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Saved: November 27th 2013
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Manhattan from the Empire State BuildingA scene of white awaited us as we touched down at JFK International. Heavy snowfall the previous day had given everything a winter coating just in time for Christmas. Two hours later, after clearing customs, night had arrived and we were sitting inside a yellow New York Taxi heading into Manhattan, the heart of downtown New York.
What a year it had been. We'd celebrated the start of 2008 in Finland, and a month later we'd haggled our way through the souqs of Morocco. By April we'd visited the Taj Mahal in India, and then ridden an elephant in Sri Lanka. In May we'd ventured to Ireland where I'd supped a pint of stout, and then in July, we’d enjoyed a delicious red wine in France. Over the summer, we'd traversed the temples of Thailand, and watched fisherman sail the River Mekong in Laos. We'd sailed in a wooden junk in Vietnam, and experienced both the beauty and horror of Cambodia. In October we had ridden around the Pyramids in Egypt on horseback, and had seen dolphins in Oman. And now we were in The United States at its most magical time, just before Christmas.
“This your first time
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Snow in New York! in the States?” asked the driver, his accent suggesting a heritage outside of the US, perhaps India. We nodded. “Well you've come at a busy time,” he said. “Lots of people shopping and partying.”
We turned onto a freeway which quickly became a long traffic jam. Along the side, snow was piled up, but at least the roads were clear. To pass the time, Angela and I watched Taxi TV on the small screen in front until eventually, the skyscrapers of Manhattan became visible. It wasn't long before we were dropped off outside our hotel, $55 dollars lighter.
The Grand Hyatt had a prime location. Next door to the Grand Central Station, opposite the Chrysler Building, and only a few blocks away from the Empire State Building, Macy's, Time Square and Broadway. With snow flurries falling upon us, we decided to walk to Times Square, at the heart of Broadway. Parked at every block were NYPD patrol cars and then we heard a commotion just across the street from us. A small crowd gathered to watch the developing drama.
“Get the hell off of me!” a large fat man yelled as he thrashed around. Five or six
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Times Square cops were struggling to subdue him, shouting for him to keep quiet and get down on the ground. “I've done nothing wrong you morons'!” he bellowed. The cops obviously disagreed, because as we watched, a few more officers appeared and collectively managed to topple him over. “Ow! Ahh! Oh man! Can't you just leave me alone!” the man wailed as he hit the slush, which unexpectedly brought titters from the watching crowd. And then it got even better. While some officers grappled with him and others tried to cuff him, the fat man delivered his punchline. It was a bellowing line full of power and need. “Please don't kill me!” Everyone laughed, including us. It was like watching a comedy movie. With the man finally quiet, we wandered towards the neon and lights of Times Square.
The place was packed with people, many going to see a show we presumed. Smoke rose from grills in the sidewalk, yellow cabs snaked their way along Broadway, and every building was covered with bright neon. It was an assault on the senses. “New York is better than I expected,” said Angela. I had to agree. The Americans seemed to know how to
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New York Street Scene do things. Everything was bold and brash; sometimes garish, but it sure looked good. The taxi honks were deep and resonant; the skyscrapers towering; the neon bright, and everything larger than life; even the free toothpaste in our hotel came out in huge super-sized dollops. The only thing breaking the mould were the tiny three-wheeled NYPD vehicles. They buzzed around the city under the control of a single officer. They were the Robin Reliants of New York. But at least they had a cool sounding name: Interceptors!
The next morning, largely due to the time difference, we were up early on an overcast, rainy day. We headed down Fifth Avenue, famous for its boutique stores until we arrived at the New York Museum of Modern Art. Forty dollars later, we were wandering the galleries, shaking our heads in wonderment at the things inside
Neither Angela or I could ever describe ourselves as experts, but to us, some of the art inside was not even worthy of a frame, let alone being on display. “Look at this,” I said, pointing at a large white picture. “It's piece of blank white paper inside a frame!” I could just imagine the
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Macy's conversion in the artist's household. “Son, your mother's finished another of her paintings.” Little boy perks up for a moment. “Has it got some trees in it this time?” Dad shakes his head. “No, son. It's the same as the last one. Just white.”
Obviously there had to more to it than we were seeing; why else would it be on display? Connoisseurs of art would probably marvel at its stark whiteness, its boldness of minimalism. “Total shite,” I remarked as I wandered away to regard a piece of wood resting on the wall. It looked like it had left there by a builder.
Paintings didn't hold the monopoly on the weird. There was one piece that caught our eye straightaway. It looked like a piece of wood with holes drilled into it. And that was exactly what it was. Neither of us could believe it. “Surely art is meant to be better than this,” I suggested as we wandered over to a dangling sculpture of a penis. “I mean, if I can knock up something like this then clearly something is wrong.”
I thought the same about a Jackson Pollock's painting but Angela disagreed. “I like
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Enjoying a Pollock in the Museum of Modern Art it. I could never produce anything like this.” To me, it was a large painting full of smears, dollops and streaks, like something a lunatic would produce. “No,” I agreed. “Unless you'd drunk five bottles of wine and had a blindfold on.”
That said, we did enjoy the experience of the museum, and I suppose the whole point of abstract art is to foster discussion and thought. And it certainly achieved that. In fact, the one piece that struck us most wasn't actually a painting or a sculpture, it was a video. In it, a man was making a cup of tea. Deciding his brew was missing one vital ingredient; he sat down in a chair and attached some clear cups to the lower portions of his eyes. Then he began watching a swimming video. The camera zoomed in on his eyes, all bloodshot and unblinking and very painful to look at. As the man continued to watch TV his eyes began to water, eventually sending a single tear into one of the cups. The camera followed the tear's progress through a clear plastic tube until it plopped into the mug of tea. I looked at Angela and shook
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Christmas Tree outside the Rockefeller Centre my head. Art? I wasn't sure. Memorable? Definitely.
The New York Subway was easy to navigate and it took us straight to the former sight of the World Trade Centre, now called Ground Zero. The whole area was a building site, boarded up around its edge. At one corner we came to a fire station. A Christmas tree was adorned with photos of people who had died in the tragedy. Behind it, a poster showed the faces of fire fighters who'd died in the line of duty. It was unexpectedly moving.
Five minutes walk away was Battery Park and it was there that we caught our first glimpse of the Statue of Liberty. Later we would sail right past it but for now we happily wandered through the small park eying the occasional squirrel. “What's that sculpture,” asked Angela. I told her I didn't know and so we headed towards the golden sphere. A small flame was alight in front of it and Angela read the placard. “It used to be in the lobby of the World Trade Centre. The flame was lit on September 11th 2002. Exactly a year later.”
Next to the park was the
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New York Taxi Staten Island Ferry Terminal. In 2003, one of its fleet was involved in a deadly accident. As it was about to dock at Staten Island, the ferry hit a pier which ripped through the main deck. In the ensuing panic, some passengers elected to jump overboard into the freezing waters and in total, eleven people died.
It was quickly established that the driver was to blame. On the day of the disaster, the pilot, Richard Smith, had been taking pain killers, which had made him drowsy and it’s believed that Smith was asleep at the wheel at the time of the crash. With the noise and screams, Smith had awoken and must have quickly guessed what had happened. In despair, the poor man tried to kill himself there and then, but his botched attempt at slashing his wrists failed. Undeterred, when he eventually arrived home, he found a gun and he blasted himself in the chest. Miraculously he survived this too and gave up his suicide attempts from that point onwards. Eventually Smith was charged with manslaughter and served 18 months on prison.
We boarded the large vessel for the free twenty-five minute ride to Staten Island. It
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Empire State Building was cold on deck, but well worth it as we sailed right past the Statue of Liberty. As we left Manhattan the clouds departed and the sun began reflecting on the skyscrapers behind us. Tug boats chugged along below and hardy gulls soared on the freezing air currents. We moored safely at Staten Island and then boarded another ferry for the journey back.
Our evening was taken up by shopping. Macy's was Angela's choice and the store was huge. It was also packed with festive shoppers, all clogging the isles and blocking any path to a safe haven. In the end, I loitered in Starbucks while Angela browsed the wares on offer. It was an arrangement we would reproduce over and over again in the coming days.
The next day, Monday, was sunny but cold. According to the neon temperature signs dotted about, it was a bone-chilling minus six degrees Celsius. “Bloody hell!” I said to Angela as we hit the busy morning streets. The workers of New York, suited up and armed with briefcases passed us by in a hurry. “It's bloody freezing!” We pulled our scarves tighter and headed for the Empire State Building, which opened
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Battery Park with Statue of Liberty in the distance its doors at 9.30am. We wanted to be there early to avoid the notorious queues.
The Empire State building, made famous when King Kong scaled its peak, loomed high above the skyline. We arrived bang on time and were up the top in less than twenty minutes. The view was spectacular, offering a panorama across Manhattan and beyond. All the sights were visible: Central Park, Statue of Liberty, Brooklyn Bridge and much more besides, but it was so damn cold. It was like my face being stabbed with a million needles.
On the way back down, a queue jumper appeared at the elevators. “I've got express tickets,” he announced to the lady in the black uniform. She glanced at his ticket and nodded, saying he could enter before anyone else. I looked behind me. In total, he'd managed to jump in front of eight people. I was over the moon I hadn't bought the express tickets myself. They were over double the price. By the time we got down to the bottom, the queues were already immense. They were even lining up outside. An express ticket would do the job now, I thought. People everywhere were shuffling their
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Statue of Liberty from aboard the Staten Island Ferry way forward inch by terrible inch.
Grand Central Station definitely lived up to its name. Located on the same block as our hotel, we ventured inside to see what it was all about. It turned out to be massive, with tunnels leading off in all directions, but its centerpiece was a huge hall dominated by a giant US flag. Christmas music was being piped through into the hall and people rushed hither and thither, all busy busy. Downstairs was a huge food emporium serving every kind of dish imaginable. It was also a popular refuge for some of the down and outs of New York, many of whom were fast asleep. But none could slumber for long because cops patrolled the place, waking them up again. Bleary eyed, the bearded souls would sit up looking miserable. But at least they were warm.
More shopping loomed, and soon the shops soon merged into one. One I can remember though was a particularly annoying store. All we wanted was somewhere to sit down and have a coffee, but that was easier said than done. The signs were poor, the elevators ponderously slow, the place jam-packed, and I was glad to
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Bendy Skyscraper be out of it. It was called Bloomingdales.
Next stop was the Rockefeller Centre, a huge skyscraper with a gigantic Christmas tree at its entrance. There was also a skating rink out front which certainly added to the festive element. But we were there to visit the Top of the Rock, another viewing platform offering superb views of the city. Sunset soon arrived and the view across Manhattan was amazing, the twinkling of lights taking over the nighttime vista.
A friend of Angela's back in the UK had suggested Uncle Jack's Steak House on West 56th Street, a stone throw from Central Park, for a nice meal. We booked ourselves a table and were looking forward to a nice juicy New York steak. We both ordered steak for our main, and shared a fishcake for starter. A couple of drinks later we both agreed it had been a lovely meal. And then the bill arrived.
I almost vomited up my food. Two hundred dollars! Two hundred dollars! Actually, I exaggerate, it was $193, but still, what a price! I showed the bill to Angela and even in the dimly lit room I could see her turn a
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View from the Rockefeller Centre as sunset falls shade of white. “Two hundred dollars!” she exclaimed with good reason. “One hundred and fifty pounds! I could've got that dress!” The dress in question was from a shop near the Rockefeller Centre and Angela had ummed and arred about the price before saying it was far too extravagant a purchase.
We paid the bill and left Uncle Jack's Steak House with a bitter taste in our sirloin-addled mouths. Along the street I saw a parked NYPD patrol car with two officers sat inside. “I'm going to report a crime,” I told Angela. “A heist inside Uncle Jack's. Crime in progress.”
Our final day in the Big Apple involved a leisurely stroll through Central Park. Frozen lakes, snow covered greenery and friendly squirrels made our stroll a most enjoyable one. Angela particularly enjoyed it. “It's so pretty here,” she said as we came to a bridge overlooking a large ice rink. I bought a pretzel and then fed some to a squirrel.
The subway down to City Hall was quick and painless. We left the subway station in the direction of Brooklyn Bridge, a massive structure spanning the East River. The public footpath was treacherous in the
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Night falls over Manhattan ice but it was worth it for the views along Manhattan. The bridge, which is one of the oldest suspension bridges in the USA, was opened to the public in 1883. A week later, a rumour that the bridge was about to collapse led to a stampede, killing twelve people. Even afterwards, the rumour persisted until circus boss P.T. Barnum led Jumbo and 21 other elephants across the bridge in a parade.
On the way back to the subway we wandered into Chinatown. This part of Manhattan was perhaps the seediest section we'd visited. People lounged about in doorways, a bag lady wandered along with her cart and no teeth, mumbling something to herself. A line of homeless people waited patiently for the doors of a refuge to open. But the lettering on shop fronts was distinctly Chinese. Even a nearby McDonald's was written in Mandarin. We caught a yellow cab back to the airport. New York had been wonderful. An unforgettable trip to the other side of the pond and one we would never forget. But then came the sting in the tail.
Highly disorganized would be one way of describing Terminal 3 of Kennedy Airport, the
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Rockefeller Centre hub of Delta Airlines. Utterly Chaotic would be another. “Don't tell me that's a queue,” I commented to Angela as we climbed out of the taxi. Lined up outside the terminal were perhaps a hundred people, all with luggage, all shivering in the cold.
“I think it is,” said Angela as we surveyed the line. What sort of airport makes its passengers queue up outside for God's sake! I thought. Half an hour later we made it inside and then the real problems started. There were queues everywhere and no one seemed to be in charge. I approached one very flustered uniformed woman and asked her which queue we should join. Other people were asking the same thing and she was rapidly getting agitated.
“Go over there,” she said at last; pointing off in some vague direction where about a million people were fighting to get to a check in desk. “Or you could go to the kiosks to check in.” The kiosks were crowded with people, most of whom looked angry. I asked the woman to clarify which queue we should join. “Okay go where you like! It's up to you!” And with that she was gone,
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Skating in Central Park hounded by scores of other confused passengers.
The lack of signs was also another problem, and from as far as we could tell, there were four queues, but where they ended was a mystery. My blood was beginning to boil. Thank god we'd allowed plenty of time to check in. Desperately we joined the line nearest to us and stood without moving for perhaps twenty minutes. One check in desk was taken up by a man and his dog. From what we could gather, he'd failed to produce the correct paperwork for his pet and was now arguing with the check in agent.
The whole place was in total chaos, and people everywhere were losing their tempers. “I want to speak to your superior!” said one man. “We're going to miss our flight!” said another. And then we made it to a check in desk. Immediately a man tried to take our spot. “My flight leaves in less than one hour!” he stated. The young check in agent nodded and told him to join the back of the queue. By now the queue had about three hundred people in it. It would easily take a couple of hours
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Snowy in Central Park to reach the front, especially since only eight check in agents were on duty, and each person they processed took about fifteen minutes.
“But my flight leaves in one hour,” the man repeated. “I'm going to miss it if I join the queue.” The agent nodded again and politely told him to join the back of the line like everyone else.
We boarded our flight on time and were soon on our way to Manchester, but the whole JFK experience had sullied my New York experience immensely, so much in fact, that it would put me off ever going there again.
Strengths: -Central Park, Statue of Liberty, Times Square, Empire State Building, Rockefeller Centre, NYPD, yellow cabs
-Staten Island Ferry (which is free)
-New York Subway
-Shopping (for the ladies)
-Like being on a film set
-Friendly and helpful officials
Weaknesses: -Terminal 3 of JFK Airport
-Waiting at traffic lights at every block
-Crowds at Christmas
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lynn yeo
non-member comment
so nice
so nice, your pics and written entry! thanks!