Sunday 7th July / Monday 9th July: Sunday dawned bright and early with the realisation that the lobster noodles from last night had gifted me with food poisoning. Oh poo (and I mean that literally). Luckily the bathroom on my floor had been unlocked, although the cleaner informed me it had been locked for the last two days because the toilet had flooded and they were drying it out. I still don't understand why they don't get more celebrities at that place. Having already arranged to check out today the day before, I got the situation under control with some medicine I had the foresight to purchase in England. I lugged my bags over to the main building, dropped off the keycard at reception, hailed a cab gave him the address. Unforunately he was one of the many taxi drivers here who don't speak english (he was an elderly Chinese gentleman), so I ended up shouting "58th and 8th" at him (I think he was a little deaf as well). He almost got it, but ended up dropping me at 58th and 7th. I decided not to risk trying to get him to drop me in the correct place, so I had to carry my bags the final block to the hotel. Luckily they had a toilet next to reception.
I checked in, but was told that the room wouldn't be ready for an hour or two and I should come back then. Since I didn't want to stray too far from a bathroom I got the subway down to 42nd Street and went to see "The Bourne Identity". It's very good, although I was slightly put off by the audience. At one point during the film a couple were having a full-blown screaming match at the door, and the rest had a worrying tendency to cheer and applaud during moments of extreme violence. Apparently this is normal in New York.
I returned to the hotel and was given the key to my room. If anyone's interested it's the West Park Hotel, 6 Columbus Circle, NY 10019. Tel: 212/445-0200, Fax: 212/246-3131. I'm in room 611. It's nothing amazing as hotels go, but the pleasure of having a comforable, clean room with a double bed, ensuite bathroom and air conditioning is so much greater after staying in a hostel. I also have a TV with 36 channels of drivel. I know this because I spent most of Monday lying in bed watching television, waiting for my stomach to return to normal.
Saturday, July 13, 2002
Immigration at the airport was quick and easy (so much better than certain airports I could mention - Houston). I got a taxi to the hostel, although the taxi driver seemed to have some problems understanding the address. I checked in and was told my room was in a building on the next street. They gave me a keycard and the front door combination. All seemed okay...
...until I opened the door of the room. Now some people have accused me of being a little untidy (although I feel young Mr McGrath was being a little hypocritical here), but the guy whose clothes festooned this room was obviously in another league. The room itself was small, the only two items of note being the bunk bed and the air conditioning unit, and hadn't been cleaned properly since the city was called New Amsterdam.
I went back to reception and told them the previous occupant had left all his possessions, so the receptionist grabbed a couple of bin liners. We cleared the room, which was not the most pleasant of tasks. I made sure I cleaned my hands thoroughly afterwards. The room still needed to be 'cleaned' and given fresh bedclothes, so I left my bags and went out to view the city.
I walked over a few blocks to Broadway, then stopped at a bar to have my first pint of Guinness in America. Oh dear. I found a payphone on the street and, after a couple of false goes and odd noises, managed to get my international calling card to cooperate. I called Kit, who was most excited to hear I was finally here. We agreed to meet at her apartment at 21:00, and then I called Martin. It's strange to be in the same time zone (well, almost), although my body is still on UK time.
Following Kit's instructions, I went into the subway and bought a Metro week travel pass ($17) then caught the #1 to West 42nd Street. I wandered around for a while until I found an Irish bar and risked another pint of Guinness. The barstaff were actually Irish and managed to pour it correctly, which was an improvement. I went to find Kit's apartment on West 45th Street, then popped round the corner to get something to eat. I went to a bar and ordered a cheeseburger, and was somewhat surprised when the waitress said "How do you want that?" I went with the standard medium rare, although I still couldn't finish it (10oz!).
I went to Kit's apartment at 21:00 but the doorman said she wasn't in. I asked if I could wait and he suggested outside, since it was cooler. I sat on the wall, read my book and watched the world go by. There seemed to be a lot of people walking dogs, in fact several of them were there for most of the night. I saw one girl and her pooch three or four times in a three hour period, always sitting or standing outside a different building.
After half an hour I realised Kit must have been held up at her previous meeting, so I started looking for another bar to check out. Just then my mobile rang - it was Kit. I must have just missed her. I went up to her apartment and we caught up, but by midnight I was starting to feel very tired (to me it was 05:00) so I got the M104 bus back to the hostel. They had given me some clean bedclothes (although they had forgotten the towel), but the bathroom at the end of the corridoor was locked so I used the one on the floor above. The bed was rather small for me, and I hadn't realised the mattress had a plastic cover on. This meant the bed felt rather odd, was noisy when I turned over and made me wonder what previous tenants had done to require it.
Saturday 6th July: After all that I didn't sleep too badly, and I seemed to avoid the 'wide awake at 06:00' problem I experienced last time (probably because I haven't been doing the 9 to 5 thing recently). The bathroom was still locked so I went upstairs again. It's not terribly clean (like the room), but the shower is actually quite powerful. I went over to the main building for my free breakfast - coffee and bagels with cream cheese. Not too bad, but I have a feeling it could quickly become tedious.
I had to go into town to get some bits I didn't bring from England, and I had agreed to meet Kit for brunch at 10:00. I got the M104 bus to West 66th Street because I had seen a large bookshop there last night - people who know me well will understand how I cannot feel comfortable in a city without knowing the location of at least one proper bookshop. I wanted to get one of Anthony Bourdain's novels, and I ended up chatting up to the owner. He was very interested to see my British copy of "Kitchen Confidential". The American version has a rather bland photo of the author on the front, whereas the English version has a much older photo taken when he was younger and working in a very dubious restaurant.
I walked the rest of the way to Kit's apartment, looking at the sights on the way. I saw several amusing signs and shops, some of which I took photos of. Hopefully I'll be able to post them on the web at a later date, but until then I'll keep you in suspense.
Kit and I went to a diner just round the corner (open 24 hours) and had a very nice brunch. It's not the same as a greasy spoon, but I still really like American diners. The food is usually really good and quite varied, with elements of French and Mexican cuisine.
Kit had already suggested moving out of the hostel I was in, so when we got back to her apartment I phoned a hotel she suggested and managed to convince them to give me their business rate for 15 nights. I couldn't move in that day because I needed to give the hostel at least one day's notice, so I told them I would book in on Sunday.
I spent the rest of the day pottering around doing a bit of shopping and taking photos of interesting bits of architecture, then finished off by seeing "Men In Black II" at a cinema on 42nd Street. I had signed up for a tour of jazz clubs in Greenwich village that evening from the hostel, so I went back to my room, showered and changed. I went over to the main building to tell them I was moving out the next day, in time to meet up with the jazz tour at 20:00. Unfortunately no-one else turned up (including the tour guide), so I got the bus all the way down to 12 Street (as far south as it goes). From here I walked over to Washington Square, since I read the book along time ago. Along the way I stopped at a funny little bar called "The Stoned Crow", mainly because I liked the name. The square was quite busy when I got there because a band were playing in one of the concrete circle things in the middle of the park, but they must have been doing their encore because they stopped just after I got there. Several gentlemen also tried to sell me drugs but apparently the place is crawling with undercover policemen so I declined. Actually, they were probably the ones selling the drugs.
At this point I realised I was feeling quite hungry, so I left the park and started walking west again. I soon found myself outside a modern Japanese restaurant called "Chow" which looked good, so I wandered in and obtained a table. I was lucky enough to have a waitress who managed to make reciting the specials for the day sound like an Anäis Nin story, but I eventually plumped for "Naked Lobster Noodles". Quite why they were naked I don't know, although I always thought this was normal for lobsters. Either this was some vicious attempt to get back at Beatrix Potter and A.A.Milne, or the waitress was more excitable than I thought. After a few glasses of red wine and a coffee I made my exit, but she seemed indifferent. Women can be so unkind.
After wandering west for a while I came across a bar on 12th avenue (I think) called "The Cubbyhole". Upon entrance this bar immediately stood out for three reasons:
1) There was a large variety of mobiles, such as silver fish, hanging from the ceiling.
2) There was a skinny old man (mid-sixties at a guess) at the end of the bar wearing a long brunette wig and a short white dress.
3) There was a group of drunk lesbians at the end of the bar.
Realising that this was obviously the spiritual Döppelganger of the Leprechaun (a bar in Regensburg for those who don't know), I grabbed a stool and ordered a red wine.
Unfortunately it soon dawned on me that the lesbians couldn't sing (and kept high-fiving each other) and the skinny old transvestite was still using the Gents toilet, so I made my apologies and left, amidst a cloud of mystery.
...until I opened the door of the room. Now some people have accused me of being a little untidy (although I feel young Mr McGrath was being a little hypocritical here), but the guy whose clothes festooned this room was obviously in another league. The room itself was small, the only two items of note being the bunk bed and the air conditioning unit, and hadn't been cleaned properly since the city was called New Amsterdam.
I went back to reception and told them the previous occupant had left all his possessions, so the receptionist grabbed a couple of bin liners. We cleared the room, which was not the most pleasant of tasks. I made sure I cleaned my hands thoroughly afterwards. The room still needed to be 'cleaned' and given fresh bedclothes, so I left my bags and went out to view the city.
I walked over a few blocks to Broadway, then stopped at a bar to have my first pint of Guinness in America. Oh dear. I found a payphone on the street and, after a couple of false goes and odd noises, managed to get my international calling card to cooperate. I called Kit, who was most excited to hear I was finally here. We agreed to meet at her apartment at 21:00, and then I called Martin. It's strange to be in the same time zone (well, almost), although my body is still on UK time.
Following Kit's instructions, I went into the subway and bought a Metro week travel pass ($17) then caught the #1 to West 42nd Street. I wandered around for a while until I found an Irish bar and risked another pint of Guinness. The barstaff were actually Irish and managed to pour it correctly, which was an improvement. I went to find Kit's apartment on West 45th Street, then popped round the corner to get something to eat. I went to a bar and ordered a cheeseburger, and was somewhat surprised when the waitress said "How do you want that?" I went with the standard medium rare, although I still couldn't finish it (10oz!).
I went to Kit's apartment at 21:00 but the doorman said she wasn't in. I asked if I could wait and he suggested outside, since it was cooler. I sat on the wall, read my book and watched the world go by. There seemed to be a lot of people walking dogs, in fact several of them were there for most of the night. I saw one girl and her pooch three or four times in a three hour period, always sitting or standing outside a different building.
After half an hour I realised Kit must have been held up at her previous meeting, so I started looking for another bar to check out. Just then my mobile rang - it was Kit. I must have just missed her. I went up to her apartment and we caught up, but by midnight I was starting to feel very tired (to me it was 05:00) so I got the M104 bus back to the hostel. They had given me some clean bedclothes (although they had forgotten the towel), but the bathroom at the end of the corridoor was locked so I used the one on the floor above. The bed was rather small for me, and I hadn't realised the mattress had a plastic cover on. This meant the bed felt rather odd, was noisy when I turned over and made me wonder what previous tenants had done to require it.
Saturday 6th July: After all that I didn't sleep too badly, and I seemed to avoid the 'wide awake at 06:00' problem I experienced last time (probably because I haven't been doing the 9 to 5 thing recently). The bathroom was still locked so I went upstairs again. It's not terribly clean (like the room), but the shower is actually quite powerful. I went over to the main building for my free breakfast - coffee and bagels with cream cheese. Not too bad, but I have a feeling it could quickly become tedious.
I had to go into town to get some bits I didn't bring from England, and I had agreed to meet Kit for brunch at 10:00. I got the M104 bus to West 66th Street because I had seen a large bookshop there last night - people who know me well will understand how I cannot feel comfortable in a city without knowing the location of at least one proper bookshop. I wanted to get one of Anthony Bourdain's novels, and I ended up chatting up to the owner. He was very interested to see my British copy of "Kitchen Confidential". The American version has a rather bland photo of the author on the front, whereas the English version has a much older photo taken when he was younger and working in a very dubious restaurant.
I walked the rest of the way to Kit's apartment, looking at the sights on the way. I saw several amusing signs and shops, some of which I took photos of. Hopefully I'll be able to post them on the web at a later date, but until then I'll keep you in suspense.
Kit and I went to a diner just round the corner (open 24 hours) and had a very nice brunch. It's not the same as a greasy spoon, but I still really like American diners. The food is usually really good and quite varied, with elements of French and Mexican cuisine.
Kit had already suggested moving out of the hostel I was in, so when we got back to her apartment I phoned a hotel she suggested and managed to convince them to give me their business rate for 15 nights. I couldn't move in that day because I needed to give the hostel at least one day's notice, so I told them I would book in on Sunday.
I spent the rest of the day pottering around doing a bit of shopping and taking photos of interesting bits of architecture, then finished off by seeing "Men In Black II" at a cinema on 42nd Street. I had signed up for a tour of jazz clubs in Greenwich village that evening from the hostel, so I went back to my room, showered and changed. I went over to the main building to tell them I was moving out the next day, in time to meet up with the jazz tour at 20:00. Unfortunately no-one else turned up (including the tour guide), so I got the bus all the way down to 12 Street (as far south as it goes). From here I walked over to Washington Square, since I read the book along time ago. Along the way I stopped at a funny little bar called "The Stoned Crow", mainly because I liked the name. The square was quite busy when I got there because a band were playing in one of the concrete circle things in the middle of the park, but they must have been doing their encore because they stopped just after I got there. Several gentlemen also tried to sell me drugs but apparently the place is crawling with undercover policemen so I declined. Actually, they were probably the ones selling the drugs.
At this point I realised I was feeling quite hungry, so I left the park and started walking west again. I soon found myself outside a modern Japanese restaurant called "Chow" which looked good, so I wandered in and obtained a table. I was lucky enough to have a waitress who managed to make reciting the specials for the day sound like an Anäis Nin story, but I eventually plumped for "Naked Lobster Noodles". Quite why they were naked I don't know, although I always thought this was normal for lobsters. Either this was some vicious attempt to get back at Beatrix Potter and A.A.Milne, or the waitress was more excitable than I thought. After a few glasses of red wine and a coffee I made my exit, but she seemed indifferent. Women can be so unkind.
After wandering west for a while I came across a bar on 12th avenue (I think) called "The Cubbyhole". Upon entrance this bar immediately stood out for three reasons:
1) There was a large variety of mobiles, such as silver fish, hanging from the ceiling.
2) There was a skinny old man (mid-sixties at a guess) at the end of the bar wearing a long brunette wig and a short white dress.
3) There was a group of drunk lesbians at the end of the bar.
Realising that this was obviously the spiritual Döppelganger of the Leprechaun (a bar in Regensburg for those who don't know), I grabbed a stool and ordered a red wine.
Unfortunately it soon dawned on me that the lesbians couldn't sing (and kept high-fiving each other) and the skinny old transvestite was still using the Gents toilet, so I made my apologies and left, amidst a cloud of mystery.
5/7/02 16:50: I'm about halfway across the Atlantic at the moment. Last night I stayed in a hotel in Guildford and went out for a drink with a few friends. Sarah and Richard called off at the last minute, but I saw Neale and Val. Val was especially interested in how I got my working holiday visas as she is thinking of doing the same thing in the near future. Quite a few people have asked me the same thing since I sent the email announcing my departure - it seems a lot of people think about doing something like this but never get as far as actually checking the details. If anyone's interested the sites to check are here:
Australia: http://www.australia.org.uk/welcome/html/index.html
New Zealand: http://www.nzembassy.com/
Remember, you cannot apply for the Australian visa in person, only by post.
I got to Heathrow in good time - I booked a taxi from the hotel and got to terminal 3 in good time. This was lucky, as when I reached the check-in desk and gave them my ticket I was informed I had been "randomly selected for personal screening". Hmmm. This meant I got the exciting opportunity to queue up again to have my bags put through an X-ray machine, then queue up a third time to get my boarding pass. On the up side, I was able to get the desk clerk to move me to a seat with 5" of extra leg room and no-one sitting either side, which was nice.
I pottered around the shops for a while, phoned my paternal grandmother to say goodbye and my sister to tell her that the one think I had forgotten to bring with me was a copy of my CV. Hopefully I can get someone to email a copy from my PC, which I have left at home in the hope I can get it sent on when I reach Sydney. Either that or I can rewrite the damned thing!
I made it through the security check easily enough, then had a coffee while I waited for the departure gate to be announced. I started reading "Kitchen Confidential" by Anthony Bourdain, which I bought a few days ago. When the gate was announced I walked the several miles (Heathrow seems larger every time I go there) to gate 13 (lucky I'm not superstitious), where I was personally selected (not randomly this time, then) to have all my possessions searched. This involved a new system where they wipe small plastic sheets over your shoes (which you have to remove first), mobile phone and anything else that they don't like the look of then put them into a machine which looks like a spectrographic analyser. They then search everything else, even flicking through the pages of the books in my bag - looking for razorblades or something? The security guard (female, scottish, late 20's) then asks me if I'm a chef.
"No."
"But you've done cookery?"
"Well, I did a course recently."
"And you cook as a job?"
"I might do." (I'll take pretty much any job going in Australia).
"Do you make up your own recipies?"
"Er, not really." (I don't think I can count the whisky margerine incident).
"But you do experiment?"
"Yes, of course." (Hey, I've added Tabasco to chicken flavoured noodles).
"I thought so. You look like a cook."
Her colleague was looking rather amused, and pointed out that she only thought I was a cook because of the aforementioned book in my bag she had just searched. I then pointed out that by trade I was actually a computer programmer.
"I thought you looked like a computer guy."
"So I look like a cook and a programmer? How can you tell?"
"I'm psychic."
At this point my mobile made it's presence known, cutting off my reply. As I answered the call she said "I knew your phone was going to ring."
The call turned out to be an accomodation company I had emailed a month ago about somewhere to stay in New York. Great timing, guys. The funny thing is, this is exactly the kind of person I was expecting to meet in America. Or maybe they've started recruiting psychics for airline security. What does a terrorists' aura look like?
Australia: http://www.australia.org.uk/welcome/html/index.html
New Zealand: http://www.nzembassy.com/
Remember, you cannot apply for the Australian visa in person, only by post.
I got to Heathrow in good time - I booked a taxi from the hotel and got to terminal 3 in good time. This was lucky, as when I reached the check-in desk and gave them my ticket I was informed I had been "randomly selected for personal screening". Hmmm. This meant I got the exciting opportunity to queue up again to have my bags put through an X-ray machine, then queue up a third time to get my boarding pass. On the up side, I was able to get the desk clerk to move me to a seat with 5" of extra leg room and no-one sitting either side, which was nice.
I pottered around the shops for a while, phoned my paternal grandmother to say goodbye and my sister to tell her that the one think I had forgotten to bring with me was a copy of my CV. Hopefully I can get someone to email a copy from my PC, which I have left at home in the hope I can get it sent on when I reach Sydney. Either that or I can rewrite the damned thing!
I made it through the security check easily enough, then had a coffee while I waited for the departure gate to be announced. I started reading "Kitchen Confidential" by Anthony Bourdain, which I bought a few days ago. When the gate was announced I walked the several miles (Heathrow seems larger every time I go there) to gate 13 (lucky I'm not superstitious), where I was personally selected (not randomly this time, then) to have all my possessions searched. This involved a new system where they wipe small plastic sheets over your shoes (which you have to remove first), mobile phone and anything else that they don't like the look of then put them into a machine which looks like a spectrographic analyser. They then search everything else, even flicking through the pages of the books in my bag - looking for razorblades or something? The security guard (female, scottish, late 20's) then asks me if I'm a chef.
"No."
"But you've done cookery?"
"Well, I did a course recently."
"And you cook as a job?"
"I might do." (I'll take pretty much any job going in Australia).
"Do you make up your own recipies?"
"Er, not really." (I don't think I can count the whisky margerine incident).
"But you do experiment?"
"Yes, of course." (Hey, I've added Tabasco to chicken flavoured noodles).
"I thought so. You look like a cook."
Her colleague was looking rather amused, and pointed out that she only thought I was a cook because of the aforementioned book in my bag she had just searched. I then pointed out that by trade I was actually a computer programmer.
"I thought you looked like a computer guy."
"So I look like a cook and a programmer? How can you tell?"
"I'm psychic."
At this point my mobile made it's presence known, cutting off my reply. As I answered the call she said "I knew your phone was going to ring."
The call turned out to be an accomodation company I had emailed a month ago about somewhere to stay in New York. Great timing, guys. The funny thing is, this is exactly the kind of person I was expecting to meet in America. Or maybe they've started recruiting psychics for airline security. What does a terrorists' aura look like?
Finally! I have managed to get online in New York, so I am now able post the diary entries I have been writing up to this point.
For the techies among you, I have purchased an Orinoco PCMCIA Wireless Network card for my Jornada 720, and it's working fine. I am currently sitting in Bryant Park (West 42nd St. and 6th Av.) which has a free wireless network. All the wireless networks in New York are listed here: http://www.nycwireless.net
For the techies among you, I have purchased an Orinoco PCMCIA Wireless Network card for my Jornada 720, and it's working fine. I am currently sitting in Bryant Park (West 42nd St. and 6th Av.) which has a free wireless network. All the wireless networks in New York are listed here: http://www.nycwireless.net
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