What a difference a week makes, huh? I have been back in London for exactly seven days today - inevitably, it feels like much longer & my having been in New York seems like a dream, a well-thumbed copy of 'The New Yorker' & a full memory card the only things that have managed to convince me otherwise. While it seems unreasonable to me, I suppose it's about time that I got around to writing this blog post, compiling those wonderful four days, accepting that its over, resigned to memory, & reacquaint myself with the ordinariness of everyday life, of tube strikes & washing up. While I was lucky to be able to holiday far & wide from being quite little with my Dad, it's only lately that I, frankly financially independent & of more limited means, have become more appreciative of the ability to travel to new places & experience new things. Given that this trip was also my little sister's first to the States, I was also grateful for us to be able to have these adventures together & for her to see much more outside of the little market town that she calls home.
Places, cities in particular, have always been particularly evocative for me, often storing parts of myself in street corners & recalling particular feelings in the thought of summer rain by Berliner Dom. Constructing early impressions of places from photographs or books, sometimes you're able to get a sense of the kind of relationship you might have with a city, one of intimate affection such as Paris or near constant wonder as in Rome but I found New York harder to pin down. My first visit to the city was nearly four years ago now on a sixth form politics trip - we stayed in a huge, daunting hotel just off of Times Square that I don't remember the name of, &, having to stay in groups despite those consisting of eighteen year olds, I didn't see much outside of Wall Street & the cosmetics department of 'Saks Fifth Avenue'. I, however unrealistically, had wanted to immerse myself completely in the city but found that my initial experience hadn't represented anything like an authentic picture of NYC. Returning this time, I was weary of pitching my expectations too high & simultaneously conscious of travelling with family & their multitudinous demands, especially in consideration of the New York that eleven-year-old Sofia would want to see (namely the inside of 'M&Ms World') My obsessive self-awareness paying off for once, I found myself surprised at just how different an impression I got of the city, finally falling for its blossom lined streets, the individual character of each block & the roar beneath our hotel room well into the night that contrasted so sharply with the muffled silence of the Colorado mountains from which we'd come.
The view from our hotel window on Lexington Avenue (New York is a city of windows) - Queuing for the Mecca of MoMA - Sofia & I outside 'Sarabeth's' where we ate breakfast two mornings in a row - Boating in Central Park
By way of another comparison, I was greeted with oh-so-familiar rain on the first morning of my rolling up the blind in our hotel room, still with fresh memory of bundling up my coat sleeves in the muggy, airless heat of the taxi from the airport the afternoon before. London having taught me well, Sofia & I dressed in layers & headed out for breakfast via Grand Central Station - while Paddington & St. Pancras have their own magic, nowhere have I seen such a well-preserved vision of the golden age of railway travel, ticket booths ensconced in alcoves still alight, the famous clock gleaming in the centre of the ten am bustle. I could imagine the opening of Edith Wharton's 'The House of Mirth' when the protagonist makes her way to yet another country house, so clearly, stood on those station steps. With the rain unrelenting, it was suggested that we head towards 'MoMA' which was top of my list of places that I didn't want to miss out on this time. While primarily taking an interest in the collections of art held so far away from my own Tate, I was also interested to see where one of my favourite poets, Frank O'Hara, had held a position at the front desk & as curator, for so many years. Despite the huge crowds seeking shelter from the rain & my having to admit it would take a week to see everything under their roof, I was still held in a state of awe for the three hours we were there, especially enjoying the Pollock, Rothko & Warhol that was quite a surreal experience to see.
Grudgingly acquiescing to everyone else's wanting to wander Fifth Avenue for the rest of the afternoon, I'll instead turn to the next day & another early start & indulgent breakfast at the beautiful 'Sarabeths' on Central Park South - pancakes with strawberries, coffee & orange juice one morning, their thick sliced & maple syrup soaked French toast the next. Another morning of just a single degree, it was through a leafy Central Park that we decided to wander to warm up, stopping alongside the famous boating pond for the two children to try their hand at catching the wind to sail their own vessels around the water's edge. As is my habit when travelling to any new place, I wanted to just walk & walk & my Dad duly accompanied me on walking almost the length of Manhattan, from Central Park to Battery Park, that afternoon. Quite amazing in her endless supply of energy & enthusiasm, my eleven year old sister also joined us as we walked through neighbourhood after neighbourhood, down Broadway, past the Flatiron Building, through the Washington Square, Greenwich Village, Tribeca, Wall Street & to Lady Liberty in time for the sun to be setting at seven o'clock.
Pops & I by the boating pond - The Flatiron Building - Sat by this indie cinema eating sushi on Wednesday afternoon - Sofia up on the high line
Thursday was our last full day before making our way home on Friday evening so the five of us resolved to, after aforementioned breakfast, walk the high line - a disused railway line turned into a walkway/garden that runs above the city from the bottom of Hell's Kitchen all the way to the Meatpacking District. Beret pulled down firmly over my ears, we walked the length of it in the whipping wind, me stopping at every quintessentially New York junction to take a photograph of the combination of canary cabs, wide pedestrian crossings & fire escapes that zigzagged across every building. Reaching the other side & concluding that the high line is a brilliant bit of repurposing that had really rejuvenated an otherwise dispirited part of the city, we headed to a cafe with a pretty tiled floor & plenty of dogs strolling by, for coffee & the chance to get the feeling back in our hands. From there, we wandered back through my favourite district, the West Village, & its streets of pretty town houses polka-dotted with coffee shops & bakeries, art galleries & vintage shops, all the while, me imagining returning with my boyfriend & maybe never coming back. Although I had the address scribbled in the back of my notebook, it was purely by chance that I stumbled upon the 'Strand Bookshop' on Broadway & East 12th Street, & we spent a blissful two hours on its three floors, my mostly being fascinated at the plethora of different US covers (#booksellerbehaviour) & trying to rationalise 'investing' in new editions of books that I already owned. Audibly impressed at my own self-restraint, I eventually surfaced with just one book, 'My Struggle: Book 1' by Karl Ove Knaussgaard, which I have wanted for a while & whose US cover is infinitely better than that in the UK. I've not been able to start it yet but I'm intrigued by the sheer amount of critical acclaim the series has already received (especially with the third volume of six only just translated) & at the audacity of a man writing something of such length & flagrant self-interest in 2014. I'll report back.
Just two of many beautiful views from the high line - Warming up with rosy cheeks in a cafe on Hudson - The John Lennon memorial in Central Park, just opposite where he was shot
That Thursday evening was spent sadly packing up our suitcases back at the hotel but in anticipation of making the most of our last morning in New York. Breakfasting early in the hotel, I left my Dad & Stepmum behind, swimming in the dirty laundry of their own hotel room, & took Sofia & Henry to 'Dylan's Candy Bar' on Third Avenue to spend the last of their dollars on jelly beans. Learning the lessons of earlier days, I suggested that we part ways as a group for the afternoon, Jo heading to Bloomingdales, Henry & my dad to a model aeroplane shop they'd spotted earlier, & Sofia & I to 'The Dakota' hotel alongside Central Park where John Lennon was shot. A whole lot of blocks later, we arrived at the towering building, built like a medieval castle, where no semblance of the event really remained - I figured that they didn't like to attract attention to having hosted the murder of a Beatle. Still, it was amazing to have seen where such a momentous thing had happened & my little sister insisted that I tell the story of it over & over. Paying a visit to the 'Strawberry Fields' memorial in the park opposite the hotel, avoiding the Spanish tourists posing with roses by its mosaic, I felt glad to have made the time to just sit in the sunshine before our final, farewell lunch up on the Upper West Side.
Watching the sun sink behind the Manhattan skyline as our taxi speeded towards JFK that evening, I felt as if I had finally gotten a sense of this impossible, beautiful city & that I still had so much to discover of its streets.
Thanks for having me, NYC.
Magnolia Bakery rules, OK
(As I fall back into a semblance of routine, I'll be back here more often & I'm already planning another literary lately of sorts. For now, & in consideration of the number of cupcakes I've eaten in the last two weeks, I'm going to make some late night pasta puttanesca & shake off the last of this jetlag.
Speak soon - O.)
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