New York, New York Pt. 1

This is the first installment of my New York adventures, a hugely bloated and not very entertaining account of my one and a half days in New York. I'll post this as I type it up from my journal. I'm also hoping this weekend I'll find time to write a bit more about Guatemala City. As it is, I'm still safe, still well, still having fun...

JFK Airport: 14:00 NY Time

I take the subway to my hotel instead of a taxi, despite lugging two enormous bags with me. I have a bit of a phobia about being on public transport with bags, especially systems that are completely alien to me. This comes of having used the London tube on a regular basis. I have given withering looks to German tourists getting on at Bank, in the rush hour, with three suitcases each and have received the same withering looks coming back from festivals muddied and smelly with huge backpack on and tent in hand. As a luggee in these kinds of situations, my normal response is to panic, sweat profusely and pray to painlessly cease to exist. It's too expensive to get a taxi from the airport though, so on to the subway go me and my possessions.

The subway, to my surprise, is a joy to use. The trains are well-worn with uncomfortable plastic seats but this seems to have the effect of keeping most of New York from using it. It's airy and spacious enough for me and my stuff, and at $2 a ride, very reasonable too. I do have one complaint though. Mr. Bloomberg, I am personally inviting you to come to England so you can observe how we get in and out of most of (Covent Garden excepted) our underground stations. Then we'll give you the designs and you can build escalators at all of your subway stations. I wonder if this is some sort of initiative to combat America's obesity problem. What I'm sure of is it's bloody hard work carrying suitcases up stairs, and so I at least get the sweats, if not the panic to accompany them.

The sweat immediately begins to freeze as I emerge into the New York snow. Thanks to some excellent street signage (almost making up for the escalators) I quickly work out the way to my hotel and set off. Before too long I come to my first ever intersection, and look up expecting to see “walk/don’t walk’ signs. Instead, I’m greeted with an orange hand pointing its palm at me. Who removed the don’t walk signs I wonder, and when? I certainly didn’t get the memo. Anyway, I’d been warned about the driving in New York so when the hand said stop, I did. A bunch of locals walk around me and my suitcase and tut – did they not see the orange hand? Turns out I clearly have a lot to learn about crossing the street in NY. It seems to me that it’s every man woman and child for themselves here, and pedestrians have all the power. The populace is colour blind to the orange hand: if the roads clear, we’re going; if the cars are coming slowly, they’ll probably stop. Only if someone’s coming really fast will people stay on the safety of the pavement. Even when the green man is lit, taxis can still turn into the street you’re crossing, and don’t always cede the right of way. Basically, it’s a mixed up crazy road-crossing system*.

Bowery’s Whitehouse Hotel was described to me as being “scruffy and a bit noisy and your bed is a shelf and there are mournful semi-homeless men in reception, but if you can deal with that it's perfect.” I push the door and encounter two down-at-heel Rastafarians playing guitar and discussing the role of the artist, check one. I shuffle to the counter; the latino girl sat behind it glances up at me, then proceeds to studiously ignore me for the next five minutes while she talks in Spanish on the phone. Eventually she puts it down and wearily comes to the counter. “I have a reservation here for two nights,” I announce. She rolls her eyes, “Passport. Credit card.” I hand over the requested articles so she can make an “imprint”. As she does so I notice a sign on the counter bearing the legend: “Price may change according to customer attitude.” Hmph.

* I’m typing this up in Guatemala City, and suddenly the roads in New York seem a doddle. The “calle” the school is on is a roaring, belching dragon comprised of three lanes, the middle of which either lane can use. There are no traffic lights or crossings for several miles either side. If I don’t get shot here, I fully expect to be run over instead.

More next time...

Some notes on: My blog.

Hi everyone,

I thought I should let you all know that I've arrived safely in Guatemala City and am doing well. My Spanish is hopefully going to take place. I'll start beginners courses at the school next week as well as my teacher training and observation, with a view to actually teaching people the following week.

I'll be updating as often as I can. I actually have a whole lot handwritten, so it's just a case of digitising it all as and when I can. Hopefully we'll have internet in our house before too long and then you can all expect regular updates, you lucky things.

Hasta luego!

Travel Blog #1, Royal Tunbridge Wells > New York City

Repeat after me: “I will never again travel hungover”, “I will never again travel hungover.” I say this every time, so why exactly did I find myself rushing to the bar in the Prince Blusher in Twickenham with seconds to go until last orders, then compound my error by having another beer when I got back to the flat? The upshot is I awake at 4am to the sound of heavy rain being lashed against the window. I never sleep well after drinking, and I’ve spent considerably more time over the past week or so packing away friendships and pints of real ale than folding shirts or practicing my Spanish. The one phrase I am confident of using: “No hablo Español.”

I’ve never driven into Heathrow before, usually I sneak up underneath it on the tube. It really is an abomination, especially in the near-dawn and the pissing rain. Monolithic warehouses loom out of the darkness and hyena like pairs of streetlights prowl the car parks. I can’t see that a single thought went to making this place look anything other than a sprawling mess of concrete and steel. Never mind expanding it, they should probably bulldoze the whole thing.

The flight to Dublin is horrific. Surrounded by preening businessmen I clutch my stomach, fight wave after wave of nausea and sweat. Fortunately the flight is less than an hour and I manage not to vomit. Back on terra firma and armed with water, I begin to feel better. I steel myself for American Immigration, which is situated at the Dublin terminal rather than JFK. Maybe I was lucky, but I really didn’t find it too bad. Polite, though definitely not friendly, a few searching questions are asked, I hand over my onward tickets and struggle to stop my hands shaking long enough to give a fingerprint. Overall though, patience and understanding were shown to my shambling corpulence and I was waved through with little delay.

Strangely, after the nightmare of the previous flight, Dublin-JFK is a marvel. I feel relaxed, and only picture apocalyptic crash scenarios once or twice an hour. The highlight of the flight is passing over Greenland. Ice ringed and covered in thick snow, the rocky peaks of the mountains the only terrain not covered. I have mixed feelings on seeing a glacier snaking a slow path to the sea – it is a wondrous sight, but as the jet wash from the engine hazes the view, I realise that we may not be seeing this for much longer. Once we pass the far shore and ice field around it, I draw the blind down and sleep until we begin our descent into JFK.

Leaving Party - 93 Feet East

First thing I have to say is a massive thank you to all of you who came on Saturday night. Having been a bit panicky during the week, to have as many people as we did come along was rather overwhelming in the end. Special thanks goes to everyone who DJ'ed and made it a night of spectacular musical treats unsurpassed in recent times, or possibly ever. Also, thanks for 93 Ft East for hosting us - though if we could have our deposit back now that would be awesome. Cheers.

Some photos for you perusal:


(Above) DJ Christian, fresh from his audition for a 'The Bravery' tribute act, and (Below) "Come behind these decks and I'll propaaaah nut ya!", DJ Norton.


(Above) The joy and the disdain that Ace of Base can bring about and (Below) How cool is Roman? He's deejaying with invisible headphones, with a CD the wrong way up on the wrong decks. Ice cold baby.


(Above) I'm going to have to try really hard to make it look like I'm not just playing a CD and (Below) An-dee-jay.

I've put the whole party set on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=54138&l=e26bb&id=641825911

Err, enjoy I guess... see you all in a year or so *blubs*

Hola!

Hi,

Welcome to 'The Guat Phone', or my travel blog as it shall be more sensibly known.

I plan to detail my adventures teaching English in Guatemala over the next year or so, and anywhere else I'm traveling during that period. I'm hoping to host photos, videos and all kinds of other gubbins for anyone that's interested.

The drastically condensed back story is: having lost my job in August I decided that, given a plummeting economy and being a bit miffed with city living, I would set out to do something different, preferably a long way away. A few conversations with friends turned up a contact in Guatemala City, and here we are. I fly in just over a week's time with a little money, no Spanish whatsoever and a hastily arranged TEFL qualification. Should be interesting.

I hope you'll check back once in a while to see how I'm getting on. I have the best of intentions of keeping this regularly updated, even if I have to send blog posts in by carrier monkey. In the mean time, thanks very much for reading.