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Published: July 29th 2006
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Fattening up
In a desperate attempt to regain lost pounds, here I am shovelling eggs and smoked salmon into my mouth in a swish SOHO eatery called Balthazar. A kind of hungover, male 'Sex in the City' (without the sex). I settled down into the whirlpool at 4.30am surrounded by handfuls of hundred dollar bills and gazed out of the windows at the black ocean far below my suite. Not for the first time I pondered on my incredible luck. Indeed this whole trip, above all else, has left me with a profound sense of my own good fortune. I have seen parts of countries that even the locals struggle to see. I have met wonderful people at every turn. I have learned how to scuba dive, how to horse ride, how to abseil and climb. I have rafted, hang-glided, belayed, swam and surfed in some of the world's most spectacular spots. I have witnessed a shark feeding frenzy, watched condors soar, worn an anaconda hat and picked ticks from all over my body. And here I was at the end of my journey, surrounded by the thing that everyone in the world is busting a gut for, and yet something that, by a quirk of birth, comes so easily to those of my generation and nationality. Money.
And so to New York - my final destination and a chance to return to my previous physical shape through overconsumption of
Filthy lucre
Just another average night in Atlantic City... alcohol and rich foods. I REALLY like New York and always have a great time there (not least because my friend Olly lives there and is always up for drinking himself into a coma). The bars are great places to hang out, chatting to the locals, and stuffing fine burger meat into one's mouth whenever the fancy takes one. Luckily for Olly, I arrived after midnight on a Saturday night, and caught him post party: slurring words and with somewhat hooded eyes. I forced him to down another 5 or 6 swift glasses of acrid wife-beater before allowing him to retire. Sunday started with good intentions and metrosexual brunching in Soho followed by Brazilian cocktails in the meat-packing (fudge-packing?) district. We were accompanied by one of Olly's firends, Mike, who bears a passing resemblance to former Cheers! star and sometime paparazzi throttler Woody Harrelson. I bought an expensive shirt from my favourite shirt shop in Nolita, and Mike tried unsuccessfully to do likewise in Ralph Lauren, but discovered he already owned all the shirts there. He settled instead for a spell on their luxurious throne. We left the shop quickly. Things started to descend into anarchy when we returned once
Old Ironsides
The oldest warship still afloat, Boston. more to Brooklyn and set into more Belgian fighting lager. Of the two of us left, I was the only one who didn't have an 8am meeting the next day with a brace of French bankers - a fact I was rather smug about the next day when Olly rushed out of the door already more than an hour late.
Rather than completely ruin Olly's week of work, and wanting to hoover up a few more states, I booked a train to Boston and the plushest hotel so far: the Park Plaza. The train journey was fun, with the New England landscape whizzing past the windows. My room was upgraded, and I was pleased to discover not one but two lavatories in my suite. Hugely exciting, but I think it was a Nepalese Shaman all those months ago who said to me, 'a man can but poo on one lavatory at any one time' (I'm paraphrasing). After many months of failing to use a single lavatory in the appropriate manner, I now feel that one lavatory is more than enough.
Anyway - Boston. Nice town to live in (I imagine) and to visit, but I was disappointed that
much of the nonsensical tea party attractions had not been replaced after a fire in 2000 - evidence of still massive governmental corruption and incompetence. I was promised the sight of bad actors shoving faux tea chests attached to chains into the water and then dragging them out again to gasps from lardy tourists. Fire damaged tea chests must take an age to replace. There were plenty of other faux attraction nonetheless, and I especially enjoyed being the most Irish person in most of the Irish bars I visited (ie not being Irish at all, but having eaten numerous potatos in the past). One genuinely Irish guy I got hugely drunk with had an accent so strong that I had to translate for the benefit of some randy Brazilians that were necking scotch with us.
A long journey from Boston took me to Atlantic City and my final showdown with the casinos of the world. They had not been kind to me and here was my last chance for revenge. The bus to AC from NY was part of the adventure. The dregs of humanity I shared the 3 hour journey with were fizzing with anticipation of the untold
God's Van, Atlantic City beach
Used for light removals and conversions. riches ahead. Most were also eating non-branded fast food from brown paper bags. After discovering that my hotel was not located anywhere near the Boardwalk that is the AC equivalent of Vegas's Strip, I was compensated by being upgraded into a suite of rooms that were by far the most luxurious accomodation I have stayed in, easily eclipsing the hotel in Boston and yet still having adequate toilet facilities. Three times the size of my flat, and with a small kitchen and a large whirlpool, the latter of which was located in my bedroom which in turn commanded views over the Atlantic beaches, I took turns to sit in all the chairs and gird my wallet for the onslaught ahead. As usual, I agreed with myself in advance how much I would be spending (ie unlimited) and then descended into the throbbing casino. A Philly Cheesesteak and a G&T in the presence of a man who insisted on rubbing my back and telling me what a wonderful time I could have for $1000 dollars, and I headed to the craps table. My friend Chris had texted me with instructions to 'press the 5' at every opportunity, and I readily did
In the shirt shop
Olly is suitably obsequious to Mike (Woody) while Mike jealously covets my new shirt. Nolita. so. Indeed I pressed every number I could think of. The usual miscreants gathered as the night progressed: hookers, gangsters, businessmen trying to impress their molls, students, bachelor parties and me, the limey at the end of the table making a killing. By the time I left the table I had accumulated a profit of $1,200 - more than enough to pay for whatever services that fat man had been talking about earlier. Having pushed myself firmly back into the black vs the casinos of the world, I headed upstairs for a smug whirlpool (is there any other kind?) and a well earned rest. I had made enough money to travel for a month more in Bolivia, or to stay in the US for another 3 or 4 days. The bus back to NY was rather more fraught than the outbound jounrey, with a scuffle on departure caused by a man queue jumping. Not everyone had won money in Atlantic City.
And so finally back to the Big Apple for more bad behaviour, fine food and idiot juice with Olly and chums. We hooked up with a dangerous fellow called Sandy who turned into a lunatic early in the
evening. A couple of slim actresses made up the rest of the party. Glorious.
And I sit here now, on the final day of my holiday, profoundly hungover but feeling extremely happy with what has gone before and what is still to come.
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