Tag Archives: New York

A last look at Manhattan

After our less than salutary experience with the hotel’s breakfast the previous day, we went off to find a café nearby that offered breakfast. This would be our last day in New York. We were heading for Washington the next day. We spent a fun morning enjoying some of the quirkier bits of the city. And another quick trip to Central Park, though not for long.

Toy Story characters. I suppose a bit like the dress-up Roman soldiers at the Colosseum

A Jewish tailor working on his sewing machine. It illustrates what used to happen in that area of New York

I don’t know what Christian sect they belonged to. They sang beautifully and offered free christian literature right outside H&R Block.

We headed back to the hotel so we’d be ready to meet a friend. My editor, Diane, lives in Pennsylvania and she had agreed to catch a bus to New York so that we could actually meet. I was looking forward to that. I’ve met a few online friends in real life and always found it very comfortable. We’d already met at an intellectual level, so this was just a matter of putting a face to a person. We returned to our room and waited for her to call from the lobby.

It was the weekend and a bunch of girls in their early teens were booked into the hotel. I assume it was a school group on an excursion. When Diane rang to say she’d arrived, I caught a lift to go down to meet her. We were on something like the 23rd floor and when I entered, the lift held about four people. From there on down it was stopping at all stations. More and more kids entered the lift. I was at the rear, my back now firmly pressed against the wall. Bear in mind I’m an introvert with a tendency to claustrophobia. When the lift stopped again I felt sure you couldn’t fit another person in that car. The kid didn’t agree, though, winkling her way into that scrum while I begged all the deities I don’t believe in not to let the lift breakdown.

I heaved a huge sigh of relief when we finally reached the ground floor and everybody poured out. It must have looked like one of those Benny Hill sketches where far too many people climb out of a mini or something.

Diane was lovely, of course.

After a while we decided we’d head for New York’s natural history museum, easily reachable on the subway. We bought tickets and sat down. After a couple of stations an announcement was made via the PA. It seems to be a requisite for railway stations that all announcements are unintelligible. We stayed where we were and the train started off again. And picked up speed and zipped through stations. It seemed that the powers that be had decided that this train would be an express. We seemed to go a long way before the brakes came on and the train halted. We piled off and watch the rear carriage disappear into the tunnel. Now what? The sign said Harlem. Gosh. We’d heard all about Harlem back in Oz, not the best place to be. Oh well, All we really wanted was to know how to get back toward the central city. Reading signs didn’t help much. In the end Diane went and asked a passing lady and returned to report we had to go over the bridge to a different platform.

A train soon arrived and we climbed into a packed carriage, where we were forced to stand. One young woman sitting on a bench made to get up. “One of you can have my seat.”

“Nah,” we all said. “It’s okay. We’re not going far.”

Pete being Pete added. “One of us can sit on your knee.”

She looked us over for a second, decided we were a trio of harmless old coots, and patted her lap.” Okay. Which one of you?”

All of us laughed.

This episode stuck in my mind and a couple of years later, a suitably embellished version of this experience (along with Central Park) was used in my urban fantasy novel, White Tiger. Did you know that there are more tigers living in America than out in the wild? They’re kept as pets in backyard zoos – or even backyards in often unsuitable conditions, although thankfully, the number of states that permit the keeping of wild animals has reduced. It’s a fact that somebody actually kept a pet tiger in an apartment in Harlem. I wove that (fictionalised) into White Tiger as well.

Ahem. Back to New York, 2011.

We got off the train at the natural history museum and spent several enjoyable hours wandering through the exhibits.The museum is excellent, with fantastic displays of skeletons, reconstructions, explanations of evolution. There are other sections displaying Mayan, Incan, and Native American artefacts.

Triceratops skeleton

The evolution of the horse – much more complicated than the simple straight line that we were told about when I was young

Eohippus – the dawn horse

Part of the Ican exhibition

Then we went to find dinner. It seemed every restaurant we went to either didn’t do much for us, or didn’t have a table. We ended up back at the Irish pub where, if memory serves me right, Diane had shepherd’s pie for the first time. Later, we walked Di back to the bus station, then went back to our hotel to prepare to catch a train to Washington the next day.

New York, New York

Manhattan under the clouds

I’d never been to the USA. Peter had, several times during his working years, once not too long after the 2001 attack on the World Trade Centre. I’ve always wanted to see the Grand Canyon, Yosemite, the parks in Utah… But we wouldn’t have time for any of that. This was going to be a ‘taste of America’ – three cities for a few days each. What the hey. It was all new to me.

Wheeling my brand sparkly new bright red suitcase, we went into Copenhagen airport to board our Lufthansa fight to New York via Frankfurt. It all started in the increasingly common way. I was stopped by security who wanted to check my carry-on luggage. I had to open the bag for the man. I’m not sure if it was a random check or whether they really did get their knickers in a twist over the little metal container filled with mints. Must have done. The man took the mints out and re-scanned the bag. I’ve become inured over the years, though I still can’t help a sigh. Flying used to be fun but all that security has taken the gloss off.

The flight was generally uneventful, although one passenger was a pain in the butt from Frankfurt to New York. The cabin crew were up and down to his seat every few minutes and he had his entertainment system on so loud I think everybody could hear the dialogue for the movie he was watching. And, of course, he was first out of his seat, talking loudly on his phone as soon as we arrived at the gate at Newark.

We collected our luggage and joined the lines to pass through immigration. When it was my turn I marched up to the end of the long counter where the immigration officer sat and handed over my passport. Officer Wong (he had a name tag on his shirt) looked me over as if I smelled bad, looked at my passport, was probably disappointed my online visa was in order.

“How long you stayin’ in the US?”

I’d prepared for that. “We’re going home next Sunday.”

He looked down his nose at me. “Ah don’t care when you goin’ home. How long you stayin’?”

I admit to being slightly flummoxed. Well shit. Let’s see… three nights here, a few in Washington…

Pete must have noticed things were not going according to plan. He came up behind me. “I’m her husband,” he said, handing over his passport.

Officer Wong took a look at the page. “You’re married? You got different surnames.”

“Yeah,” Pete said. “She didn’t change her name. Makes it easier for the divorce.”

Officer Wong’s demeanour changed instantly, clearly a fellow-traveller in that respect. “Oh, yeah. Makes sense.”

A bit more banter between the boys and we were outta there.

We’d arranged a shuttle service for the trip to New York City before we left home. All we had to do was find where we were supposed to go. It took us a while. Signage in Newark seems to be aimed at American people who fly a lot. But we got there in the end, joining half a dozen other people in a small van. How do I describe the traffic? Sydney on steroids? Or maybe St Petersburg on steroids. Our driver cut and weaved and dodged between lanes, pushing into lines of traffic to take the tunnel to Manhattan, all the while messing about with a tablet on her knee. Eventually she pulled up around the corner from our hotel in Hell’s Kitchen and fetched our luggage. I stumbled out, glad to have made it alive. I expect she does it all the time – but I don’t.

Pete took out his wallet to tip her – and couldn’t find his passport. The driver waited while he checked the vehicle, his pockets, his carry-on… I was starting to wonder where the nearest Australian consulate was and the driver was glancing at her cab and its load of passengers. She wanted – needed – to leave.

Pete gave her the tip and she headed off. Then he went back through everything we’d done since meeting Mr Wong. And at last, Bingo! We’d had to produce passports at a desk somewhere, to do with the taxi service, and he’d put his passport somewhere unusual. It was there.

Heaving a huge sigh of relief, we checked into our hotel. We were on the 23rd floor or thereabouts with a view of the river, not a large room – we didn’t expect it would be – but with everything we’d need. The hotel was a few blocks from Times Square, so in a good location.

The view from our room

That afternoon we went for a walk getting a feel for the lie of the land. The things I particularly noticed were the rubbish bins lined up along the kerbs, the food vans at just about every corner, the external fire escape stairs, the apparently abandoned scaffolding where building projects had been started. Remember, this was 2011, only a couple of years after the global financial crisis. And I learned that Times Square is an intersection.

We went to the post office to post a parcel and managed to mightily offend another customer because we didn’t understand the protocol involved before you could approach anybody at one of the counters.

Roads like canyons, with the Empire State in the distance

Food vans at every corner. They were left there overnight. We wondered how fresh and safe the food would be.

Eventually we ended up in an Irish pub, where we rested out sore feet and downed a drink or two while chatting to the Irish barman. On the way back to the hotel we felt in need of some food. Nothing substantial, just something to soak up the alcohol. We passed a few uninspiring convenience stores, then came across a sign advertising chicken sandwiches.

Perfect!

Except the Australian idea of a sandwich doesn’t line up with the American one. We were expecting a couple of slices of bread containing slices of chicken and some salad – lettuce, tomato, cucumber. What we got was a bread roll about 20cm (~9″) long, stuffed with shredded chicken mixed with something like barbecue sauce. A shred of lettuce and half a slice of tomato appeared on the plate as garnish. We’d bought one each, but one between us would have been more than enough. We left more than half of it, but we ate the garnish.

We were about ready for bed. Tomorrow we’d go and do some more exploring.