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...