboards. They seemed to be having a good time, so I sat and watched them for a while until I was distracted, first by a girl on a tightrope and then by a man teaching a little boy how to make GIANT bubbles with two wooden wands, a piece of string and a large bucket of soapy water. At first, the kid kept getting a faceful of exploded bubbles, but he eventually got the hang of it. I soon noticed that I had a fellow spectator – a rather lovely-looking man in a business suit. It wasn’t so much the suit that impressed me, as his hairdo; his hair was cut very short, and an intricate swirling pattern had been shaved into it. It’s not often that guys in business suits have the balls to do anything of that level of interest with their hair, so this guy definitely stood out from the crowd.

I left the bandshell behind and walked along The Mall, a great sweeping line of trees. I admired a couple of the statues before doing something of an about-turn, looking for the Sheep Meadow. It’s basically just a large, treeless expanse of grass which used to be – you guessed it – a sheep meadow. I walked the length of it from north to south, soaking up the sun and enjoying the views of the buildings behind the park. I saw dads spinning their kids around, teenagers hanging out in little gaggles, intense games of Ultimate Disc (frisbee, to the uninitiated), loners reading their books (I figured that that would probably be me at some point!) and about half a dozen guys in their early 20s nursing their hangovers together, falling asleep in the sun.

I then cut westwards again, and made for the Tavern On The Green. I think I mentioned it before on the day Hicham and I went to the UN, but I’ll mention it again: when I was a kid, one of my favourite books was ‘Remember Me To Harold Square’, by Paula Danziger. It follows the adventures of three kids on a scavenger hunt (nerds, just like me) in Manhattan. I remember the kids meeting for the first time – in the company of their parents, of course – at The Tavern On The Green, and I had always wanted to go there. I also remember Rick Moranis in Ghostbusters, being pursued by one of the rhino-like hell-hounds (Zuul? Clortho?) and running into Central Park, pressing himself up against the window of the Tavern, begging for help from the snotty diners who basically ignore him and go on with their dinner. I think it was also host to a scene from the excellent, EXCELLENT mini series ‘The Tenth Kingdom’ (if you haven’t seen it yet, go forth and watch it!), where the insatiable Wolf tells a confused waitress, “I want my lamb rare, and I mean rare! Like, just let it look at the oven in terror, and then bring it out to me!!!”) Anyway, suffice to say it’s played a large part in my pop culture references for New York! I was sad to find that the restaurant had actually gone bust, but had been bought (by Donald Trump, I think) and turned into a visitor centre for the park, which is not a bad end, really.

Parked outside the building were a couple of food trucks, and one of them was just what the doctor ordered after a warm day of tootling around the park in the sun: an ice cream van! However, this van was no ordinary ice-cream van. This was a Van Leeuwen ice cream truck, ladies and gentlemen. I wandered up to the window expecting to find the usual sorry list of flavours (soft-serve vanilla, soft-serve vanilla with a flake, soft-serve vanilla with chocolate topping…), but instead found the most mouth-watering and intriguing options I’ve ever seen in ice cream. Hazelnut, Espresso and Pistachio were accompanied by Balinese Palm Sugar, Ceylon Cinnamon, Gianduja and Earl Grey Tea, along with a couple of others I can’t remember. I really was spoilt for choice, but in the end I chose one scoop of Ginger, and a back-up scoop of Mint Chip in case it all went horribly wrong with the ginger. Luckily, I was not at all mistaken with my choice and there began an obsession with ginger ice cream such as the world has NEVER BEFORE SEEN! The mint chip was a real winner – some of the best I’ve ever had – but the true star was the ginger. Creamy, slightly custardy, but a little spicy, you could taste real ginger in it, but it wasn’t too overpowering. It literally left my mouth watering for more, and for a good ten minutes I had a fierce internal debate, but I just couldn’t do it with a clear conscience. Instead, I asked the guy behind the counter if he could supply with me some water to drink, which he kindly did, and I forced myself to turn around and walk away from the van empty-handed. BE IMPRESSED WITH MY WILL POWER!!!!! Mmmm, just thinking about it now makes me salivate…. in the following weeks, I tried a helluva lot of ginger ice cream from all over the place, but I truly reckon that the Van Leeuwen was the best. NOM NOM NOM!

Tickled pink with my new culinary discovery, I decided to make my way out of the park. I walked past the baseball fields, filled with kids playing serious (and some not-so-serious) after-school games, and I found the spot where, about 10 years ago on a previous trip to New York, I had been taught the finer points of baseball by an old Jewish gentleman from Brooklyn. I had hired a bike for a whirl around the park on a Sunday afternoon, and had stopped to watch a game played between two groups of adults, all of whom looked like they were maybe Puerto Rican or Dominican. The old man had struck up a conversation with me, and when he found out that I was British (which was where I was living at the time), he decided to give me an education on ‘America’s sport’. He complained that ‘the players these days’ didn’t have any manners in the game, and almost as if to punctuate his remark, the batter in the game we were watching started screaming his head off. He had had three strikes against him, and instead of retreating gracefully he argued with the umpire, threw his bat violently into the air, slammed his hat in the dirt, yelled some more, tore his bright orange team shirt off and threw it on the ground, ran around in circles shouting and then roared with fury before stalking back to the sidelines after a physical threat from the umpire. I still remember the vein across his shaved head bulging, and how the other team members rolled their eyes. The old man said, “See? Told you.” Apparently the old gentleman used to be a baseball coach, and then an umpire himself. His wife had died some years previously, and so to pass the time he spent his weekends hanging out in Central Park, watching any game that was being played. He seemed lonely; he was 82 at the time and I wonder now if he’s still alive. Such a nice man.

Anyway, after my trip down memory lane, I kept walking south, holding my nose any time I passed the horse-drawn carriages that seem to be unavoidable in the park. I get the fact that a horse-drawn carriage ride is fun, nostalgic and romantic, and that in particular a horse-drawn carriage ride in Central Park is basically an iconic thing to do in NYC, but honestly… the STENCH. Those horses absolutely reek. I can’t imagine trying to get cuddly with someone in a carriage when my primary instinct would just be to retch from the smell of horse poop and generally sweaty horsiness. Pew. Poor horsies!

I exited the park from the south-west corner, at Columbus Circle. A frenetic centre of energy, people, traffic and noise, the Circle is also home to a statue of Christopher Columbus (of course), Trump Tower (with its giant steel globe – talk about an 80s icon), and the relatively new Time Warner Centre. I can’t say for sure, but I seem to remember that when plans were first made for the centre, there was a lot of controversy. People didn’t want a shopping centre in Manhattan; they were worried that it would ruin the traditional ‘feel’ of the shopping scene, which is basically made of of storefronts on the street in most parts of the island. There was concern that it would lead to a swathe of shopping centres, and that New York would become an endless swathe of strip malls and megamalls like the rest of the States, ruining the ‘neighbourhood’ atmosphere. Now, I don’t know how much I agree with some of these arguments (assuming that my memory is serving me well and that I’m not just making all this up in my head!), but I understand the concern. Part of New York’s charm is places like Fifth Avenue, and little enclaves like the West Village, where even the chain stores have a little bit of individual pizzazz and independent boutiques flourish. The Time Warner Centre does look pretty impressive, though, perched there on the corner, and along with corporate offices it seems to have gained quite a few high-profile (mega-money) stores including Armani, Hugo Boss and Swarovski, to name a few. My interest in it, though, was for one reason only: Jazz At Lincoln Centre.

So, for all you music lovers out there, Jazz At Lincoln Centre is AWESOME. ‘Curated’ by Wynton Marsalis (yes, of the ridiculously talented Marsalis clan, which includes Branford, Ellis, and Jason, to name but a few), the JALC programme runs loads of jazz concerts and talks throughout the year. They even have children’s programmes, to encourage their interest in music, and singalong sessions. Totally. Freaking. Amazing. Before coming to New York I had salivated over their programme, whittling my list of potential visits down to about 5, and then narrowing that down to one concert – an evening of The Music of Jelly Roll Morton, who was a New Orleans jazz musician. He died in 1941 but his notoriety lives on – he claimed to have invented jazz music (!) and was totally up his own ass, by some accounts, but his back catalogue of music is a rollicking ride of brilliant toe-tapping ragtime and catchy bum-wiggling tunes. I had it penned in as ‘DEFINITE’ on my list of things to do in New York…. and then I saw the price. Tickets were around $90, if I remember correctly, and with all the other things I wanted to do, all the shows I wanted to see, and a budget that had to stretch for two more months, I realised that I just couldn’t do it all. Sadly, after much self-torture and hemming and hawing, the Music of Jelly Roll Morton was out of the question for me.

And so it was that my eyes scanned Columbus Circle as I exited Central Park, skirted around a busking drummer (who sounded strangely more like a tap dancer) and fell upon the sign for Jazz At Lincoln Centre above one of the doorways at the Time Warner Centre. I had forgotten that some of the venues were not at the Lincoln Centre proper, and were in fact here instead. I also realised that the concert was tonight, in a matter of hours. I stared wistfully at the sign, and tried to convince myself that I could afford that $90 (plus taxes), but to no avail. Still, I thought that maybe I could wander in and, you know, just LOOK at the ticket booth…

Celebrity Interlude: Pulling open the doors to the centre, I slammed headfirst into Tim Robbins’ chest. I looked up, realised that I was staring at Mr Shawshank Redemption himself, and gibbered. He glanced at the Scary Crazy Lady (TM) in front of him, apologised, smiled nervously, checked that I was righted, and scurried away. I gibbered to myself a bit more, scaring a few passers-by, then kicked myself for not asking him to marry me, and went through the doorway.

Where were we? Ah yes. The JALC ticket booth. I loitered around, and thought that maybe, MAYBE, with a magic wand or something, an angel of the Lord had magically changed the ticket prices between now and the time I’d checked the prices on line. I went to the window and asked the lady how much tickets were. No, there had been no divine intervention. They were still $90. I stood there, dithering, doing some maths to figure out if I could cancel something else or shuffle some money around, or maybe not eat for a few days… I must have looked really, really disappointed and pathetic, because the lady behind the counter softened suddenly. “You don’t have $90?” No. “But you really want to see the show?” Yes. “Hmmm. Well, I guess I could… wait a second.” She disappeared for a couple of minutes. “It’s just you, right?” Yes. “Do you have $10? I can give you a ticket for tonight for $10.” Honestly, I was so shocked and excited that I nearly peed my pants. I wanted to leap over the counter and give the woman a giant hug and blubber gratefully all over her shoulder, but lucky for her there was a glass barrier between us.

And that was that. I emerged from the Time Warner Centre clutching my very own ticket to The Music of Jelly Roll Morton at Jazz at Lincoln Centre for Friday May 11th, dazed and confused and terribly delighted. I don’t know if they do that as a matter of course (I guess it wouldn’t be unusual to sell discounted tickets on the same day as the show, just like the Broadway shows do), but either way I felt like I’d just won the lottery. I checked my watch, and I had just enough time to race home and clean myself up before returning for the show.

When I got back to the hostel, I quickly showered and changed into my girly dress, slapped on a bit of lipstick and inspected myself in the mirror. One of my room-mates, the Brazilian guy who was travelling with his girlfriend, came in and asked what I was all dressed up for; I told him that I’d got $10 tickets for a show and he was suitably impressed. He asked if he could get such a deal, but when he found out that it was jazz he suddenly lost interest…!

I got back onto the subway, feeling real purty, and went back to Columbus Circle. There was a crowd of people down by the ticket booth waiting for the lifts up to the concert venue – it took a fair while to get everybody up there! Well, up I went along with them, and had just enough time to grab a (stupendously overpriced) bottle of water before it was time to sit down. The Rose Theatre was basically full. It looked just as I imagined – a terribly sophisticated concert hall with all sorts of acoustic features that I could never begin to understand, decorated in muted tones of navy blue, brown and pink uplighting. It was actually a fairly small room, probably designed specifically to create an ‘intimate’ atmosphere.

The musicians came out to raucous applause (I was delighted to see Jason Marsalis was the drummer), and the leader, a blind pianist called Marcus Roberts, came out last. I’m not much good at describing music, particularly when it’s largely instrumental, but WOW. Kickass New Orleans rolling jazz. I was bouncing in my seat (along with a large part of the audience), clapping along and just generally having an awesome time. There were two Korean girls sitting next to me; they sat through the first half still as stones, left at the interval, and never came back. Bizarre. Speaking of the interval: as I left the theatre, two old blue-rinsed ladies wearing white gloves pointed, tutted and gave me filthy looks. I looked down to see what they were pointing at, thinking that maybe I had a run in my tights or (God forbid) had tucked my skirt into my tights at some point, but could only see my shoes. Then I realised that, according to them, the problem WAS my shoes. Apparently ankle-high black Doc Martens are not the appropriate shoe of choice to go with a super-girly black and red flowered dress. At least, not according to the Ladies Who Lunch Brigade. I modelled my shoes for them, pointing my toes and giving them an evil cheeky smile; I stopped short of poking out my tongue, but they were appalled and scuttled off, shaking their heads and tutting some more, probably about the state of youth today. Silly old bats. Let’s see how well THEY’D manage their wardrobes if they could only take what they could carry! (Plus, as a side note, I bet these are the same old hags who tut over the lack of music appreciation in youth today, and bemoan the fact that nobody comes to enjoy live instrumental music any more. Well, perhaps if young folk were welcomed a bit more – and criticised a bit less – by old farts like them, they would feel inclined to try out these sorts of concerts more often!)

Anyway, the intermission was almost as eventful as the main event. A Brooklyn band called the Red Hook Ramblers was playing a lively turn of New Orleans jazz, ranging from toe-tapping high-speed numbers to slow, bluesy, naughty ditties; people were even dancing on the spot. It’s nice to see a jazz audience that aren’t all a bunch of stuffy socialites intent on one-upping each other with pretentious name-dropping (those old ladies notwithstanding, of course). A real scene with real people who really love it; I was happy to be there.

The second half of the main show was every bit as good as the first. My seat was in the back of the auditorium, but I could still see the performers’ faces perfectly. We all swayed and soared with the music. At the end, I clapped until my hands were sore, then wandered out through the empty corridors of the Time Warner Centre and crossed the road into Columbus Circle. It was late and I was tired, but not ready to head home right away, so I sat on a bench in Columbus Circle for a while enjoying the spray of the fountains, the lighting, and a bit of people-watching. There was a guy slooping around the obelisk on his roller blades and a family taking photos and letting their kids dip toes into the fountains; a man of about my age sat reading his book. For a moment I wondered what he was doing out there by himself reading – didn’t he have a home to go to? – but then I supposed that the same question could have been asked of me… and his answer was probably the same as mine. It was too nice a night to be indoors alone. After a good half an hour of just breathing, I finally decided to call it a night. I hopped on the subway and before I knew it, I was curled up in bed for my last night at the hostel – tomorrow I would be in new digs, and truly living on my own in New York.

Thanks for stopping by,

Tara.

Tags: baseball central park, best hot dog in new york, bethesda fountain, central park, columbus circle, dakota building, food, gray's papaya, gray's papaya nyc, hi new york, hot dogs, JALC, jazz at lincoln center, jazz at lincoln centre, jelly roll morton, jelly roll morton concert, john lennon, john lennon assassination, mayor of strawberry fields, new york, new york city, nyc, papaya dogs, paula danziger, remember me to harold square, strawberry fields central park, tavern on the green, tim robbins, time warner center, travel, van leeuwen ice cream

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Categories New York City, New York State, USA

Extremes of North and South: From The Bronx To Lower Manhattan, New York, May 2012

22 Oct

Wednesday May 9th – Having signed up for a walking tour of Da Bronx, I woke up early and bounced downstairs to grab my roasted garlic bagel with cream cheese for brekkie before meeting up with the tour group. Our guide for the day was Ed, the same elderly gentleman who’d taken us around Harlem on the day that I met Calvin. The weather was dreary (again) but I think I was finally getting used to it! The group was a mixed bag of quiet French folk (plus Hicham, on his last day in NYC) and a travelling group of Aussie beer yobs who had apparently been on a 4-day bender and decided to actually not drink before noon today. I will simply never understand people who go halfway across the world and spend bucketloads of money just to get pissed with other people they already know, and never actually get to experience anything new because they’re too busy nursing a hangover or looking for the next beer. Often these people have ‘lists’, and they just run around and go, “Tick! Empire State Building! Tick! Times Square!” without actually stopping to look around. Ugh. I have to admit that these guys were slightly less offensive than your usual yobs; they actually bothered to greet me, even if it was with bloodshot eyes and the stench of too much deodorant over unwashed bodies. Usually yobs like that tend to ignore me because I don’t look like ‘one of them’ and/or because they think I don’t look shaggable (which is just fine by me, because the feeling is mutual!). Anyway, they had shown a little interest by signing up for a non-specific walking tour of a lesser-known area of NYC, so I decided not to hate them…! Wow, sometimes I’m such a snob. ;P

Anyway, first stop on our tour was Yankee Stadium, and I smugly stood back while the others peered through the entrance trying to get a glimpse inside. I am SO glad that I got to go to a game with Charlie! We passed the mini Statue of Liberty poised on top of a small strip mall (“Why go all the way downtown when we can see Lady Liberty from right here?” – Ed) and then walked up to a large park opposite the Borough Hall. Ed valiantly tried to explain some of the local politics but it was drizzling and we were all cold; the little brown squirrels bounding around in the park actually kept our attention longer.

It turns out that Ed grew up in a poor part of the Bronx, throwing peanuts down onto passers-by from his fire escape and sleeping out there when the weather was hot. He talked about meeting a girl from ‘the other side of the tracks’ and how unhappy her parents were that he was from that neighbourhood (the marriage later ended in tears, although who knows if that was one of the reasons…). He also told us about some of the social problems that the Bronx had had… not that we really needed to be told, seeing as the Bronx’s notoriety spreads further than just New York. Crime, drugs, poverty, shabby ghettos, unemployment, violence, we’ve heard it all. A lot of New Yorkers still view the Bronx with a suspicious eye; telling anyone about my forays into the area, I was greeted with a horrified look and a “What on earth did you do THAT for?!?”

There is one episode in the history of the Bronx disturbs me particularly: a time during the 1970s when large swathes of buildings burnt to the ground. Ed said that the projects built to house people after the second world war became so run-down, crime-riddled and uninhabitable that the people who lived in the projects started to burn down their own buildings in the hope of getting new, improved ones built. Now, I wasn’t sure that people would have burned down their own homes voluntarily, but after doing a bit of reading I find that the theory was considered quite plausible – people were desperate to get out and obviously some thought that lighting a fire was the only way to do it. I’m sure that insurance fraud wasn’t out of the question, either, and thanks to the ‘white flight’ from the neighbourhood (I’m appalled that it happened enough for someone to coin the phrase), a lot of buildings were abandoned for long periods of time and ended up in the hands of gangs or squatters. Thinking about it, it’s possible that the gangs were paid to burn down the buildings by shonky owners trying to make a quick buck off property whose value had plummeted, but that’s just a theory. And then of course, you’ve got the likelihood of a higher-than-average accidental fire rate, purely by virtue of the fact that most of the buildings weren’t being kept up to regulation standard with fire safety.

Whatever the cause, big chunks of the borough went down in flames – not just apartment buildings, but schools and other infrastructure too. Apparently, at a Yankees game in the late 70s, the TV broadcaster shifted the focus from the stadium to a helicopter view of the Bronx dotted with out-of-control fires; the commentator is alleged to have uttered the words, “Ladies and gentlemen, the Bronx is burning.” It all sounds very dramatic, and I’m sure it was, but there’s some doubt as to whether the guy ever actually said the words, and it DOES happen to be the title of a book and a movie that came later, so I suspect that it is the stuff of urban legend rather than a direct quote. Still, I get a shiver down my back when I think of what life could have been like in the Bronx in the 70s, if people were so desperate that they set fire to their own homes rather than continue living in them.

From today’s perspective, and from the very little experience I personally had in the neighbourhood – most of it based on that day in Melrose – I saw an area that was very quiet (probably due to the rain), and not without its issues (signs for free HIV tests and quickie divorces lined the streets), but which seemed to be well on its way to clawing itself out of the doldrums and into a better time. The current majority of Puerto Rican and Dominican communities have finally, it seems, had enough, and neighbourhood initiatives run by locals seem to be changing the face of the area where government initiatives might have failed. New housing developments intended to offer home-ownership opportunities to low-income families are springing up, and they look a damn sight better than some of the older projects that are still standing. I’m sure that there’s still work to be done, but it’s nice to see that things can change, given the chance and the right encouragement.

We wandered through Melrose, typically one of the poorer areas (I think), past old barns forgotten amongst the newer buildings, and past large walls covered from top to bottom with brightly-coloured graffiti. We even passed an old German church, founded in 1862, red brick with a smattering of green moss. A police station had posted a large sign offering cash for guns. Most interestingly for me, a fire station bore a series of slogans, proclaiming this engine ‘The War Wagon’, and their little mascot was a hand-painted Garfield climbing up a ladder, flames licking at his orange-and-black-striped backside, underlined with the words ‘Not To Worry.’ I hadn’t thought of the firefighters’ perspective when I thought about the Bronx burning. Imagine being on the receiving end of all the flack! From the people, from the city government, from the media… what a shit time that must have been for them too.

After our walk through the residential area, we ended up on Melrose Avenue (I think it’s also known as 3rd Avenue), which was packed with shops and families and human hustle and bustle… a nice change from the backstreets! The tour ended here; some stayed to do a little shopping (which was likely to be cheaper than shopping in Manhattan), and Hicham and I jumped on the subway at 149th Street with Ed. I briefly considered going to the Bronx Zoo, which is apparently free on Wednesdays, but I had other activities up my sleeve for the afternoon. Sadly, that was to be the last I’d see of Hicham; his plane was leaving that afternoon, so he went in one direction (boo hoo!) and I went in another – I stayed on the subway and made my way to Chelsea Market to meet Calvin, Karen and a couple of his old Uni friends.

Now at this point I suppose I should clarify what had been going on with Karen. If you’ll remember, she was a harmless girl – and friendly – but she was very, very negative about New York and seemed to see me as something of a tour guide. Alarm bells went off in my head the first time I met her and as much as I was friendly to her, I tried to keep my distance because I didn’t want to end up as anyone’s babysitter. Every night when I got back to the hostel, Calvin, Hicham, Karen, myself and any other waif and stray that fancied it would catch up to shares stories of the day and just hang out. Karen managed to strike up a friendship with an older Brazilian lady and spent a lot of time with her. Despite the absolute language barrier, they seemed to get on and this worked out as well for her as it did for me – she got a companion, and all I had to do was field nightly questions about her activities the next day. Still, every night Karen asked if I would like to join them the next day or the next evening, and I usually made polite excuses. Now, as it turned out, this Brazilian lady had just left New York and Karen was more than a bit scared of being alone. Calvin and I had been making arrangements to meet at the Chelsea Market for lunch the next day (along with some other friends of his), so I had extended the invitation to her and she accepted. She then said that she wanted to go to Central Park and asked if I wanted to come after we’d been to the market. Now, I had two months to see Central Park if I wanted to, and the weather had been rubbish up to that point, so I told her that if the weather was particularly sunny I might come, but if not then she was on her own. I also told her that if her plans changed, not to worry – Calvin and I would be meeting anyway so if she didn’t turn up we wouldn’t be offended, and we’d just assume that she was off having fun somewhere.

Anyway, the time to meet came and I waited outside the market; Karen was the first to show after me. It was absolutely tipping down with rain at this point. Karen looked up and said, “Hmmm, pretty crappy weather, eh? Never mind, I’m sure you and I will find something to keep us occupied in Central Park!” At which point I looked at her, and she at me, and I told her (as I had done the day before) that I would not be going to Central Park in the rain. What followed was a tantrum of almost epic proportions (and when you consider it was coming from an adult, it was definitely epic). “But I wanted to go to Central Park! And I can’t possibly go alone! And you have 2 months in New York, so why can’t you just go again later and just take me around the park today? I don’t want to be alone! It’s scary! And New York is horrible anyway! And I was at the NBC studios earlier and I could have gone on a tour, but I came here instead to meet you and now I can’t go back for the tour AND go to see Central Park! I don’t know how to get there! Why can’t you show me around?” etc etc etc, ad nauseum. I couldn’t believe it. I managed not to blow up in her face, and explained quietly that I HAD made it quite clear that I wouldn’t be going if the weather was bad, and that just because I had 2 months here didn’t mean that I wanted to waste any of my time, and that I hadn’t stopped her from going on her NBC tour – she knew that Calvin and I would have carried on without her. The ‘angry Sri Lankan eye’ look must have been coming out of me, despite my best efforts to contain myself, because she pulled her yapping head in and turned instead to giving me the silent sulky treatment. I now understand that she came not to see the Chelsea Market, but to have company in Central Park, but I think that I had been very clear about my expectations the night before, and refused to be made to feel guilty by some childish little twerp chucking a wobbly. That might work with Daddy at home, Karen, but not with me.

So, Karen sulked throughout lunch, poking at her food and destroying her own experience of the market, and I did my best to ignore her, just wishing that she WOULD simply bugger off and go back to the NBC studios or traipse about in the rain in Central Park. Thankfully Calvin and his friends arrived, and I pulled him aside to let him know what was going on. I was still fuming! His friends must have just thought Karen was wierd; she gave them the silent treatment too, and then claimed not to understand them when they spoke, which is bullshit because their English was great. Childish behaviour aside, we had a pretty nice lunch; I had a great southwestern shrimp and sweetcorn chowder from Hale & Hearty, plus a bit of my favourite raisin, semolina and fennel bread from Amy’s Bread (drool). I can just never get enough of it. Calvin also opted for soup, managing 2 giant servings, and his friends went for sushi. I can’t even remember what Karen had; I think it was a sandwich from Hale & Hearty. Calvin’s friends cleared off quite quickly after eating; I think they had a lot of things they wanted to do before the day was over!

A delicious Fat Witch Brownie with rose icing!
New York, May 2012

When we’d finished eating, I tried to figure out how to get rid of Karen. It seemed like her fear of being alone was going to drive her to hang out with us all afternoon, even if she was unhappy and didn’t get to do the things she wanted (and made everyone else miserable in the process). Calvin and I exchanged desperate looks. We tootled around the market, hoping she would just leave if she thought we were doing boring things. I still didn’t want to have to be overtly mean to her, but gawd she was being a pain. We stopped by Fat Witch Brownies and I was delighted to find that today’s special creation (every couple of days they create something slightly interesting and different, and sell it from a little cabinet on the counter) was an original brownie covered in a swirl of pink rose-scented icing. I snarfed it down in about 3 joy-filled seconds. Chocolate and rose – genius combo.

Eventually I enticed Karen into taking a walk along the High Line and then deciding if she still fancied Central Park later, and I tried to make it clear that Calvin and I had plans of our own. She decided that she’d like to see the High Line, and I managed to allay her fears of personal safety by telling her how busy it was and really, that she would be in no danger. In the end, though, she would still not walk there by herself – Calvin and I actually had to walk her the block and a half from the Chelsea Market to the High Line entry stairs to ‘drop her off’. There was a moment there when I actually felt sorry for her; we left the market and started walking, and she was shocked that we didn’t have to check a map. She marvelled, “How do you just KNOW how to get there?” I have to remember that New York CAN be overwhelming for some people, and that not everyone is automatically a good traveller – it can be difficult. I almost considered walking with her and showing her around, and then I remembered the tanty, and the fact that I didn’t actually enjoy her company, and the fact that I had other, new things to see (and a good companion to do it with), and hot-tailed it out of there as soon as she had set foot on the stairs. Wrong? Mean? Maybe. But she was not my problem, or my responsibility, and I had already done more than could be reasonably expected by not opening a can of whoopass in her face when she went off… in my humble opinion!

Calvin tried to rationalise it for me – he said that she probably liked me, and looked up to me, and saw me as a useful source of information, and she couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t want to spend time with her, and would instead choose to spend time with some Korean guy I just met (and hadn’t known any longer than I’d known her, so why the preference?). He also said that she was probably a bit jealous of him and me hanging out together all the time, which I guess makes sense. Still, you know, as I get older, I realise that it is just not necessary to like everyone. When you’re a teenager it’s very important to get on with everyone, and to be liked by everyone, and for everyone to get on, and often you find yourself hanging out with people you don’t necessarily like just because you think that you should, or that you have to. Now that I’m older I just think, “I don’t like you. I’ll be civil, but I don’t want to spend time with you. So why should I?” But it’s still hard to put away old habits and actually act out these ideas. 10 years ago I probably would have tried to get a big group together and hang out with everyone at the hostel, all together, at the same time, but not so much any more. Quality, not quantity.

Two little people get boozy on the subway,
New York, May 2012

Anyway, philosophical meanderings aside, we ditched our little Barnacle of Negativity (yay!) and made for the subway. Passing my favourite little metal people on the subway stairs (mini sculptures are scattered around certain stations – I think on the 8th Avenue line – toasting each other with booze or hanging from metal beams), we headed for the downtown area, getting off right near the World Trade Centre. There was a man with a GIANT bunch of roses in our carriage, and I couldn’t help but wonder where he was off to, and what the occasion was!

Arriving at our destination, we first went to the WTC Memorial Preview site. I’d already seen the World Trade Centre Memorial, but I don’t think that Calvin had, and I really wanted to see the site at night as I knew that the lighting had been carefully planned, but I hadn’t yet had the opportunity to see it. We got tickets for the last entry of the day, which was fairly early – we were concerned that it might still be light outside when we had to go, but decided to give it a try anyway.

We had a few spare hours so we started exploring around the Word Trade Center. We started by reading the silver names and dates set into the ground along the ‘Canyon of Heroes’ – a tribute to all the people who had ticker tape parades thrown in their honour along Broadway. The majority of them seemed to be war veterans or sports heroes, which isn’t really surprising given America’s obsession with war and sports. I tried to imagine the scene in January 1946, when a parade was thrown to celebrate the end of World War 2; the faces and the clothes and the mood. On one hand, I think it would’ve been pretty awesome; on the other hand, they just had to live through a war – not so awesome.

We passed St Paul’s Chapel and then stopped at the Trinity Church for a quick visit. Now, don’t quote me on this, but I think Trinity Church is possibly the oldest in New York City, established in the late 1600s. It saw a bit of action during the Revolutionary War, and burnt to the ground at least twice, so what we see these days is not the original building by any means; I think it dates back to the mid-1800s. Inside, there’s a warm orangey glow cast over its (surprisingly empty) pews, and outside the burial grounds house chipped gravestones with cheery messages like, “Hark from The Tombs A Dolefull Sound – My Ears Attend The Cry – Ye Living Men Come View The Ground – Where You Must Shortly Lie.” This on the grave of a 9-month-old girl. Eeeek. There’s also a giant sculpture made from the roots of a giant tree that was overturned on September 11th, yet another reminder of how profoundly affected the downtown area was by that event.

A bored NYPD officer looks on as people take their picture with the bronze bull on Wall Street,
New York, May 2012

Continuing on our southwards journey, we came across a giant bronze bull plonked on a traffic island right in the middle of the road. And, actually standing in the middle of the road (not even on the island), was a lengthy queue of tourists, dodging traffic and fumes from passing vehicles. All of this being viewed by a pair of bored-looking coppers. What the hell? People were queueing to have their picture taken with this creature and we didn’t even know what it was. For a brief moment we considered joining the queue, and then realised it would’ve been dumb. Why join the queue when we don’t know what it is and have never heard of it? We stood and watched people come and go for a bit and thought about finding a nearby Starbucks and looking it up online, but instead settled on the idea of just asking one of the people who’d finished with it. So, when a likely-looking Italian guy dodged across the street after having his picture taken, we accosted him and asked him what the hell was going on. “Why is the bull important? Why are people taking their pictures with it?” His answer? “Uh… I don’t know. There was a queue. I thought it must be important, so I joined it and took a picture.” EH?!? The second person we asked was just as clueless. Honestly. Why were these people wasting their time if they had no idea what it was all about? Just so they could SAY they’d seen the bull, despite not actually giving a shit? Ugh. In the end, Calvin crossed the street, narrowly avoiding being turned into strawberry jam by a large truck, and questioned some of the people in the queue. He spoke to about three people before he got an answer: that the bull represents the strength of Wall Street. So, I guess I missed out on this little tidbit somewhere along the line. You learn something new every day! But I have to say, it’s a bit ironic. Because let’s be honest, since 2008 and the crash, Wall Street has hardly been a symbol of economic strength, has it? But it looks like some people see this statue as a New York icon… enough to dice with a messy death, even. We decided that, having never heard of it, nor holding it particularly dear to our hearts, we could safely advance without joining the queue or snapping a picture of us hugging the bull.

We backtracked a little, turning up Wall Street proper and finding ourselves before that bastion of economic bewilderment: the New York Stock Exchange. Situated on a little cobbled crossroads, with streets barely wide enough to squeeze a couple of horses along them, the imposing front of the NYSE looms over all. Since September 11th, tourists have been forbidden from entering, more’s the pity. I’d love to see all the legendary screaming and yelling and waving of fists that goes on in there. Instead, we had to entertain ourselves with the myriad of sights that met us outside the walls. Parked right outside was a very expensive, very shiny, very black Mercedes with batwing doors. I think the real term might actually be gullwing, to inspire the idea of flight and strength, but batwing sounds cooler and more realistically implies the fututrismo ridiculousness of the design! Money, money, money… all the cars parked along there reeked of money, and the people getting out of them even more so. A couple of cuddly-looking security guards in red caps loitered nearby, and two female police officers shared a quiet joke about a badly-dressed tourist.

Steam issued from a nearby subway vent as an ageing lone nutter yelled abuse at the NYSE at the top of his lungs. Upon closer inspection, we discovered that he (and a small gaggle of unwashed teenagers nearby) were a small delegation claiming to belong to the Occupy Wall Street movement. A small metal barrier had been erected in front of them, though whether it was meant to separate us from them, or them from us, I can’t say. I suspect that Occupy Wall Street would probably rather separate themselves from this old guy, because he was certifiably nuts, and I’m also guessing that the lethargic teens were just trying to be appear to be rebels; they didn’t actually seem to be doing anything except rolling cigarettes.

I’m in two minds about the Occupy Wall Street movement. On one hand, SOMEBODY needs to speak out against the corruption, greed and general all-round stinkiness of fat corporate yes-men. The world is imbalanced, and it’s true: we are the 98%. There were a lot of people out there making a very good point. But then, we are also a part of a smaller percentage of folk in the world with a western perspective, who generally have the RIGHT to protest and can still have the luxury of a hot meal afterwards… which makes us, on a global scale, a minority. And so, on the other hand, I really think they needed to be more specific about their demands. Yes, power to the people, but to what end? Perhaps the corporate-controlled media just made sure that we, the general public, never got to hear any actual demands…? I don’t know. A great idea, fizzling out sadly because of a lack of direction. And with a bad PR rap because they stopped people from getting to work of a morning, or getting home of an evening – people who were just generally hard-working minions trying to pay a mortgage and feed their kids. And then an even worse PR rap because nutters from all over joined the ’cause’, along with anarchists, yobs and loopy teenagers looking to piss off mummy and seeing a convenient opportunity without actually having to do anything. Sigh.

But anyway, there he was, standing alone against the might of Wall Street, his filthy hair matted to his head and his ragged fingernails clutching a hand-written sign, the writing on which I couldn’t make out. All that was left (on that day, anyway) of the once-heavily-populated Occupy Wall Street.

We left him shouting to the rooftops and started taking random twists and turns down side streets. In this part of Manhattan, it truly is Old School – these streets were here from the founding of the settlement (in some shape or form), and the grid system is not only lost but apparently deliberately opposed. The city grew from here, evolved out of muddy gutters right out of the bottom of Manhattan. Here is where you find some of the oldest, smallest buildings tucked down little lanes and alleyways behind skyscrapers. Once they were small workshops and waterfront businesses, but now they are swanky bistros and elitist retro-nouveau-haute-cuisine restaurants for the mega-earners of the Financial District. Pedestrian crossings and traffic lights can be few and far between (the roads are only a couple of metres wide anyway, in some places), and the street surfaces are brick instead of concrete or tarmac. One can almost imagine a bunch of drunken Dutchmen of New Amsterdam, wearing big pantaloons, emerging from a pub and stumbling blindly down to another tavern to find some wenches (actually, I’m pretty sure that that tradition probably still endures, except the drunks wear Armani suits and Rolex watches instead of britches with buttoned-up bum flaps).

The Fraunces Tavern, NYC

All this thought of drunken carousing and feasting on grouse with greasy fingers was making me hungry, and the wind screaming down the alleys wasn’t helping. Luckily, Calvin had the hungers too, and just as we were about to get desperate (neither of us had budgets that would stretch to the latest ‘it’ venue for food in this neck of the woods, and it was hard to find anywhere that wasn’t a historical building smothered in chrome or black silk, all signs of megabucks meals) we stumbled upon the Fraunces Tavern. This little gem turned out to be (allegedly) New York’s oldest building and tavern, and I would be inclined to believe it. You could almost FEEL the history, and the worn wood floors and old wooden beams in the roof screamed of ‘Ye Olde Yesteryear’. George Washington apparently downed a few drinks within its walls, so we knew we were in good company. Squatting near the corner of Pearl and Broad Street, the tavern is divided up into different sections, each for different drinking or eating purposes, plus a museum at the back; we entered through the very sophisticated-looking whisky lounge (if I remember correctly)… I fancied snuggling up in one of the dark, high-back leather chairs and sitting in the gloom with a glass of something strong and a cigar, but then I realised that I am NOT Donald Trump and that I don’t drink, so we moved onto the much more airy general bar and dining area, where the tables are made out of old sewing machine trestles and the seats are covered in animal hide. The menu was actually pretty reasonable, and made even more so by the fact that we had arrived during happy hour. For a measly $3 I got a bowl of deliciously crispy thick-cut chips, and for a few bucks more I got some scallops wrapped in bacon, sitting atop a pile of warm spinach. Calvin tried a sampler plate of burger sliders, all with different fillings, and we drank enough water to drown a small duck.

Mmmmm… late lunch at the Fraunces Tavern, NYC

Much warmer than we started, and digesting happily, we followed our noses and somehow found our way back up to the World Trade Centre site. I’ve said my piece on the events of September 11th and what the World Trade Centre Memorial is like; if you want to read it again, you can find it here and here. This time, I was here to see the lights. From what I understood, the fountains looked spectacular at night, and the names of the people who died had been punched out of the metal surrounding the fountains so that when darkness came, the lights from the fountains shone up through the spaces, illuminating their names. Calvin and I sat for a while, quietly chatting and people-watching, waiting for the sun to go down. We were both driven nuts by all the people sitting on the name boards, and the tourists flipping the 2-fingered, big-smiley LOOK AT ME! pose. I don’t think that we should all stand around weeping and tearing at our hair, but we should at least show enough damn respect not to rest our asses on the names of the people who died here, don’t you think? We were even inspired to photobomb a small Japanese group who were all gathered together with big cheesy grins, pointing up at the tower for their pose and smiling. Maybe we missed the joke, but it’s not the bleeding Leaning Tower of Pisa. So we crept up behind and pulled a crazy face; I dread to think what they’ll do when they go home, look at the picture and find a bizarre pair in the background! We also wanted to ruin the photo of a stupid middle-aged butthead who lifted his young, hot girlfriend up onto the name boards to sit and then cuddled up for a photo, but unfortunately getting behind them to sneak their picture would have involved flying above the fountains, so we resisted.

Anger management issues aside, the sun finally started to disappear about half an hour before the site was due to close. The lights came on, and wow, it was beautiful. The base of the fountains glowed warmly, and all around the edges the names of the lost burned brightly. In true darkness I’m sure they would have been even more outstanding, but as it was, it was still beautifully done, and a really nice tribute. My heart caught in my throat a little when I noticed the name of ‘Vanessa Lang Langer and her Unborn Child’ gleaming in the half-light; I’d never thought about the pregnant women of September 11th and the families they left behind who dealt with not only one loss, but two.

The lights at the World Trade Center Memorial at dusk,
NYC, May 2012

The site was starting to empty out and the security guards were giving us the beady eye; we briefly considered running around the tower footprints to see if they’d chase us out, but then decided that it would probably end in a tasing or a shooting and was therefore was a bad idea. And so, having seen what we came to see, we left the WTC site for the last time. We stopped briefly at a little gift shop-come-museum on the way out, which was full of schoolkids. Projected onto the back wall of the store was footage from projectrebirth.org , with survivors telling stories of their experience, and testimonies from the people left behind about how they were moving on with their lives. Harrowing stuff, but mostly with an air of hope for better things in the future.

We got on the subway and went all the way uptown, back to the hostel stamping grounds. Calvin would be leaving tomorrow – boo hoo! We decided to stop at a nearby Ben & Jerry’s to fill up before heading back to the hostel; I got some sort of Heath Bar Crunch cone thing that was freaking DELICIOUS. We chatted to the guy behind the counter and listened to the radio before heading home. It was wierd; Hicham had already gone, Karen was nowhere to be seen (not a bad thing), and Calvin was about to leave… our time at the hostel was nearly over. Mine too, seeing as I only had a night or two left there. We grabbed our laptops and met in the common room for the last time, and had a fairly quiet late evening… ‘and then there were two”!

Thanks for stopping by,

Tara.

Tags: broadway, bronx borough hall, bronx fires, bronze bull, bronze bull nyc, canyon of heroes, chelsea market, food, fraunces tavern, fraunces tavern nyc, lower manhattan, malaysia grill nyc, melrose, new york, new york stock exchange, ny, NYSE, occupy wall street, september 11, the bronx, the bronx is burning, the bull of wall street, travel, trinity church nyc, wall street, world trade center, world trade centre, wtc lights, WTC memorial

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Categories New York City, New York State, USA

Avoiding Arrest at the United Nations and Falafel Fun Times, New York, May 2012

18 Sep

Tuesday May 8th – After yet another sleepless night filled with a snoring soundscape and nightmare visions of mice scampering through my suitcases, I decided to sleep in again; it was the only way I could get uninterrupted sleep for a couple of hours! I eventually crawled out of bed at around 10 and had a shower before going down to the cafeteria just in time to get my free breakfast bagel and fruit. The weather, once again, looked pretty ratty, and I grumpily munched on my brekkie as I searched for somewhere to sit in the common room to consider my options for the day.

As luck would have it, Hicham was sitting there with his laptop, also trying to figure out what to do with his day. I knew that I wanted to visit the United Nations, but had no other inspiration; Hicham knew that he wanted to visit Columbia University, but had no other inspiration. Perfect! We decided to team up for the day. It had never even crossed my mind to visit Columbia University, so I was happy to go along for a taste of the unexpected.

So, after finishing breakfast we grabbed our jackets and umbrellas and started walking north along Amsterdam Avenue in the direction of the university, into the Morningside Heights area. At around 112th Street my eyes were shocked by the appearance of a MASSIVE cathedral. And I don’t just mean ‘rather big’, I mean MASSIVE. It turns out that we had just encountered The Cathedral Church of St John the Divine. Now, I didn’t know much about this place at the time, but apparently this cathedral is the biggest ‘something’ in New York/the world. I say ‘something’, because there is some dispute as to what exactly it is the biggest of. The general consensus is that it is the largest Gothic cathedral in the world. It also seems accepted that it is the largest cathedral in New York City. There is some disagreement, however, about it being the largest Anglican cathedral in the world… but let’s just say that it is AMONG the largest Anglican cathedrals in the world!!! Whatever the case, it’s big, and it sticks out like a sore thumb, plopped down in the middle of northern Manhattan as it is. We loitered on the steps for a bit, considering a visit, but it looked quite imposing, the doors were closed and we didn’t want to step in uninvited as tourists. So, after admiring its grand, curvy, granite exterior, we trotted onwards and upwards.

Roughly bounded between 113th Street and 123rd Street to the north and south, and Morningside Park and Riverside Park to the east and west, Columbia University is one of those brainiac think-tanks of legend. I’ve grown up with it on the periphery of my knowledge of well-respected educational institutions. Their ‘notable alumni’ list reads like a who’s who of politicians, scientists, economists, journalists, actors, writers and everybody else who’s ever done anything cool, and also includes none other than the current president of the United States, Barack Obama.

Giving A Speech At Columbia University… Or Am I?
New York, May 2012

Hicham and I started at the Low Library, which looked a bit like a miniature Pantheon (and which, as it turns out, is not actually a library any more…!). Avoiding the visitor centre, we snuck into the central area of the building and, to our delight, found one of those fancy lecterns that are used to give official speeches and talks, complete with ‘University of Columbia In The City of New York’ emblazoned across the front of it. Checking that nobody was around, we climbed the stage and made pretend speeches to our imaginary audience of adoring fans; my theory on crunchy peanut butter and its role in the world of quantum physics and neuroscience was a hit! Jumping down off the podium before the men in white coats showed up to drag us away, we tootled around the campus a bit and made our way to the economics/business area. Hicham was looking for some info on how much it would cost to do an MBA at Columbia… when he found out and told me, I nearly choked. It was into the tens of thousands and I’m pretty sure that someone would have to be a multimillionaire businessman (or willing to mortgage off their souls and/or their first-born child) before even enrolling in something like that. Blimey!

Leaving the university, we headed northwest to Grant’s Tomb. It’s a big ol’ stone edifice, built to honour the Civil War general, Ulysses S Grant, who eventually became President of the USA. My historical knowledge of him is sketchy, to say the least, but I know he was on the side of the Union/the north, and I know that he kicked some serious ass, and that he had a formidable beard… although I guess that was common for those days. The most striking thing about the tomb is the fact that it is fronted by an avenue of trees… a nice bit of greenery in a concrete jungle. We decided not to go in; had Grant been a hero of mine I might have succumbed, but as it was I just wanted to keep wandering. We headed downhill, towards the river, taking a brief stroll through Riverside Park. I watched with glee as squirrels bounded around in the brush, enjoying the trees and the sense of calm.

We followed the wide steps down, down, down until we hit the edge of the riverside freeway. I can’t remember which of us made a joke about being all alone in the woods, and at the mercy of a knife-wielding serial killer, but I remember that I was silly enough to feel the hair rise on the back of my neck for a moment or two. I’m pretty sure Hicham was too, but being a dignified kind of guy he’d never admit it. I assured myself that the crunch, crunch I could hear from ‘over there’ was in fact a squirrel, not the heel of an inbred redneck with a harelip and a machete approaching his prey… I DO remember, though, that we ended up “challenging each other to a race up the stairs” (read: giving ourselves the excuse to run like scared rabbits out of the woods), huffing and puffing about how much fitter each of us was than the other, but both very relieved to be out of the undoubtedly all-too-close cousin-marrying clutches of the next Jeffrey Dahmer. We were both thoroughly shamed when a jogger came pelting up behind us, at twice the speed we had been going, and barely out of breath. Sigh!

We kept walking northwards, first under the subway line and then back out to the river again, passing a place that bore the sign of the ‘Cotton Club’. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought that the original Cotton Club closed years ago…? If so, this place was playing on the infamy of a name, and to be honest I would not be dragging my backside out to the arse-end of nowhere late at night to see if this place was indeed the real deal. If it’s the real Cotton Club, well then, I missed an opportunity, didn’t I?

Highway underpass, West Harlem
New York, May 2012

We noticed streams of police cars coming up the slip road from behind the club, one after the other… either that’s the police car holding yard and it was shift start time, or something funny was going on! We walked out to the West Harlem Piers Park off 130th Street, and once again I was sad that the weather was so cloudy and crap. It’s not much of a pier, but the view on a sunny day down the west side of Manhattan would have been a corker. A couple of local girls were sat having a very intense conversation; I think one had just found out that her boyfriend was a cheating bastard. I wanted to pat her on the arm but figured that it was probably best not to touch emotionally unstable strangers! We sat for a little bit, stretching our aching legs (which had been walking for at least 2 or 3 hours by this point) before walking back to the subway line and following it along until we found a station. By this point, the subway was no longer a ‘subway’, and was in fact overground, which is not terribly unusual outside the main downtown areas of Manhattan.

Blending In To The Crowd At Grand Central Station
New York, May 2012

Soon afterwards we were disgorged from the subway into Grand Central Station, and we followed the human traffic into the main draw of the station: the Main Concourse. Grand Central Station, to me, is the New York of old; stately tunnels with carved archways, commuter rail lines leading to points beyond the five boroughs, the American flag hovering over a giant hall, and people scurrying from here to there at breakneck speed. The clock in the centre of the concourse is familiar from a zillion movies (if you’ve seen Madagascar, this is where the animals get caught before being shipped out) and the trio of arched windows on each end smacks of old-time elegance. The turquoise ceiling is patterned with gold representations of stellar constellations, and the windows on the sides keep the place bright and airy. We stood in respectful silence for a little bit, snapping the odd photo, before being approached by an eerily wide-eyed girl who asked if we wanted her to take our photo. We gratefully said yes, so she took one very quickly (it was at a wonky angle and actually cut off the flag that Hicham had asked her to include), and then started jabbering about how she was actually in the middle of a job interview (!) where she had to approach people and talk to them… and then she ran off. Hicham and I shared an eyebrow-lifting moment, watching as she disappeared into the crowds. I wonder what on earth the interview was for, and how approaching us qualified her to do ANY job. She didn’t really talk to us, so what was she meant to find out…? I’m guessing sales, but who can tell?

Me and Hicham at Grand Central Station
New York, May 2012

We walked up the stairs and were surprised to find an Apple store, right there in the middle of the station, no walls to separate it from the open-air arch of the concourse. Talk about prime retail space; I dread to think what the rent would be for a store like that. And yet… think of the exposure. Even if they don’t sell much from the store, the fact that every day, thousands of people passing through the station see the giant Apple logo hanging up there is in itself a marketing coup. Genius.

We left the station, exiting onto the street and passing the shoe-shine stands. Both of us were wearing open shoes, so sadly there was no visit to the shoe-shiner that day! We were walking along 42nd Street, heading to the East River, when it started to drizzle. Eurgh. Poor Hicham’s flip-flops were rubbing and I have to say we were pretty miserable. Damn the rain! I was starving by this point, too, and I don’t make good company when I’ve got the hungers, so I dropped into a little bakery that just happened to be nearby… how convenient! The place was called ‘Baked by Melissa’, and all they sold were cute-looking mini cupcakes. They were 3 for $3, so I chose one ‘mint chocolate chip’, one ‘chocolate chip pancake’, and one ‘mini of the month’, which was triple chocolate fudge (which was by far the best). I offered Hicham one but he gallantly turned it down, and I snaffled them in about 0.3 seconds. Sugared up, I was ready to continue.

We finally reached the United Nations complex, windswept and slightly damp, but in one piece. The first thing we noticed was the giant row of flags lined up against the edge of the complex, and we followed those to the visitor entrance, which was surrounded by a few sculptures (my favourite was the gun with the knot in it) and semi-permanent security screening areas. We spotted some South American men in traditional costume; Hicham approached them and it turns out they were visiting from the Amazon.

All our bags and belongings were scanned and searched before we were able to enter the main building; I was VERY aware that we were being closely watched and that if one building was going to have some crazy-ass security in place, it would be here. We entered a surprisingly dull-looking entrance area, lined on one side by portraits of all the Secretary-Generals of the UN – including the current incumbent, Ban Ki-Moon. All of them were smiling benevolently except for one called Kurt Waldheim who, quite frankly, looked a little bit threatening. Later research tells me that he was a Nazi soldier who allegedly tried to cover up his military past… did the painter know this and perhaps try to convey it in his painting? Either way, it looks like he spent his time as UN Secretary-General honorably…

Hicham and I booked ourselves onto the next guided tour (one does not simply wander about the UN by oneself, unfortunately), and he rested his feet while I investigated the exhibition in the foyer, which was an interesting display on the voices of the Holocaust. There was a video playing witness testimonies from war crimes trials, as always compelling but disturbing. Eventually, our tour was called, and we were equipped with security badges and high-tech headphones so that we could hear the voice of our guide clearly, no matter how far we wandered from the group. What a great idea! I could really have used that as a teacher – no more voice fatigue!! Our first stop was the United Nations Security Council, where all the ins and outs were explained to us. The basic function of the council is to keep the peace, settle disputes, and take action where necessary. On one hand I was in awe, and on the other hand I was a bit, well, disillusioned. I mean, this is the same council that has been unable to stop the bloodshed in numerous countries (Syria currently foremost in my mind) and was overridden by Bush for his witchhunt in Iraq. I just had to tell myself that it probably stopped a billion or so other potential ‘disturbances’, and of course we never hear about the successes because the wars never happen… or so we hope!

Both of us took a bunch of pictures and were so tied up in it that we barely noticed that our group was leaving… before we knew it, they had slipped into a lift and disappeared. Panic hit; here we were, strolling around a highly secure area with cameras… and Hicham could not find his security card. I had mental images of both of us being shipped in manacles to Guantanamo Bay; not exactly the way I had hoped to return to Cuba! Thankfully our guide came out looking for us before I felt the need to burst into tears in the hallway; I resisted the urge to hug her knees and thank her for my freedom!

Where all the big decisions are made – The United Nations General Assembly
New York, May 2012

We rejoined our group at the United Nations General Assembly – the large hall where the magic happens. We took seats in the viewing gallery. Tones of austere green and brown abounded, and the olive-leaf-and-globe UN logo took proud centre stage. All member nations, no matter how small, get their vote at the General Assembly. They are arranged in alphabetical order from the right of the President, and at each session the alphabet is rotated. So, for example, one session will have Azerbaijan next to the President, but the next session will have Bangladesh, and the next will have Cuba, and then D, E, and F will get their turn, and so on. It’s a nice way of observing equality. There were niches and nooks and dials for translators, and I was just dumbstruck that I was actually here in this international powerhouse.

Reluctantly leaving the General Assembly, we were taken on a little tour of the UN’s global objectives, and shown some of the things they wish to avoid or eradicate. A display of land mines creeped me out, as did a terrible photograph of a van in Angola that had basically been torn to shreds by gunfire. A man rested against a wall nearby which was strewn with bullet holes, casually cradling a giant gun in his lap with his leg up. That picture shows everyday life for this man. How lucky we are, and how easy it is to forget that.

Moving on, we saw something that I had read about when I was quite young, and which had caused me some distress at the time. I read Paula Danziger’s ‘Remember Me To Harold Square’ when I was about 10 years old, a rip-roaring pre-teen tale of a young girl living in New York. Her parents send her, her dorky little brother and a (conveniently) handsome young male friend of the family on a scavenger hunt around New York City during the summer holidays. Thinking about it now, that book probably had a lot to do with my adult love of New York… hmmm. Revelations! 😀 Anyway, Kendra, Oscar and Frank (ridiculous names, thinking back on it now) spend weeks exploring the city, and one of their tasks is to visit the United Nations building. She goes on a tour and sees an exhibition featuring the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I was interested enough to do some reading about it at the time, and what I read, as a 10-year-old, absolutely horrified me; stories of burned bodies and total destruction which, I’m pretty sure, gave me nightmares. Thank god we didn’t have the internet back then or I would have been subjected to thousands of images and videos, too! One of the things that Kendra mentioned seeing on her UN tour was a statue which was salvaged from a cathedral in Nagasaki. And, walking around a corner at the UN, I was surprised to see it with my own eyes after so many years – Saint Agnes, clutching a lamb. The front looked old and a bit battered but relatively unscathed, as apparently the statue had fallen on its face. However, the rear of the statue was a twisted mass of molten, scorched rock; can you imagine temperatures so high that they melt rock? And can you imagine that heat roaring through your living room one Thursday morning, swallowing up and burning everything and everyone you know? Something like 80,000 people died in one go. Eighty THOUSAND. And that was just Nagasaki. Not to mention all the injured, and (I suspect) all the people damaged by radiation for years afterwards. Bloody hell. Eighty thousand. It feels so detached from modern man, something that savages would do in the dark ages, but it was only 67 years ago. American soldiers dropped bombs that killed thousands upon thousands of civilians. It’s no surprise that the Japanese largely retreated from international tourism until the 70s and 80s; I would have been shit-scared of going anywhere if a foreign country had exercised its right to blow hundreds of thousands of my people to smithereens. It puts the 3000 victims of September 11th into perspective a bit. We’re just lucky that Japan hasn’t developed a thirst for revenge, quite frankly, or we’d all be screwed. Maybe that’s why America is so frightened of anyone else having nuclear power, seeing as they were the only government to have actually used it on others in warfare. Honestly, I was disturbed. Once again, I thanked my lucky stars that I was born in a different place and time.

Continuing our tour, we learned about the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, covering issues from torture to education and from slavery to culture, religion, childhood and motherhood. We also followed a display of the UN Millennium Development Goals, which basically covered the improvement of the aforementioned human rights, along with equality, sustainability, child mortality and disease management. It was inspiring; one can only hope that the world keeps working towards these goals. Every little helps. I can’t help but be a cynic, though, and suspect that most people are too busy looking out for Number One to really give half a second’s thought about the millions who are out there suffering. And hey, I’m not blameless either. You come out of a place like the UN questioning what YOU do to make your world a better place for others who are less fortunate than yourself. I think a lot of us have some real soul-searching to do, and a realignment of government and social policies wouldn’t hurt, either. (Understatement of the millennium!)

Somehow I don’t think I’d ever pass the height regulations to be a UN Peacekeeper!
New York, May 2012

I got to try on a UN Peacekeeper’s helmet, which was lots of fun but it was too big for me – both literally and figuratively speaking. However, I was particularly inspired by the School In A Box initiative. A paltry sum of money (less than we might spend on dinner out, for example) buys a metal box filled with all the basics for a classroom in a remote or underprivileged area. The inside lid of the box doubles as a small blackboard, and contains everything from a solar-powered radio, chalk and notebooks to paint that can be used to convert any wall into blackboard space. I was also happy to see them mention http://www.freerice.com , an initiative from the World Food Programme that I’ve always encouraged my more advanced students to use. It’s a simple word game, and for every answer you get correct, 10 grains of rice are donated. Not bad, eh? And for so little effort on our part. If you’ve got a few free seconds, go and play. 🙂

A veritable feast set out at the United Nations
New York, May 2012

Anyway, we finished our tour and my head was buzzing with all the awesome ideas I’d just seen. It was raining outside and they were ushering people outside as fast as possible because the complex was closing. True to our sneaky style of the day, we spotted something being set up and wandered over to have a look, deaf to the calls of “Please leave the building now!” It turns out that those men from the Amazon that we encountered earlier were part of a larger delegation which had come to the UN for some sort of show and demonstration, and they were setting up a stage and a display of traditional food in a colourful pattern on a raised platform. FOOD! Both of us were starving. We must have looked pretty pitiful because one of the guys who was setting up ushered us over and asked us if we wanted to try some of what they were laying out. And – what a surprise – we DID want to try it! They had a few different types of mega-corn (the kernels were about 3 times the size of the corn I usually see), some of it roasted, some of it toasted (or maybe dried), and a baking tray full of soft mushy corn that was delicious. They also had beans, and we had a good go of everything before thanking our gracious host and scarpering before the security guards (who were already eyeing us suspiciously) realised we weren’t supposed to be there.

From the UN we walked back to Grand Central Station, and Hicham and I parted ways; he went walking, and I went back through the hallways to the subway to go back to the hostel for a little bit, before I was due to meet Calvin.

Later that evening, Calvin and I met at The Hummus Place (on Broadway, between 98th and 99th Street). Calvin had told me to choose our dinner and I really fancied a good, crunchy falafel. As it turned out, Calvin had never tried hummus OR falafels before, so it was a lucky pick! We had a veritable feast of falafels (greenish in the middle, full of herbs, mmmm) with fresh warm pita, babaganoush, labneh and hummus with whole chickpeas, and it was EXCELLENT. Almost as good as the stuff I had in Jordan! ;P It makes my mouth water just thinking about it. It also came with something that I think is called za’tar – a green herby, bitey mix that you put with all the other good stuff! We tore at the pita with gusto and there was barely a morsel left on the plates – quite an achievement for two fairly small people! AND, not to be defeated (and not really ready for the night to end), we decided to go in search of dessert afterwards as well!

Calvin surveys our sweet, chocolatey feast at Max Brenner, Union Square
New York, May 2012

Calvin had heard of a chocolate cafe that he wanted to try, and I am NEVER one to turn down chocolate, so off we went, in the direction of Union Square. As it turns out, this chocolate cafe was none other than the inimitable Max Brenner, an Israeli company that has already seen great success in Australia… and I daresay that the loads of hard-earned wonga that my friends and I throw at it at every opportunity has helped with its success somewhat! The menu in the States is far more extensive than the one in Australia though, so I was happy to find that I could still find something new and different. It was past 10pm, but the place was PACKED; Calvin and I managed to get the last table for two while larger groups waited. Subdued lighting, chocolatey-brown decor and ridiculously cool loungey music made for a VERY comfortable atmosphere. Our neighbours were totally crackers (or at least, the girl was; her awkwardly loud chatter and sudden outburst of “SO YOU WANNA COME TO GUATEMALA WITH ME?!?” was greeted with open-awed shock from her male counterpart), but we ignored them and focused on the task at hand – dessert. We ordered, and when it arrived it was like heaven had come to the earth. We had a ‘Sharing Fondue’, although I reckon that – despite its monstrous size – we could have easily polished off one each out of pure greed! The dish included a tutti frutti waffle (a waffle covered with mixed berries and ice cream), brownie squares, banana tempura, milk chocolate and white chocolate bars with crunchy bits inside, chocolate fondue, fresh strawberries and bananas, marshmallows, and a chocolate sauce on the side. HOT. DAMN. The whole thing was also accompanied by a mini barbeque grill, complete with blue flame, upon which we were instructed to toast our marshmallows. Dear Lord. It was amazing.

When the cheque came, it was in a little pencil tin embossed with the words “Money for Life. Chocolate for the Soul.” Awesome. We had to basically push-start ourselves off the chairs to get moving, weighed down as we were with falafels and chocolate, but once we got rolling we were okay. We had a quick look around Union Square, but it was a bit rainy, so off we went, home to the hostel, to catch up with Hicham and Karen and anyone else who was around in the common room. What a day!

Thanks for stopping by,

Tara.

Tags: amsterdam avenue, cathedral church of st john the divine, chocolate, chocolate cafe, columbia university, dessert cafe, falafels, fondue, food, grand central station, grand central station main concourse, grand central station new york, grant's tomb, harlem, hummus, massive cathedral, max brenner, morningside heights, morningside heights area, new york, new york city, riverside park new york, squirrel, the cotton club, the hummus place, travel, UN, UN millennium goals, united nations, united nations general assembly, united nations security council, united nations tours, universal declaration of human rights, vacation, west harlem piers park

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Categories New York City, New York State, USA

Dancing On The Big Piano and Feasting In NYC’s Oldest Pizzeria, New York, May 2012

11 Aug

Monday May 7th – Bleary-eyed, I pressed snooze on my alarm and waited til my noisy room-mates had vacated before going back to sleep for another couple of hours, grasping what little sleep I could after a basically sleepless night in The Snoring Room. Even the housekeeping staff who came to empty the bins were quiet enough to not wake me, so that gives you an idea of how loud those four people were snoring all night!

I went downstairs and met up with Calvin in the common room. Both of us had errands to run, so we went to a printing shop around the corner from the hostel where he got something printed from the internet, and I got a couple of photos from my Cuba trip printed. Why? Well, Lew (the Aussie I met a few times in the hostel… and outside!) had mentioned that he was heading to Cuba. I met a nice guy in Vinales who kept me company when my stupid roommate cleared off with the key, so I couldn’t go home when I wanted to. I figured I’d print these pictures, and see if Lew could drop them off to this guy in Vinales, which is a very small town. I liked the idea of this Cuban guy being surprised by a random Australian with photos from someone he knew. Lew won’t get to Cuba until mid-June, though, so I won’t know until then if the mission is successful! Anyway, Calvin and I got our stuff done, and then went back to the hostel to leave the photos on the noticeboard for Lew before heading out again.

Calvin and I had a mission for the day: a 5-star meal on a traveller’s budget. “Where could you possibly find an awesome thing like that?” I hear you ask. Well, we scooted all the way to Soho, starving because we’d skipped breakfast in anticipation of a feast, and pushed open the doors at a restaurant called L’Ecole. This restaurant is actually part of an international-standard training school for chefs and hospitality staff, and the customers are essentially ‘guinea pigs’ in a high-pressure training environment. The staff are rated on customer service and the quality of the food. For a full three-course meal, including tax and tips, I think we paid about $35 each.

For the record, the food was amazing. To begin with, they brought us some beautiful crusty bread and butter, and a little ‘amuse-bouche’ risotto ball with buffalo chilli sauce. For starters, Calvin had the perfect roasted vegetable terrine, which included Japanese eggplant, zucchini and gruyere cheese (among other goodies), served on a beautiful smear of basil pesto with some yummy fresh greens. I opted for the creamy corn bisque with smoked pork belly and chorizo oil. The bisque was thick, smokey and sweet, and the little bit of pork belly was a great salty touch. The meal was already kickass and we hadn’t even hit the main course yet!

Still smacking our lips and scraping our plates from the appetizers, we greedily eyed our mains as they arrived. Calvin had the hanger steak with ‘pommes boulangere’ (sliced almost all the way through and then roasted, I think), sauteed spinach and a rich savoury sauce, which was damn good. I was supremely satisfied with my choice of fish – I had the crispy branzino with fava bean, leek and maitake mushroom fricasee (!) on a bed of sweet pea puree. It sounds wierd but god, it was like a giant party on my tongue. The fricasee was incredible.

Next, they brought us out the dessert menus, and we had great trouble deciding between all the delicious choices. In the end we managed to break down the options and decided to share the passionfruit baked alaska with a chocolate cake base and raspberry coulis (oh my god!!!), and the chocolate angel food cake with white chocolate mousse and raspberries. I’d never had angel food cake before, so the fluffy texture was quite the surprise, and it came with a twist of home-made toffee on the top, which was crispy and chewy and had just a little bit of that yummy burnt toffee taste. The passionfruit baked alaska was stupidly good – the tart passionfruit ice cream centre surrounded by toasted meringue was beautifully offset by the rich chocolate base. I was totally a food monster. Calvin was my partner in crime. We danced out of that restaurant, bellies full, ridiculously satisfied with ourselves!

Our next stop was The Metropolitan Museum of Art. We had heard from a woman at the hostel that there was some sort of free event at The Met tonight, with an appearance by Beyonce, and we figured we’d spend the afternoon having a quick look at the museum and then hang out for the show. However… we both had some doubts as to the validity of this woman’s ‘big free party’ theory. For starters, she claimed to be a successful photographer who lived in New York, and yet she was staying in a youth hostel. And when she gave Calvin her business card, it was actually for a masseuse. She had also told him stories about how she was desperately in love with Gerard Butler, pretty much to the bunny-boiler stage. She even claimed that she somehow met him once, and in preparation for their meeting she had bought a brunette wig because she had heard that he liked brunettes, but she was blonde. Cue creepy stalker-style music. Apparently she and/or her friend run some sort of celebrity stalking website where they update celeb locations 24 hours a day. I was officially creeped out by the Gerard Butler wig story, let alone by the website.

Regardless of the dangers of following the advice of a borderline nutter, we traipsed up to the Upper East Side and started walking from the subway to The Met; we figured that even if the big Beyonce event wasn’t on, we could still enjoy the museum (although I think that both of us were pretty excited about a big free concert!). We passed a bunch of kids on the way who were equally as peeved by the return of the rain as we were; one of them started singing, “It’s raining, IT’S BORING!!!!” I think I prefer his revised lyrics to the originals! We also passed the most brilliant sight – a car that had parallel parked illegally across a bite in the pavement had been completely parked in, bumper-to-bumper, by angry drivers to the front and rear of him. Not even a millimetre remained between the bumpers; I’m surprised that the car’s alarm hadn’t been set off by these precision manoeuvres! That driver is going NOWHERE until at least one of his neighbours comes back and moves their car. Serves him right, cheeky bugger. Hilarious!

One thing we both noticed about the Upper East Side was all the money. I mean, I guess there’s money almost anywhere you go in Manhattan, but here we’re talking MONEY. Our journey was dotted with professional dog-walkers, uniformed doormen and nannies pushing prams and collecting kids from school. Wowee.

So anyway, through the wind and rain and crowds of nannies we battled, and made it to The Met.

Which was closed.

Just like it is every Monday.

Eeeargh! Not only that, but this celebrity event was, in fact, a private event to celebrate the launch of the new fashion exhibit at the museum. Yes, Beyonce was going to be there, but we were most definitively not invited! Short of hanging around for the next 8 hours in the rain waiting for the limos to show up (only for us to catch a millisecond glimpse of Beyonce’s stellar booty), there was nothing for us to do but carry on our merry way.

We have the same glasses!!! Hanging with the Muppets
FAO Schwarz, New York, May 2012

Not to be deflated by one setback, we caught the bus down 5th Avenue to the bottom of Central Park, where I directed us to the legendary FAO Schwarz toy shop… definitely the place to be cheered up on a rainy day! The doorman – in his red tunic and furry high-top hat – ushered us in, and it was playtime. We rolled up and down the aisles, poking at the soft toys and waving at Spiderman as we passed. We visited the Muppets Whatnot Workshop, where I considered designing and buying my very own Muppet, but denied it to myself because, quite frankly, I should be spending my money on experiences and not stuffed toys… and I don’t have room in my suitcase! But man, it was hard to say no. I’m such a big Henson fan and I’m in love with The Muppets. This is not an exaggeration. I LOVE them. But at least I allowed myself a little play with some of the Whatnots that they already had out – one was even wearing the same glasses as me! 🙂

Sharing exciting news with the Muppets
FAO Schwarz, New York, May 2012

We stopped at a little stand next to the toy trucks and spoke to Charles, a very friendly FAO Schwarz employee, who convinced us to get some dark chocolate-covered pretzels and milk chocolate-covered Oreos, and then threw in an extra Oreo as a bonus. There’s something about the combination of a salty pretzel in a chocolatey covering that is just magic in the mouth. We nibbled our goodies as we continued our tour of the store. This walk culminated in the achievement of a dream I’ve had since I was 7 years old. I got to dance on THE BIG PIANO!!! Do you remember that scene from ‘Big’, where Tom Hanks and his boss play Chopsticks and Heart & Soul on a giant light-up floor piano in a toy shop? Well, that toy shop was FAO Schwarz, and that piano (or a very good facsimile thereof) lives upstairs. And I got to dance on it!!! FINALLY! I remember watching that scene as a kid and just yearning for a go. Of course, I yearned even more for a luck dragon just like Atreyu had in the Neverending Story, but of the two dreams this was the one more likely to come true…! I pranced, I danced, and I tried not to trample all the little kids who were on the piano with me. Calvin and I were the only ‘grown-ups’ who were there without kids, and we were the only ones actually dancing on the piano. In a way, it was a bit sad. Not for us, but for the other adults. I mean, they obviously remember the movie or they wouldn’t have dragged their kids (who, mostly under 4, would not know anything about ‘Big’) to the piano, but none of them were brave enough to have a go, even though they probably had the same dream I had when they were kids. Be brave, people! Don’t worry about looking like an idiot! Enjoy yourself!!! So, it was me and Calvin and a bunch of toddlers, who seemed especially fascinated by me. There was one teeny-tiny little Korean girl in particular who just couldn’t tear her eyes away from me, and as such she features in most of my pictures, either staring or squatting or stumbling along the keyboard behind me.

Fulfilling a dream I’ve had since I was 7 – dancing on the piano from ‘Big’!
FAO Schwarz, New York, May 2012

Having fulfilled a dream 25 years in the making, we went downstairs to FAO Schweetz, where the store sells – of course – all kinds of sweets. Candy wonderland! Surprisingly restrained, we bought nothing, and went back onto Fifth Avenue. Next stop? Tiffany & Co. Where else? Terribly snotty, incredibly unaffordable and filled with shiny things, Tiffany’s is still THE name in jewelry. We tried not to look too slobby as we rounded the display cabinets, and tried not to look too surprised by the astronomical prices. Thousands of dollars for necklaces! Sheesh! We stepped into the lift where a lady pressed the buttons for us, and we noticed another lady in the lift with us who was undoubtedly here to actually buy something, not just schlep around the shelves like us. She was in her late 50s, maybe early 60s, with perfectly coiffed hair, expensive designer clothes, dripping with jewelry, with just a little too much makeup, and plastic surgery up the wazoo. She was barking instructions for preparing dinner at somebody over the phone. One has to wonder what she (or her husband) does for a living to be able to afford to pop into Tiffany’s of an afternoon for a browse. And how can I get that kind of money?!? 😉 Although, knowing me, I’d probably spend it on a house full of Muppet Whatnots instead of jewelry…!!!

We left Tiffany’s and passed Trump Tower before going in to Hollister, which we’d both heard of but didn’t know much about. Turns out it’s a surfy-type clothing shop. It was quite the shopping experience, I have to say. First, if you’re there at the right time, you’re greeted by half-naked six-pack-baring surfer boys in Hollister shorts ushering you into the shop. Blimey. Well, at least it’s the guys who are being exploited for a change! The shop itself was ginormous, but divided into many dark, dark, small wood-panelled labyrinthine rooms, so it was easy to become disoriented and lost in the store… which I suppose was the point. The longer you stay, the more likely you are to give in and buy something. Calvin and I separated to have a look around, and I found a red dress I quite liked and took it to a change room. I fitted into it, but thanks to their dim lighting scheme I couldn’t actually clearly SEE what the dress looked like on me or whether it fitted properly! Disgusted, I took it off and returned it to the rack. As it turns out, I’m not the only person who’s had that problem in Hollister; a few fellow backpackers and locals that I spoke to later also gave up on their clothes after having vision issues. I wonder how many sales they lose that way? Obviously it doesn’t do their business any harm because they’re still around. Maybe they assume that the ‘mood’ lighting hides all manner of unflattering evils in the mirror, and makes customers feel better in their clothes? I don’t know. Either way, I’m not going to buy something that I haven’t seen properly on me!

After reuniting at the entrance and leaving Hollister empty handed, we had a little nose in Uniqlo, a Japanese clothing company that has hit the big time in New York; more than once I had overheard New Yorkers talking about it over lunch with their friends. The clothes at Uniqlo are inexpensive (by New York standards, anyway), good quality, well-fitted, and make good staple additions to a wardrobe. They also have a crazy range of arty t-shirts, but I was more interested in their jeans. This time though, Calvin and I just had a quick look at the IMMENSE store (50 storeys! Okay, not really, but close enough) before moving on. I think both of us were feeling a little beaten by the weather; neither of us was particularly into shopping but it was raining and cold, so being indoors was a better option. It’s a shame that the Met hadn’t been open…!

Not to be disheartened, we turned to that other golden indoor activity – eating. Having danced off our lunch on the Big Piano, we jumped on the subway and went downtown to NoLIta, where we were on a mission to find Lombardi’s pizza place. There’s a handful of places in New York that claim to have the best pizza in the city… actually, let me rephrase that. The VAST MAJORITY of pizza places in New York claim to have the best pizza in the city, but there’s only a large handful of them that are actually taken seriously by large numbers of people. One of those places is Lombardi’s, on Spring Street at the corner of Mott. They claim to be America’s first pizzeria, open since 1905, and I am inclined to believe them. Pizza was probably sold on the streets before then but apparently they were the first to hold a licence, and given immigration history in the area it’s quite likely they were the first.

So, this was the beginning of one of my “Best _____ in New York” tasting sessions. Much like sampling Geno’s and Pat’s Philly cheese steaks in Philadelphia and making my OWN decision as to who was the best, I had decided that I was going to try a few of the places that apparently had the best [insert foodstuff of choice here!] in New York and decide who was telling the truth… according to me, at least! Pizza was the main thing I was after, but I later added ‘definitive’ New York foods like cheesecake and hot dogs to the list just for the fun of it.

Calvin and I enjoy our classic mozzarella pizza in New York’s oldest pizza joint
Lombardi’s, New York May 2012

Entering Lombardi’s was a bit like stepping back in time (if you ignored the tracksuited tourists and trendy hipsters in VERY contemporary clothing). First, you pass a large mural of the Mona Lisa smiling over her pizza, and then you’re ushered to your table. The decor conjures a feeling of another era; exposed brick walls on one side, maroon on the other, with old photographs hanging in pretty frames, booth-style seating, and red and white checked tablecloths. Calvin and I chose the classic mozzarella pizza and delved in with wolfish enthusiasm when it arrived, crispy and hot from the oven. I liked the tomato sauce base, but had to wonder what the fuss was about; it was delicious pizza, and a cut above the rest, but I’m sure one could find its equal in many pizza joints. I think it’s the ‘specialness’ of eating in NY’s first pizzeria that takes the biscuit, not necessarily the food. We munched away happily, listening to the fantastic selection of music (apparently Channel 75 on Sirius XM Radio, according to the waiter), which included old-school crooners like Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Junior. The best, of course, was the immortal ‘New York, New York” by Frank Sinatra, and Calvin and I sang along, quite unashamed at our glee.

Finishing our pizza, we knew we had no choice but to venture out into the cold again. Not really wanting to return to the hostel, I suggested a place I’d been wanting to try for years – Teany, on the Lower East Side. This little tea shop lives on a gritty stretch of Rivington Street, and I’ve passed it many times, always wanting to stop and relax in its cosy little nooks, but somehow never found the time. Well, this was the time. We struggled our way through the cold, up Spring Street and along Bowery before hitting Rivington, our eyes streaming from the freezing wind. Hunched over, we tumbled down a small set of stairs to enter Teany.

This is not a ‘tea room’ in the traditional sense of the word; this place is owned by Moby, and as such lacks all the dated porcelain, chintz, fluffy carpets, fouffy armchairs and tweed-wearing purple-rinsed grandmas normally associated with purveyors of tea. We were grateful to be greeted by a simply-decorated warm room, scattered pot-plants, a small crowd of people chatting, and a cozy corner which looked like it had been set aside just for us. We collapsed into our seats and the girl inside was thrilled to find international customers. I ordered some sort of complicated-sounding exotic tea which came in a bright orange pot. Upon inspection of the contents, I found a large assortment of leaves and a couple of big white flowers. It was delicious, especially after our cold walk. We sat and whiled away an hour or two, chatting, sipping our tea and watching the people on Rivington scuttle by, collars pulled up around their ears, as the sun slowly disappeared.

Eventually facing the fact that we couldn’t spend the night at Teany, we found the nearest subway station and made the journey back to the hostel. There was a guy sitting opposite us who looked quite normal except for the fact that he was staring intently at Calvin. This guy’s eyes were as wide and glassy as marbles and, apart from the occasional flick in my direction, spent the entire journey focused directly on Calvin’s face. He didn’t even blink much. We didn’t really know what to do about this; either he was sizing Calvin up for a fight, or he was crazy, or he was racist, or he wanted to ask Calvin out on a date. Any one of these options was undesirable for Calvin and ended badly if it came to confrontation! Thankfully we had to change trains at Times Square and we ran panting into the station concourse in the hope of losing the guy behind us! I’m pretty sure both of us had nightmares later about the Scary Stary Guy… I wonder what his story was. Nothing quite as colourful as the New York subway, eh?

Anyway, we made it back to the hostel unmolested, and spent our usual evening with Hicham and Karen and any others who felt like joining the fray, swapping stories and enjoying quiet companionship. It was another late one, but a good one.

Thanks for stopping by,

Tara.

Tags: best pizza in new york, big piano, fao schwarz, food, holister review, l'ecole, lombardi's, lombardi's pizza nyc, moby teany, muppet whatnot, new york, new york city, nyc, pizza, pizza nyc, restaurants, rivington street les, teany, tiffany & co, travel, vacation

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Categories New York City, New York State, USA

Gospel Music and Here Comes The Sun, Do-Do-Do-Dooooo!!! New York, May 2012

11 Jun

Sunday May 6th – Calvin had heard of a great place to have a gospel brunch in Harlem, so he and I arranged to meet up on Sunday morning to go and listen to some great music. He had met a woman in a bank who had introduced him to a gospel singer, and it was through this connection that he found out about Epiphany’s Cafe.

So, early-ish on Sunday morning, we made our way uptown on the subway. The weather was STILL grey!!! As we exited the station, we were unexpectedly swarmed by thousands of cyclists on the Five-Borough Bike Ride… not something we had expected!!! They took a long time to pass us, and luckily there were a lot of cops around to direct the traffic.

We kept walking and came across a MASSIVE queue that snaked around the corner of a block, along the block and then down another corner. Everybody in it was clutching guide books and daypacks. Both of our hearts stopped when we thought that MAYBE this was a queue for the place we were going to, but a quick stop to talk to one of the people waiting told us that the queue was for the Abyssinian Baptist Church service. Crikey. I had previously thought about visiting the Abyssinian Baptist Church for a Sunday morning service but this queue tells me that it’s already turned into… well, into a bit of a freakshow. I had always wanted to go to a gospel service but I didn’t want to feel like I was a spectator pointing fingers at the zoo, if you know what I mean; I felt a bit uncomfortable about viewing a religious service as a tourist attraction.

Not to say that I won’t be doing something similar at some point in the future, but it had never quite sat right with me. And seeing this queue, I just thought, bloody hell. There will be almost as many tourists as there are worshippers there. I was glad that we were going to a cafe. I don’t need to be inside the church to enjoy the music. And, as Sonya (the singer we met that day) ended up saying, “The church is inside you; you don’t have to be inside the church.” As someone who believes in a god but not necessarily organised religion, this sat very nicely with me.

We trotted past the queue and found Epiphany’s on a nearby corner. One of the many things that was nice about spending time with Calvin is that he was just as organised as I was. He had a map with our destination on it and he had a route in his head; I didn’t have to know where we were going, I just went. Often when I’m travelling, I’m alone so I always have to know where I am, or if I have company the people I’m travelling with generally leave it up to me because I have a good sense of direction and a good idea of where we’re headed. So in this case it was quite refreshing (and, I have to say, quite relaxing, too) to share the reins with someone.

We arrived at Epiphany’s, which turned out to be a nice little dark box of a cafe. It was pretty packed, so we shared a table with another couple until some other people cleared out and we got a table of our own. What a lovely way to spend a late morning and an early afternoon! The singers were Sonya Rogers and the Gospel Gems (all in their choir outfits), accompanied by two young men on a keyboard and on a drum kit. They sang a bunch of my favourite gospel songs along with a few lesser-known ones. It actually surprised me how many of them I knew; I guess a lot of gospel has sort of entered the ‘modern musical vernacular’. We beamed when they sang ‘Oh Happy Day’, shimmied to ‘Down By The Riverside’, stamped to ‘When The Saints Go Marching In’, clapped along to ‘This Little Light of Mine’, and sang along to ‘Go Tell It On The Mountain’. These three women had the most powerful voices, and what a vocal range! While we listened, we chose from the small menu to eat. We had waffles with a coriander-cream cheese dip, and some sort of corn twists with capsicum dip. The food was a bit ‘meh’, but we weren’t there for the food, and the music more than made up for it. We ended up staying for two sets just to hear our favourites again, and Sonya made a point of coming up and saying hello to us, as she remembered Calvin from the previous day. She just seemed like such a lovely lady; I was very happy to spend my Sunday there.

THE SUN!!! Where have you been for so long?!?
Outside the Chelsea Market,
New York, May 2012

Afterwards, we were still a bit hungry so we decided to head down to the Chelsea Market for lunch. Then I heard that Calvin had never been to the High Line Park, and that was that! We had to go, even if the weather was sucky! When we exited the subway station at 14th Street, though, something wierd happened. I could feel… warmth on my skin. My jumper felt a bit too hot. And then we realised… THE SUN WAS OUT!!!!! After days of grey skies and mist and rain, it was SUNNY! This prompted a short period of insanity where we pranced about in the middle of the street, waving our arms in the air, taking pictures of each other and the blue sky like kids on a Christmas morning when Santa was feeling particularly generous! SUN!

We raced into the Chelsea Market and bought some bread from Amy’s Breads, which we gobbled down with soup, and then fast-tracked it to Fat Witch where we each picked a brownie to take on a little ‘picnic’. Calvin went for the original, seeing as it was the first time he’d tried them, and I bought a Caramel Witch: the normal dense, kickass brownie but with a gooey thick layer of caramel through the middle. Nom nom nom!!!

The tantalising selection at Amy’s Breads, Chelsea Market,
New York, May 2012

We went full pelt out the front of the markets and entered the High Line on 14th Street. It was just beautiful up there. The sunny days made all the greens brighter and the wooden tones more glossy, and we had a ball. We wandered around until we managed to stealthily nab one of the wooden bench beds from a departing couple, and we spread out, kicked our feet up and stuffed ourselves with brownie goodness. Then, bloated with chocolate, we just sat there in the sun, soaking up the Vitamin D and watching the crowds go by. BLISS! Believe it or not, it eventually got too hot to just keep sitting there, so we went for a little walk in the direction of uptown. First stop was at the People’s Pops cart, where they were selling home-made shave ice and popsicles. The guy behind the counter had a giant block of ice and was shaving it by hand. Standing in the queue meant getting sprayed by flecks of ice… which of course wasn’t a problem on a hot day like that! I ended up ordering a raspberry and basil popsicle stick, which was heaven. It was basically just thick pureed raspberries, which meant the popsicle was lumpy and seedy and tasted damn good. Calvin got a strawberry and rhubarb one, which also looked amazing, and had actual pieces of rhubarb in it!

People watching was priceless that day. I laughed my ass off at a few sweet, dorky guys trying to pick up chicks:
Guy #1: Hey ladies, whatcha up to?
Girls: Not much, you?
Guy #1: (flustered) Me? Just chillin, chillin.
(Girls leave)
Guy #2 (turns to Guy #1): Chillin?!? You idiot.

The High Line in all its glory, surrounded by buildings and signs,
Chelsea, New York, May 2012

Poor guy! We also wandered past a child, probably about 4 years old, curled in the fetal position on the ground next to a bench, screaming blue murder. She was screaming so much that her face was beetroot. I glanced around for a parent and found him immediately, sitting on the bench and staring at her in disgust with his chin in his hands. He glanced up at me and rolled his eyes! Talk about disinterest; I wonder if she does that sort of thing often. He certainly wasn’t doing anything about it this time; I guess he’d just given up! Calvin and I found this whole scene incredibly funny and laughed all the way up to 23rd Street! We watched the butterflies and the birds, stopped for a break in the viewing window over 10th Avenue, and passed the High Line Zoo, a little art installation where someone has hung black and white polystyrene sketches of animals across the roof of a building. We walked all the way to the northern end of the High Line, where the next section is being developed; I wonder if I’ll ever see the ‘final product’.

Calvin and I take up our recliner seat and watch the crowds go by,
The High Line, Chelsea, New York, May 2012

From the High Line, Calvin and I walked to 8th Avenue and then went our separate ways. I can’t remember where he was going, but I was heading for the Hoboken Arts and Music Festival. I figured it would be a chance to eat some good food, hear some good music, and possibly drop in on Victoria at the Yankee Ferry. I had a couple of bus tickets already, which Charlie and I had left over from our little stint in Hoboken, so I thought I’d make good use of them. I walked to the Port Authority, where the buses are supposed to go every 20 minutes, and I ended up waiting nearly two hours for a damn bus. I HATE waiting for buses; it just feels so hopeless. Because if one doesn’t come, you have to figure out whether to hedge your bets – if you leave, one might turn up just as you get out of sight. But if you wait, and nothing’s coming… or maybe you’ve already waited an hour, and you’re already late anyway, so you would be totally writing off that time if you left… it’s a terrible dilemma. Every morning in Brisbane was a nightmare for me, because I stood at my stupid bus stop waiting for my useless, overpriced bus to come, and it never EVER came when it was supposed to. Never, in all my years of living in the same place, did I ever get the bus that the timetable told me to expect. Ugh.

A beautiful butterfly! The High Line, Chelsea,
New York, May 2012

Anyway, waiting at the Port Authority for that damned bus to come (I think there were supposed to be 4 or 5 while I was waiting) conjured up all the same frustrations I used to get every day on the way to work. And unfortunately, by the time most of us had figured out that maybe we couldn’t be bothered after all, the stairway up to the bus platform was blocked with people – so even if we had wanted to leave, we couldn’t. When a bus finally did turn up, I was frazzled and in a terribly grumpy mood. I was one of the lucky ones, though; most of the crowd had to be left behind because the bus was full. I was very, very thankful at that moment that I was not still staying in New Jersey; at least if your bus doesn’t turn up in Manhattan, you can walk or get the subway. If you live in Jersey and your bus doesn’t turn up, well, you can hardly just swim across the river, can you?

My delicious raspberry and basil popsicle from People’s Pops on the High Line,
New York, May 2012

So the bus came, and I got on it, and it took me to Hoboken, New Jersey. And would you believe it? The festival had ended at 6 o’clock. Had my bus come on time, I would have at least made the last hour or so, but as it was I turned up just after six when they were clearing up all the food stalls, markets stands and stages. I was spitting with fury! Damn buses!!! And what kind of music festival finishes at six o’clock, anyway? I decided to try to salvage something of my afternoon and have a look around Hoboken, which I’d intended to do when I was staying there but never found the time for. I walked along the main strip; most of the shops were shut, but the cafes and bars were open and I have to admit that a lot of them looked pretty enticing. The main drag was filled with beautiful old triple and quadruple storey townhouses, painted in various shades of cream, blue and brick, so the place looked like it had been preserved pretty well from its original era. A lot of the bars were playing music like Pearl Jam and Guns’n’Roses, which tells you something about the demographic of the people living here… all of a certain age! From the main street I took a walk out along the waterfront and the main pier, which totally lightened my mood and made the whole trip worth it. Because from here, on a little point, on this glorious blue-sky day, I had the most amazing, crystal-clear view of Manhattan from top to bottom; from the snazzy buildings of the financial district to the brown-brick edifices of northern Harlem, I could see it all. Visibility was amazing. I couldn’t help but do a little happy jiggle dance, it was so pretty. It’s a shame more tourists don’t try to make it over; the view is priceless and it’s really not that hard a journey… if your bus runs on time! So I stood for a while, enjoying the breeze and the view and watching the locals come and go. People walking with their children, kids roaring around corners on their little tricycles or scooters, a young man just sitting quietly and appreciating the view. It was great.

The stunning Manhattan skyline from Hoboken, New Jersey,
New York, May 2012

When I finally decided to head back, I found my way to a bus stop and found that the bus driver who dropped me off in Hoboken was the same one picking me up; it had taken all that time just to get his bus turned around in the traffic snarl caused by the festival!

I went back to the hostel on the upper west side, and found that my room mates were now all Brazilian. A couple of about my age, and a family of three (two parents with their teenage son). With the money they were spending on the hostel, I wondered why they didn’t just get a hotel room. Anyway, I said my greetings and then went for dinner at the Malaysian Grill… again! I had a really spicy char kway teow, sniffling my way through the chilli, and then went back to the hostel common room, where I met up with Calvin and a young Moroccan Frenchman called Hicham. We spent the evening swapping stories about our days and using the (annoyingly slow) internet. Karen joined us later in the evening, having been out with an older Brazilian woman that she met on the walking tour. Karen spoke not a word of Portuguese, and this Brazilian woman spoke barely a word of English – beginner, at best – but they seemed to have had a nice day. She asked about our plans for the next day, but she and I had very different ideas about what we wanted to do so I said I’d join her in the evening if I didn’t have something else on.

Much later, all of us finally decided to call it a night. I went back into my room and was hit by a wall of sound. My belief that the family should have got themselves a damned hotel room was reinforced when it turned out that the father, the mother AND the son all snored like freight trains, joined with harmonies by the man from the couple. Shitballs, I was angry. I was angry because the girlfriend from the couple must have known that her boyfriend was a foghorn, and with two of them they could easily have got a hotel room or at least a private room in the hostel, for about the same cost. I was also angry because the teenage boy kept waking up and could hear his own father snoring – even huffed and got angry at it and stuffed his head under his pillow – but for some reason had never thought to suggest that a private room would’ve been a better idea, so as not to inflict the honking on strangers. This is why I simply do not like mixed-sex dorm rooms. When women snore (and god knows, I’m sure I’ve been the culprit on the odd night, especially in cold weather), they just tend to be quieter than fat late-middle aged Brazilian men!!! Ugh. I tucked myself in and tried to block out the noise… and then I heard the scampering. Just quiet at first, and then clearer when there was a lull in the drone of the snorers… and I thought, oh no. I flicked my personal bed light on (one of the snorers grunted) and peered under the bed. I shook my bags around, and that’s when I noticed that a hole had been nibbled in my toiletries bag. Upon closer inspection under the bed, I found a half-eaten cookie and a couple of gummy bears, all of which had human-sized tooth marks and teeny-tiny nibble marks on them; a product, no doubt, of the teenage boy snacking in his damn bed when clearly there are signs all over the place that say that NO FOOD IS ALLOWED IN THE BEDROOMS. And little mice had taken advantage of this clumsy pig’s lacklustre grasp of hygiene. There, in the middle of the night, to the soundtrack of the fat snorers, I had to clear up that little shit’s mess and hope that the mice would not come back. I had read on Trip Advisor that there were mice at the hostel, but I figured that as long as I had clean room-mates it wouldn’t be too much of a problem. Apparently, having clean room-mates was too much of a problem.

Sigh. Tantrum over, I climbed into bed and vowed to kill them all tomorrow. Surely I could use sleep deprivation as an excuse? Ha ha ha ha ha!!!

Thanks for stopping by,

Tara.

P.S. For those of you worrying right now, all of the Brazilians survived their stay in my dorm room. No Brazilians were harmed in the making of this blog. I promise. Ha!

Tags: abyssinian baptist church, chelsea high line, food, gospel, gospel brunch, harlem, harlem gospel, travel

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Categories New York City, New York State, USA

Walking the Brooklyn Bridge and Saying ‘Hi-De-Hi!’ with the Cab Calloway Orchestra, New York, May 2012

1 Jun

Saturday May 5th – I was up bright and early this morning for another walking tour; this time, it was ‘Jerry’s Grand Tour’ that I had signed up for, a 12-hour odyssey across pretty much the whole island of Manhattan and beyond, into Brooklyn. Not bad for $10! This tour is pretty much designed for people who only have a short time in New York and want to see all the main sights in a day; not really my scene, but there were a few things that I wanted to do with company, like walking the Brooklyn Bridge… it’s always nicer to have someone around to snap a picture of you if necessary!

So, before the tour started, I dragged my butt out of bed at a reasonable hour and ran downstairs to leave a note for Calvin on the noticeboard; his friend JiSoo was leaving today, so I thought he might be at a loose end in the evening and I had discovered a pretty wicked swing dance event that I thought he might like to join me on. After pinning a hastily-scribbled note up, I grabbed my complimentary (and rather good) breakfast of an onion bagel with cream cheese, a hot chocolate and a banana from the cafeteria area and joined Jerry’s Grand Tour in the lobby.

As it turned out, Jerry had a voice like nails on a chalkboard. To summarise the day before I start: Jerry eventually ended up annoying me so much that I left the tour in the early afternoon. He seemed intent on repeating himself very very slowly, over and over again, and had a bad habit of preaching, telling us how we should be living our lives and giving us tips on better living. I don’t think he was a bad man, by any means. I actually think he was quite a nice guy… he just rubbed me the wrong way, and I got impatient with such a large group (there were 30-odd of us, which on a walking tour is just agony), and all the repetition. Still, it started off alright…

The first thing we did was walk down the road, stopping briefly at the Holy Name of Jesus Church, which was large and pretty but otherwise a bit non-descript. There were people kneeling and sitting in the pews, and I noticed one man with his two sons weeping quietly, for what reason I do not know. They got up to leave not long after we entered, and I was ashamed of a number of our group when they just whipped out their cameras and snapped away anyway. One girl even leaned on the marble holy water stand, using it as a stabiliser for her camera so she could get a non-blurry shot. It took everything I had not to wrench her off it physically when the man and his sons came past and tried to dab themselves with holy water, having to lean around her to get to it because she wasn’t moving for anyone. You know, I don’t practice any particular religion but I at least attempt to respect the choice of others to do so, especially when I’m in their places of worship. Some people are just trash; I hope that girl gets her comeuppance in the next life.

Anyway, we hopped the subway all the way down and over to Brooklyn. The first thing I saw in the subway station as we exited was a sign for Joralemon Street. Now, this would be insignificant to your average tourist, but as it happens my mum lived in Brooklyn for a short while in the 70s. She can’t remember many of the details; I suspect she spent a fair bit of time at dodgy parties passive-smoking odd substances and drinking booze, though she’d never admit it to her daughter! One of the things she can remember, however, is that she lived on Joralemon Street. Or at least, she thought so: she also believed that it might just be a figment of her imagination! So it was a bit of a surprise – and a delight – to find that there was indeed a Joralemon Street in Brooklyn, and thus quite likely that she lived somewhere around the subway station we were just exiting!

We came out at Brooklyn Borough Hall, which was a large grey edifice, made even greyer by the grey day we were having. We made a stop at a nearby Garden of Eden Gourmet (yes, the same chain connected to my favourite place of food worship on 23rd Street) to grab a picnic lunch. By this time, I had started chatting to Karen, a British girl who seemed terribly negative about New York and everything in it. She had only arrived the day before and had jumped onto the subway going in the wrong direction; she had been so terrified by the event that she had spent the whole rest day at the hostel, too intimidated to leave. When she found out that I had been to New York before, that I’d been around for a while and knew my way around quite well, she exclaimed, “Great! You can be my tour guide! I’ve got a list of things that I want to do and you’ll have to tell me how best to do them all – you should come with me! That’ll really help!” I remember thinking that – although she seemed pleasant enough – I was not her mother and that I did not come all the way to New York to babysit, especially for someone who seemed as negative about the city as she did. I also very much doubted that the things on her list would be the same as the things I wanted to do. She then whipped out her list and started grilling me on subway routes, opening hours etc, planning our next few days together. Most of the information that she wanted could easily be found from a map and I said as much, but I guess she just really didn’t want to be alone in New York again. She was nice enough, but I found myself having to make gentle excuses about my plans over the next 2-3 days, being deliberately vague so that I had some breathing space. I wondered for a while if I was like that when I first started travelling – latching onto others for assistance – but I really don’t think I was. I think I actually quite liked getting lost and having stupid adventures on my own, but I guess not everyone’s like that. Still, as I said, I think Karen was genuinely a nice girl, just a bit out of her depth. We ended up seeing a little bit of each other over the following days, but not as much as she wanted, I think. She even had a bit of a tantrum over it, which I’ll tell you all about another time.

At this point, though, we chose each other as company, along with a friendly Texan in a giant hat and safari shorts who was also a lone traveller. As a group, we wandered through Brooklyn Heights, along a very European-looking shopping strip and then down along Montague Street and Remsen Street, which are filled with extremely beautiful, well-maintained brownstone buildings. The ‘Hollywood of Brooklyn’, I think Jerry called it – lots of movies are shot here, apparently, as it has the definitive look of the New York brownstone areas, complete with picturesque trees and clean sidewalks. The townhouses were, in fact, quite beautiful, and I felt more than a little jealous of the people who had the massive wads of cash it must take to live on a street like that!

After salivating over imaginary real estate acquisitions, we made our way onto Brooklyn Heights Promenade, which provides sweeping views of lower Manhattan and the east side of the island. The waterfront area is currently in the middle of being redeveloped into Brooklyn Bridge Park, so it looks a bit of a mess, but I’m sure it’ll be pretty as a picture (if not prettier) by the time they’re done. Yay, more public park space for New York! It can only be a good thing. On a clear day, one would have had a crystal-clear view of the Statue of Liberty, Brooklyn Bridge and the Manhattan Bridge; as it was, with the grey mist and haze, we could just squint and see Lady Liberty holding her torch aloft in the gloom, and could just make out the outline of the Bridges. Still exciting though!

We stopped and ate our lunches on some benches that were right on the beautiful brick promenade. There were lots of tourists out and about, but also a handful of locals jogging, either by themselves or with baby strollers. My picnic lunch consisted of a bag of sea-salt Kettle chips with cilantro hummus and a handful of chocolate-covered grahams, all acquired from the Garden of Eden, despite the wondrous array of salads and sandwiches they had on offer. I wonder if Betty Ford offers rehab for people who are addicted to these three things? I suspect I might need help!

We were warned by Jerry to ’empty the tanks’ before we left, as it would be the last public toilet available for the next few hours – New York is famous for its total lack of public toilet facilities. So Karen and I and every other woman on the tour (about 15-20 of us) spent the majority of our allotted lunch time waiting in the queue for the one toilet. I would just like to say that usually I have a bladder of steel, and probably would have been fine without it, but after Jerry’s big spiel about having to cross the bridge on foot with no choice but to keep going, I got all paranoid about it! 😉

Our next stop after lunch was the Plymouth Church on Orange Street. This was the domain of Henry Ward Beecher, a preacher-slash-abolitionist, who made the church part of the underground railroad protecting slaves who had come from the south. A statue of him sits in a pretty little garden next to the church, and shows him on a pedestal while two weeping women reach for his help. He apparently helped many people, and made himself rather unpopular in some circles with his abolitionist sermons. Good on him!

Leaving the church, we passed Siggy’s cafe on Henry Street (where, according to a big sign, aliens eat for free) and made it to Cadman Plaza Park, where a number of people were playing football (one man was very obviously letting his kids beat him) and jogging. There was also a group Kendo class (at least, I think it was Kendo), right there on the green. Much better than being cooped up inside, I suppose, and at that point it wasn’t raining, so why not?

Crossing the Brooklyn Bridge,
New York, May 2012

I would have liked to stay and watch for a bit, but that’s one luxury you don’t get on large group walking tours, so we pushed on. Finally – after many years of visiting New York and always wanting to do it but somehow never getting round to it – I got to walk the Brooklyn Bridge! The beautiful old span, the iconic image of New York, was finally underfoot. I can’t remember how long it actually took – maybe 20 minutes, half an hour? But I enjoyed every minute of it. Yeah, the weather sucked, the sky was grey and Manhattan was shrouded in mist, but what did I care? I was walking the walk! If time allows and there’s a nicer day I might try to go back and do it again, but really I didn’t mind, and there’ll be lots of opportunities for me to see the NYC skyline from other places. I enjoyed watching the spaces between the wooden boards underneath me, and the traffic running below me to my right and my left. I enjoyed seeing the cyclists swoop past, screeching at dumb pedestrians who had strayed into the bike path. I enjoyed seeing the grand old arches looming out of the mist at me. Whoop whoop! I was almost sad to reach the other side, landing in Manhattan. Jerry started making silly comments about keeping fit and the value of blah blah blah (I tuned out), and took us past City Hall, another Ghostbusters location. Oh yeah, and… you know, the place where the mayor works the magic. Or whatever. 😉 We stopped in the little City Hall Park, which brought back a moment that I had, until that point, completely forgotten. On my first ever trip to New York, I somehow stumbled across this park and found myself face to face with a group of about 20 male New York Police officers. There was absolutely nobody else around; it was actually kind of wierd. Anyway, I don’t know how I had the balls to do it (I probably wouldn’t even think of doing it nowadays), but I asked this large group of big boys if I could take their picture, and they consented. So somewhere in my photo archives I have a picture of all these NYPD officers with their arms crossed, pulling what was essentially a Blue Steel…! I MUST find that picture again, wherever it is!

At this point, we left the park with its beautiful fountain and picturesque gas lamps and headed south. Jerry was making for the World Trade Centre Memorial site, which I had of course already visited. We were only a few hours into our 12-hour odyssey, and I have to admit that I was already being driven nuts. We stopped briefly in St Paul’s Chapel and I realised that I’d heard a lot about this place but never actually been inside before. Jerry took us inside and gave us a few words, but then of course, he was moving swiftly on. Well, I wanted to stick around, so I did; I told the group to continue without me (we’d already lost a few so it was no big deal). And you know what? I felt a lot happier after they’d gone! Karen was dithering about joining me but I encouraged her to go on, both for her sake (she would see a lot of stuff which she probably wouldn’t do on her own) and because I wanted some ‘me’ time. So off the rest of the group went, and I stayed at the church to look at their exhibits.

Tributes to the victims of the September 11th attacks at St Paul’s Chapel,
New York, May 2012

St Paul’s Chapel has survived over the centuries through a number of huge catastrophes, from fires and storms to September 11th. George Washington himself worshipped here, and it remains a significant New York religious establishment. While many buildings in close quarters to the World Trade Centre suffered structural damage in 2001, St Paul’s remained intact and (some would say miraculously) undamaged. It was right next door, right in the shadows of the towers, right across the street, but the people who had sought refuge inside the chapel on September 11th were spared the fate that those only metres away were facing. It was this chapel that I had seen on my first trip to New York, not long after September 11th, covered in t-shirts and candles and flowers and ‘missing’ posters (I mentioned it in a previous entry). I had always intended to have a closer look, so here I was. In the months following September 11th, the chapel offered a ministry to those involved in the recovery effort. The emergency workers who spent all day (or night) down in the pit came to the chapel for comfort, solace, food and sleep. As time went on, it became an organised effort, providing counselling, bunks, meals, toiletries, massage, health care, respite and, it seems, love to those who needed it. It became a haven for people of all denominations to meet and find a few moments of peace before re-entering the nightmare, and I think it meant a lot to many, many people. I hadn’t realised its full significance until I paid this visit. Inside there were a few carefully-curated displays of uniforms, photographs and videos, and a place where visitors could leave a note of their own.

The thing that really got me, though, was a seemingly insignificant bit of ‘trivia’. Yes, I’ve been moved before by 9/11 stories, and I’ve paid my respects, but this actually had me weeping in front of the church. And trust me, crying is really not my thing, if I can avoid it – and particularly in public. But this little tidbit horrified me and hammered something home deeper than I’d expected. As firefighters arrived at the scene, they changed from their civilian clothes into their firefighting gear; this change included their shoes. With nowhere else to leave them, the firefighters started hanging their boots on top of the metal fence spikes surrounding the church. At the end of the day, rows of boots remained unclaimed on the fence spikes, each pair representing a firefighter who did not make it through the day alive. For some reason, this image just really got to me. All of these shoes waiting for an owner who would never come back. Perhaps it comes from my own personal experience; I don’t know. I suppose that anyone who’s lost someone close to them could relate; that horrible moment when you have to figure out what to do with the clothes that are left behind by your loved one. Anyway, whatever it was, it had me in tears. These guys were just doing their job; some of them were off-duty, some were retired, but they all just ran in without even possibly being able to guess that they were running into.

Thankfully my moment was interrupted by a young boy and his mother. The kid can’t have been older than 8 or 9, so he wasn’t even born when September 11th happened. He asked, with genuine curiosity, “Mum, why did the terrorists do this?” I wish I had heard her response; they moved on too quickly. I wonder what people tell their kids, because there’s no simple answer.

I decided that I had had enough of being maudlin for the day, and went back to the hostel to spend some time on the computer. Calvin had left a note saying that he would meet me at the swing dance event, which was awesome news. I went to the common room and bumped into Lew, the Australian I had met at the jazz club, and he looked like he was at a loose end so I asked him if he’d like to come too. Then, when I went upstairs I bumped into Yuko and before I knew it there was a little posse of us headed out for a night of swing dancing.

Yuko and Lew and I bumped into Calvin at the subway station; Calvin nearly didn’t recognise me because I was actually in a skirt! We all went to the JCC (not entirely sure what it stands for… perhaps Jewish Community Centre?) on 76th Street and waited for the evening to start.

I’ve been swing dancing on and off for about 10 years now. I first got caught up in it when I was migrating from England to Australia in 2002; I stopped in Los Angeles and went down to Santa Monica for the day. I heard some of Louis Prima’s music being played, so I followed my nose towards the source. I’ve always loved Louis Prima, and I was only more pleased when I found out that he was actually the voice of King Louie in Disney’s version of The Jungle Book – “I Wanna Be Like You-Oo-Oo!” I found the source of the music alright – it was a bunch of people swing dancing right in the middle of the street, and I was in love. When I arrived in Australia, I went searching for classes and eventually found some. My involvement waxed and waned over the years, but when I was living in Montreal in 2006-2007, that’s when I really got back my passion for it. So to be able to come to New York, where it all started, and have a bit of a dance, is a pretty exciting thing for me!

Calvin, Tara and Yuko ready for a night of swing dancing,
New York, May 2012

I had found out about this event online – the Cab Calloway Orchestra, now run by his grandson Chris, was playing at the JCC with a beginner lesson followed by a social dance to live music and DJs. How could I say no?!? The Cab Calloway Orchestra!!! (If you don’t know who Cab Calloway is, do a Youtube search for ‘Minnie the Moocher’ – you’ll almost definitely know it!) Of course, I don’t really need the beginner lesson, but I often find it’s a nice way to warm up for the evening and get to know some of the dancers. The venue itself was huge, with a sprung wooden dance floor – paradise for dancing feet! Calvin, Lew, Yuko and I went upstairs and launched into the lesson; I was very proud of my companions and the enthusiasm they showed for giving it a go! Calvin eventually had to leave as he had stand-by tickets for Saturday Night Live that night (sadly, he didn’t get in, but it was worth a try), but Lew and Yuko hung in there for a couple of hours, even managing a bit of social dancing! As for me, I stayed until very late, only leaving when I realised that I was still sharing a room and should really try not to rock up at 3am and wake everyone. As it happened, it was still around midnight/1am when I started to head off. I had a wicked night of dancing, and the band was great. Chris Calloway bears more than a passing resemblance to his grandfather, and came complete with a white zoot suit and a matching white hat with a giant feather sticking out of it at a jaunty angle! The dancers seemed pretty friendly, and vaguely curious about this girl with an odd accent who seemed to have turned up out of nowhere, though they didn’t press me for information! It was amazing to see so many dancers in this one gigantic space – it was at least the size of 6 basketball courts!

I reluctantly left when things were still in full swing (pardon the pun), braving the subways and finding no trouble at all. I got back to the hostel to find my room filled with snorers. Ugh. But who cares? I had a great night!

Thanks for stopping by,

Tara.

Tags: brooklyn bridge, cab calloway, food, new york, september 11, swing dance, travel

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Categories New York City, New York State, USA

Racist Belgians and Fried Chitlins, New York, May 2012

24 May

Friday 4th May – Staying in a hostel has its upsides and downsides. On the down side, you have to share a room with strangers (who often end up having the strangest of habits), get woken up (or kept awake) by snorers and late arrivals, share a bathroom with pigs, and keep all your stuff locked up tight. On the up side, hostels can offer a great social programme and save you a wad of money. My reasons for staying at the hostel were a mix of the two; my budget didn’t stretch to 2 months staying in a place by myself, and I really wanted to take advantage of the social aspect of the hostel before spending 5 weeks in relative solitude in an apartment on my own.

To this end, I booked myself onto a number of walking tours at the hostel, and today I took part in the first of them. The tour was called ‘Historic Harlem’, and was led by an old gentleman called Ed. We all met in the lobby of the hostel, and that’s where I first met Calvin. I didn’t know it at the time, but Calvin and I were going to end up spending a lot of time together over the next week, and he would become a fabulous travel buddy, and a good friend. Our first interaction happened when Ed asked Calvin if he was Japanese, and without thinking I said, “He’s not Japanese, he looks Korean.” Cue stunned looks all around. A lot of people say they can’t tell the difference, but as a language teacher and having spent a lot of time with people of both nationalities, I reckon I have a pretty good handle on it. As it turns out, I was right; Calvin is Korean. His English, though, is near-native and it was just freaking wicked to hear it; it gave me so much faith and hope for all my Koreans who struggle with their language acquisition! DO NOT DESPAIR MY LOVELIES! You CAN be great… if you work your ass off at it! 😉

Anyway, the tour started and we wandered towards the nearest subway station. Calvin was joined by JiSoo, a friend of his from Korea, and our little trio was joined by a girl from Hong Kong called Daion. The rest of the tour were mostly older folk who didn’t seem much interested in us, as they were travelling in groups or pairs. It usually seems that way; the ‘singles’ team up together.

A statue of Malcolm X at his memorial in Harlem,
New York, May 2012

We got off the subway at the highest point I have ever been in Manhattan; Broadway and 168th Street, Washington Heights… almost as far up as you can go! Our first stop was the Malcolm X Memorial on 166th Street. I admit that I know less about Malcolm X than I would like to. I remember that he converted to Islam, and I remember that he and Martin Luther King had different opinions on how equal rights should be achieved, but their general aim was the same. I remember watching the movie of his life when I was a kid and not really understanding most of it; I think it was at a Drive-In and I’m pretty sure I kept drifting in and out of sleep! Once again, I find another topic that I will have to read up on in the near future. Anyway, the memorial is in the cinema where he was killed in 1965. It is no longer a cinema, but the original lobby is intact. At first glance I was highly concerned, because all I could see when Ed pointed to the ‘Malcolm X Memorial’ was a barbeque restaurant (!), and I thought, “Eh what? They’ve turned the place where he was assassinated into a barbeque joint?!?” but luckily that’s only part of the building. In the memorial itself, there is a hallway and a small set of stairs, and at the top of these stairs is a very lifelike statue of Malcolm X himself, standing on a little podium and speaking into a microphone. I cannot imagine what it must have been like to be African-American at the time that Malcolm X and Martin Luther King were most prominent. The determination, the hope and the inspiration… quite something.

We kept walking for some time; we went through Sugar Hill, with its 19th century townhouses (and so named because of the ‘sugar’ – or money – that you needed to have to be able to live there) and we passed by some beautiful old worker’s townhouses (which now probably require more sugar than you can count to buy them). After that, we paid a visit to the Morris Jumel House, which is a beautiful old homestead that used to sit in amongst farmland, until urban spread turned it into a wooden oasis in the middle of multi-storey brick dwellings. It was built in 1765, and George Washington used it as his New York headquarters during the revolutionary war, I believe. Apparently it is now run by some sort of Republican Ladies Brigade (eep). I’m surprised they’re into it; the one-time owner, Eliza Jumel, was a lady of questionable virtue who married an older man for his money, and then after he died, she remarried another man who had apparently killed some sort of high-profile politician who is now a face on American money. Not quite the role model for ‘ladies who lunch’, is it? The plaque outside describes this woman as being ‘colourful’… ha ha ha ha ha! I can only hope that people refer to me as ‘colourful’ in a couple of hundred years…!

We strolled past Count Basie Place, and we made a stop at Duke Ellington’s old house – awesome! I was thrilled to learn that Ed did a bit of swing dancing in his day, and had even danced at the Savoy once upon a time… I am SO jealous. He was an interesting man, actually, and although he looked fairly old he must have been even older than he looked, because some of his memories go way back; I’m guessing in his late 80s or early 90s. He was a slow but steady walker, and doing a pretty good job of keeping up considering his age! He told us how his mother used to make him sleep out on the fire escapes in hot weather, to keep him cool, and how he and his friends used to hang out up there and throw peanuts on pedestrians. Cheeky little blighter!

All of us stopped at a place called Taza de Cafe for a break and a little drink. The man behind the counter was playfully insistent that we should eat something, and very persuasive, and the lady kept showing us all the baked goodies that she had, but I knew that lunch wasn’t far away – and that it was going to be a big one – so I just enjoyed my hot chocolate.

We wandered across the top of Jackie Robinson Park (Jackie Robinson was, I believe, the first African-American baseball player in the traditionally white league), from where there was a view across the river to Yankee Stadium. We walked along the promenade, enjoying the view, before cutting through a park and then through a housing complex that had been built by the Rockefellers for the poor. It was surprisingly beautiful inside, considering its boringly functional exterior; full of little green patches and scampering squirrels.

An unusual sight: an empty subway carriage (we were at the very beginning of the line),
New York, May 2012

Soon afterwards, we made our way to a subway station which was at the top end of the line; when we got onto the carriage it was entirely empty… not something I’d seen before during daylight hours! We got off at 125th Street, where our group started to part ways. Calvin, JiSoo, Daion and I had already decided to go for a big lunch together at Sylvia’s, a famous soul food restaurant on 127th Street – just 2 blocks from where we were. We were saying our goodbyes to the rest of the group when two of the Belgian women asked us where we were going. We told them, and they seemed a bit surprised. “You’re eating… in Harlem?” Uh, yeah. What’s the problem with that? They looked at each other with raised eyebrows. “Maybe we… maybe the food is not good.” I thought that they meant taste-wise, so I told them about soul food and what kind of things they might encounter, and they followed us to the restaurant. Then they started behaving in an almost panicky way, and scarpered. I found out later that they hadn’t wanted to eat in the restaurant because it was Harlem. Because it was run by African Americans. And, according to the Belgians, there is no hygiene in Harlem. WTF?!? I simply couldn’t believe it. When I found out, I wanted to go and confront them. Violently. Where the hell did they think they were? And who the hell do they think they are? People like that make me sick. Racist freaks.

Racist Belgian females aside, the four of us went into Sylvia’s and had a kickass lunch. We ordered up a veritable feast and ate up every bite. We ordered on the advice of our neighbours, who were eating all kinds of good stuff. Based on my experience at Amy Ruth’s, the others wanted to try fried chicken and waffles, so we ordered that. Then we looked at our neighbour and saw their barbeque ribs, and ordered that too. And then we chatted to a couple next to us who had come all the way from Texas, and they were eating chitlins. Totally clueless, we asked what chitlins were, and they said that basically it was pig intestines. All of us went, “Oooh, interesting!” which surprised our neighbours, as I suppose that they don’t normally get that reaction when they talk about tripe. I guess they didn’t figure that they were talking to two Koreans and two girls from Hong Kong, who are used to eating anything and everything! So, we ordered fried chitlins as well. Our side dishes were black-eyed peas, gumbo and candied yams.

Oh, what a meal. The waffles and chicken, I have to say, were not as good as Amy Ruth’s; the waffles were a bit cold and not very crispy, and the chicken wasn’t crash-hot. The chitlins were interesting; not very flavourful (more a result of the intestines than the way it was cooked, I think) but pretty good. The ribs were disgustingly good, with delicious sauce smothered all over them, and the gumbo was full of yummy okra. The black-eyed peas were great too, but the highlight was the candied yams – orange sweet potato with sugary, syrupy goodness… yum. After eating, I went to wash my hands and I met a woman from Chicago in the bathrooms; she said that the food in Chicago was much better and that I should go there to eat up instead! Still, I really enjoyed my meal at Sylvia’s, and the company was great.

The beginning of great friendships: Calvin, Tara and Daion after their feast at Sylvia’s, Harlem,
New York, May 2012

After our late lunch, Calvin and JiSoo went to the Museum of Modern Art while Daion and I went back to the hostel. I relaxed for a while before deciding to join the hostel’s evening programme, which included a choice between a night out at a nightclub or a night at a jazz club. I figured I would go downstairs and see what the crowd was like for both before making my choice. As I went downstairs, I found Daion there, and she was heading to the jazz club, which pretty much made up my mind for me. However, as the crew for the nightclub turned up I knew I’d made the right decision. They were all men, and they were mostly yobs. They were also mostly Australian, and they were already mostly half-cut. In the end, there were only four of us for the jazz club – me, Daion, Lew (an Australian gentleman from Perth), and an older Italian man whose English was fairly limited. We went around the corner to SaSa’s Jazz Lounge, which was much, MUCH smaller than I had expected it to be; just a sliver of a room without many places to sit except at the bar (which was full), and the band were set up near the entrance. It was loud. LOUD. My ears ached and I blinked every time the drummer hit the drum. The music was good, but not amazing. In the end, Daion bought and finished one beer, and we left. The Italian man had embarrassed the hell out of us by walking right up to the band, putting the camera within 30 centimetres of the saxophonist’s face (this in front of the crowd) and using a flash to take pictures. Good lord. Bad tourist! However, Lew looked like he was having a good time, and as it turned out I’d be seeing a bit of him over the next few days, too.

Daion and I walked back to the hostel and went to our respective dorm rooms. I found that the American girl above me had moved out and been replaced by an Australian guy. He’d had a bit of a rough ride; he and his friends had been going through America on their way to Europe when his appendix had burst. In the end, he had to stay behind in hospital while his friends went ahead to England. He had just been released from the hospital and was awaiting the all-clear from the doctor. All sympathy I had for him evaporated, however, when his phone rang in the middle of the night and he answered it in a very loud voice, complaining that he hadn’t been able to sleep because of the Spanish guy’s snores. And now, thanks to the Aussie guy, none of us could sleep either. Gah! (Plus, I would just like to mention that he was also a snorer… hypocrite!)

As I was lying there trying to get back to sleep, I thought I could hear some scampering happening on the floor underneath my bed. I had read that there were mice in the hostel, but so far had seen no sign of them; I put the sound down to my tired mind playing tricks on me, and tried to think no more of it. (Mouse story: to be continued…!)

And that was that for the day!

Thanks for stopping by,

Tara.

Tags: food, harlem, hostel, new york, soul food, sylvia's, travel

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Categories New York City, New York State, USA

The Eternal Post Office Queue And The Unavoidable Laundry Day, New York, May 2012

18 May

Thursday 3rd May – I woke up in the hotel room on my own, and stretched gratefully – it would be the last time for a long(ish) time! I took my time getting ready and packed up my stuff, then checked out with no hassles at all, and the staff at reception happily agreed to store my things until I came back (take that, Trip Advisor – another thing that I DIDN’T have trouble with at the Chelsea Savoy!). I couldn’t check in at the hostel until about 2pm, so I had a few hours to kill before heading uptown.

I stepped outside into another misty morning – I can only hope that the sunny mornings become more frequent than the grey ones! I went in search of food along 23rd Street, but before that I dropped into an overpriced vintage shop – all of their 60s clothes were astronomically expensive; a by-product, I assume, of the rising popularity of the fashion of Mad Men. I also stopped into Reminiscence, a kitschy little shop that sells stuff like dog pencil sharpeners, wind-up Jesus toys, strawberry-printed tissues, purple piggy banks and ‘ninjabread men’ cookie cutters. Oh, the fun I could have had! However, I thought of my overly light wallet and my overly heavy suitcase, and exercised what little self-control I have, and walked out! Yay me!

From there, I walked back out towards the Flatiron building in search of something that I thought I had spotted the day before, but wasn’t 100 percent sure. But lo and behold, there it was, on the corner of 23rd Street and Fifth Avenue. I had found it. Eataly. Oh holy grail of goodness! Where hast thou been all my life?!?

A dining area at Mario Batali’s Eataly,
New York, May 2012

Mario Batali is a prominent chef who specialises in Italian food and has a bunch of restaurants around the world. He’s not the prettiest of creatures (any man who wears orange Crocs immediately loses 50 bazillion points on the attraction scale), but in my opinion he’s got to be a bit of a genius. Why? Well, right opposite the Flatiron building on a landmark site, he opens an Italian food market called Eataly. Not just a marketplace, but a kickass, upmarket, shiny, tantalisingly-scented gastronomic wonderland serving up only the finest of Italian offerings. Inside the giant, warehouse-style room, there are a number of cafes/restaurants as well as places where you can buy fresh Italian food, fruit and vegetables. The cheese! The prosciutto! The olive oil! The bread! The pasta! Sigh. You remember that feeling you used to get as a kid, wandering into a giant toy store just before Christmas and staring around you with wonder and delight? Well, that’s how I felt when I walked into Eataly. I could barely figure out which direction to go in first, and I walked in circles for quite a while before figuring out what to do with myself. And I was starving by this point, so that made my decisions even more difficult! (Although sampling some of their fig rustica bread helped to ease the urgency a little!) There was a fish place, a pizza and pasta place, a stand-up snacking meat and cheese place (a bit like Italian tapas, if the cross-cultural Spanish reference doesn’t offend!), and the ‘Birreria’. The last on the list isn’t of much interest to me, being a non-drinker, but I know a lot of people who would give their right arm to try it out; the menu is dictated by the beer, some of which is brewed on site.

My delicious meal at Eataly – vegetable and grain soup and a toasted sandwich. YUM!
New York, May 2012

In the end, I decided that my nutritional intake needed a helping hand (especially after the waffle-with-fried-chicken extravaganza), and I decided to eat at Le Verdure, a place that deals only in vegetables and the good stuff that goes with them. Great choice, Tara! 😉 As I sat down, a waiter brought me a few slices of paper-wrapped crusty rustica bread (YUM) and a plate, into which he poured some of the sweetest, fruitiest, tastiest olive oil that I’ve EVER had the pleasure of consuming – and that includes my trips to Italy. I later asked him what it was and he said it was called ‘Boeri’; before I leave New York, I’m buying some. No ifs, ands or buts about it. I can still taste it… mmmmmmmmm. The bread and oil were gone before I even had a chance to order! Anyway, I ordered their special of the day, which turned out to be a mushroom, grain (fara? foro?) and vegetable soup with a small sandwich on the side. The sandwich consisted of more crusty bread filled with buffalo mozzarella slices, roasted tomato slices and fresh basil, all toasted into crispy goodness. So basically like a bruschetta revved up to 100mph, really. My eyes crinkled at the beauty of it. And the taste! My mouth waters just thinking about it. It’s true what they say – the simple things are often the best. I ate every damn bite of that meal – something that doesn’t happen very often. And the best part? It only set me back $16! Not bad for a fresh, gourmet Italian sit-down meal! I licked my chops as I paid the bill, and I was ready to face the day.

My next stop was to the ever-depressing post office to send a few cards. If there is a hell, it’s got to be just like waiting in an interminable queue at the damn post office, I swear. I joined the queue and watched my life tick away. I was even more pleased when a loon of a man joined the end of the queue, muttering something about New York women and red clay. The only thing I can say in his favour is that as he entered the store and saw the queue, he emitted a loud and throaty, “MOTHER… FUCKER!!!” in annoyance. I had thought the exact same thing upon entry but had decided to keep it to myself in case people thought I was nuts… this was obviously not a concern of his. In the end, after an eternity of counting the splotches on the carpet, I have to say that the woman behind the counter was really friendly and even wished me luck in my Canadian and US endeavours.

You know, on that note, people say that New Yorkers are abrupt and rude, but I’ve (so far) had nothing but the opposite experience. I’ve repeatedly found them to be open, friendly, funny, inquisitive, helpful and kind. Sure, there’s been the odd impatient bitch on the subway, and the drivers honk their horns like they’re going out of style, but you get that anywhere. And I’m not just talking about service staff (who are of course paid to be nice to you, whether they like you or not); I’m talking about the everyday people you see on the street. I’ve had people strike up conversations with me left, right and centre; people have offered me help when I least expected it; offered me compliments on my clothes or shoes and asked where they can find them; asked me questions about where I’m from, and wished me luck in all my future adventures. All with no ulterior motive other than just to make a connection or be kind to another human being. How is it, then, that New Yorkers have gained this reputation for having a whole lot of attitude? I don’t understand it. Don’t worry, New York: I love you. 🙂

Leaving the Post Office behind, I walked up 8th Avenue for the first time since getting back, and I found myself back in the Chelsea that I knew and remembered from my first trip. Let me tell you a story…

The first time I came to New York, I was 22 and emigrating from the UK to Australia. I therefore had a big suitcase full of stuff I would need for my life in Australia as well as my little backpack that I usually travel with, but I planned to leave my suitcase at left luggage at the airport so that I didn’t have to lug it all over the city with me. Not knowing what New York was really like, I was a little apprehensive about my safety. I was arriving at Newark (New Jersey) airport at 11:30 at night, so I had organised for a transfer in advance; someone was supposed to meet me as I exited customs with a name card, and whisk me to Manhattan on a shuttle. My flight was a little delayed, and then of course there was the customs and immigration process to go through, and when I came out my ride was nowhere to be seen. I waited around for a bit, but nobody came, and the airport started to empty. I approached the ground transportation counter, but they had closed for the night. I sought help, but nobody was around – not even security guards. The last public shuttles to Manhattan had left and the stands were unmanned. I looked for left luggage, but as it turned out they had been closed since September 11, and would not be reopening for the forseeable future. Where did this leave me? Well, up shit creek without a paddle in the middle of New Jersey in the middle of the night with a bunch of luggage, that’s where. How the hell did the airport empty out so quickly?

Luckily, I spotted a sign for trains and crossed my fingers that there would be some hope in that avenue. And that’s how I found myself alone on a dirty, rickety old train from New Jersey to Manhattan at 2:30 in the morning. I have to admit that I feared for my safety; the lights kept flickering on and off and I had visions of gangs of thugs wandering up the aisles with flick-knives. Lucky for me, none of that eventuated, and I arrived safely at Penn Station. There was an elderly police officer there, and I threw myself upon his mercy; he ushered me into a cab that took me straight to my hostel. You know, thinking about it, I never actually found out what happened with that shuttle. Rotten scoundrels took my money and left me in New Jersey! Anyway, I got to the hostel and checked in and realised that I had promised my mother that I would call her as soon as I arrived – she was probably having kittens by this point. Unbelievably enough, the hostel didn’t have a working pay phone, so at 3:30 in the morning, exhausted, on my first night and after all the cafuffle, I had to venture out into the streets of New York to make a phone call. My experience so far had been one of fear and uncertainty; I still had images of pre-Giuliani 1980s New York on my mind, so it took a lot of guts for me to head out by myself.

I was surprised to find the streets of Chelsea packed with people… no wait, packed with men. Lots of men. All men. I was thinking, “Bleeding heck, it’s 3:30 in the morning and the streets are packed and I’m surrounded by men! Am I safe?” It was only as I walked further and looked closer that I noticed the details: the muscle tone. The gym shirts. The epic attention to skin care. The occasional puppy with a diamante collar. I remember thinking, “Is that dog wearing a rainbow bandanna?” And then it dawned on me: Chelsea is, traditionally, a very gay-friendly area. I was under no threat of being randomly savaged any time soon; all these men were too busy admiring each other to even give me a second thought. A palpable relief flooded over me, and it was then that I initially fell in love with Chelsea. I realised that all of my fear had just been paranoia. This neighbourhood was safe, and friendly, and completely non-threatening. I made my phone call to my mother, and then basically skipped home with the glee of being in New York. Every time I’ve been to this city, I’ve elected to stay in Chelsea – it’s within walking distance of most of the places you’d want to see in the lower half of Manhattan, it’s clean, I feel safe there, and the people are friendly. The restaurant scene is booming, cool kids fill the cafes, and the food stores are legendary. Transport is a breeze, and at all hours of the day or night there’s something to do. And now, of course, there’s the High Line too.

My only concern over the last few visits has been the fact that the gay community seems to be slowly disappearing from Chelsea. I used to eat at a little cafe called Eros, which hung rainbow flags from its awnings, and there were lots of ‘men-only’ video shops and so on. Over time, the rainbow flags and the little dogs with shiny collars seem to have disappeared. BUT… (back to the 3rd of May 2012!) as I turned the corner onto 8th Avenue, I stumbled upon a bar with no windows that advertised ‘Go-Go Men Every Night!’ I then saw a giant neon rainbow in the window of a store a little bit down the road, and my heart felt a little better. I guess it’s like I’ve said before – you go from one street to the next in New York, and the whole community changes; I guess I’ve been spending too much time on 7th Avenue and not enough on 8th! The only thing that I wonder about Chelsea’s gay community is: where are all the women? There’s a famous episode in my family which involves me and my mum in a Ben & Jerry’s ice cream parlour on 23rd Street. Mum and I are choosing our flavours and a lesbian couple come in; they are all over each other like a rash, kissing and grabbing each other’s bums. They too are choosing their flavours. Mum and I sit down with our purchases, and the women stop for a smooch. Mum leans over to me, and quietly whispers in a conspiratorial manner, “They’re… gay.” I laugh so hard that the woman behind the counter must think she’s got a loon on her hands. It’s like she told me some massive secret that I hadn’t already figured out for myself; like pointing at a cloud and whispering, “It’s… white.” Poor Mum! I think she was shocked by my reaction, as if she was surprised that I knew what a lesbian was! Sigh. Bless her. I have to remember that her generation grew up in a different world to mine. Homosexuality is not big news to me, you know? Ah, dear. Anyway, the reason I recount that story here is because its the only time I actually remember seeing gay women in Chelsea. Where are the rest of them? I guess it doesn’t really matter… I just find it interesting.

Anyway, I toddled up 8th Avenue and had a quick look in Gap (meh) and Ricky’s, a New York chain store that sells all kind of toiletries and accessories (and has a curtained-off ‘naughty’ section at the back), and then I stopped at the Crumbcake Bakery for a rest. I was delighted to spot flan (a dessert that I got hooked on in Cuba) amongst their selection, so I ordered it and took a seat, but I have to say that it wasn’t much cop compared to others I’ve tried. Then I had to give in and finally admit that it was time to move to the hostel; the prospect of dragging my baggage on the subway up to 103rd Street was not an attractive one, but it had to be done.

I picked up my bags from the hotel and hopped on the 1 train, which conveniently goes from 23rd Street straight to 103rd, not far from the hostel. As I was dragging my suitcase behind me up the stairs (subway stations do not generally have lifts), I suddenly felt my load lighten, and looked behind me to see a guy with long hair and a leather jacket lifting my bag for me. I was gobsmacked, but this was not the last time that somebody gave me assistance without me even asking for it. Love this city.

The neighbourhood around the hostel seemed pretty sweet; kids were sitting on their stoops chatting, and a large guy greeted me as I passed him by on the street. There were lots of little delis and restaurants; it seemed like a family-oriented area, but I might be wrong. I passed a Ben & Jerry’s on the corner down from the hostel and knew everything was going to be okay! I checked in with only one problem – I had booked a female-only dormitory room, but was told that they were booked out and that I would have to go into a mixed dorm. And I was thinking, ‘yes, the all-female dorm is all booked… BECAUSE I BOOKED IT!’ How the hell does that work?!? I booked it, and then they don’t have it? What sort of computer system are they using? Really, I have no problem sharing with guys in a dorm, except for one thing: the snoring. I had a really bad experience in Boston once, where there were 2 older men who snored orchestrally all night, one inhaling while the other exhaled, and it drove me barmy. Absolutely batty. Bonkers. Since then I’ve made it a policy to stay in female-only dorms because usually it’s less of a problem – and if they do snore, they’re usually quieter. As it turned out, I barely slept a wink all night for about a week thanks to the nightly honkings of all of my male room-mates (3 of them in unison, at one point) in New York, so I was right in my caution, but sadly there was nothing I could do about it. Grrrr.

I found my bed and went about the totally unsexy business of washing my clothes. Doing laundry while travelling just feels like such a total waste of fun time, but I think I was at the point where my jeans were about to get up and walk away by themselves, so it had to be done. I put in two loads and did some hand-washing too; it was a real marathon! I then checked my emails on the hostel WiFi, and went down to the reception area to sign up for their various walks and activities. While signing up, a sweet little Japanese guy called Masao started chatting to me, and somehow the two of us were press-ganged into the hostel’s twice-weekly ‘welcome party’ where you get a free boozy drink (lost on me) and get to meet your fellow travellers. I actually met some interesting people though; Masao turned out to be a shiatsu masseur (“Shiatsu Warrior!”), and I met people from Trinidad and Tobago, Israel, Germany, Mauritius, Brazil, you name it, they were there. I also met a bunch of Australians (we’re everywhere) – one in particular stood out. Her name was Torey, and she looked like she’d been dragged backwards through the back door of a brothel; her makeup was thick and smudged, and her clothes were hanging off her at odd angles. She slouched when she stood, and had a voice like an 85-year-old who’s been smoking since they were 12. Her opening gambit was, “Free beer, pretty fuckin’ sweet, eh?” followed by, “Aw shit, I’d better go and put my face on, you never know what kind of party this might turn into!” She came back about 15 minutes later with even more makeup on and talked about how trashed she was going to get, and for some reason she chose me as the confidante, letting me know that there were “a bunch of fuckin’ hotties in this room, shame I don’t understand any of ’em when they talk”. In my head, she became Torey the Whorey, which isn’t very nice of me, but I couldn’t help it. Good God. I just prayed that she wasn’t from Brisbane so we wouldn’t have to figure out who our mutual friends were. (Thankfully, she was from Adelaide.) She didn’t seem like the mean type, but all the ‘F’ words that peppered her speech… ugh. What a bogan.

I made my excuses and left the little shindig, and made my way to the nearby Malaysian Grill for dinner with a copy of Time magazine to keep me company. I ate lemongrass pork chops – not very Malaysian, but delish – with brown rice. I went up to my dormitory and was pleased to find that most of my room mates (for that night, anyway) were girls – a local New Yorker who was in the process of moving house, a lovely woman called Yuko, from Japan, and a young Spanish couple (the husband snored, but fairly quietly!). A late addition was a stupidly rude Chinese girl. One could say that maybe I just thought she was rude because of the language barrier, but let me tell you this as an English teacher – she could speak English, but she just didn’t care. All of us greeted her as she entered the room, and her response was a grunt, eyes to the floor, and a slamming of her bags to the ground. The others widened their eyes and left one by one for their evening activities of choice. I was reading on my bed and without an ‘excuse me’ or whatever, I just heard a bark from across the room. “What time is it?” So I sit up, get out of bed, get my phone out of my bag, and tell her the time. And then she resets her clock and she goes back to what she’s doing. Without so much as a thank you or an acknowledgement that I even answered. I resist the urge to scream, “YOU’RE WELCOME!” in her face (which I usually do to people in the street who ignore me when I hold the door open for them), as I figure that we’ll be sleeping in the same room and I don’t really want to wake up with my eyebrows missing or my hair on fire. But I have already written her off as a bitch. As it turns out, she also ends up driving the others in the room nuts, too; she has the annoying habit of not actually closing the dorm room door, and just leaving it ajar, even after Yuko asked her to be careful as leaving the door open gives anyone in the hostel access to our belongings. Yuko was ignored, and so everybody else in the dorm huffs and puffs about having to lock up all of their stuff, all of the time, on account of one stupid troll who can’t be bothered to pull a door closed properly. Sigh. The joys of sharing with strangers.

Anyway, the rude bitch aside, my room is quite comfortable and the facilities are great, so I can’t really complain. I sleep fairly well with the background noise of the Spanish man, and settle in to my first night (of nine) in the hostel.

Thanks for stopping by,

Tara.

Tags: eataly, food, hostel, hostelling international, mario batali, new york, travel, yha

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Categories New York City, New York State, USA

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little tara

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