Forgetting New York

As we tumbled clothes into rucksacks and somehow caught the late night Saturday plane arriving in New York early Sunday morning I fatally thought my ration of clothes and toothpaste – stuff for 5 day’s would see me through our 3 days / 4 nights in Manhattan. However, July and Augusts combination of heat and humidity means even when it’s dry in New York you’re wet, drenched in your own perspiration and the sweat of other New Yorkers as they squelch past, on their way to work…

An early start Monday – we’re still running by London time, so a 6am surface, for an 8.30am departure is now routine – and it’s a walk to the subway on 8th Avenue and 34th West. If the address makes absolutely no sense join the club. Despite Rach’ and I explaining to each other again and again the genius of the New York grid map system, (think vertical avenues and numbered streets) we spent most of our day setting off in the wrong direction, arriving at a mistaken destination, and then looking perplexed, pouring over a once pristine map borrowed from Katherine. So we made it to Greenwich Village, with its tree-lined avenues, densely packed rows of 19th century housing, and the occasional family town house. We passed 7th Avenue and 11th Street and a cascading mix of coloured ceramic tiles attached to fencing, a moving memorial to those lost and missing in the Twin Towers. We took photos and spark a potted history of Bush, 9/11 and American foreign policy as we ambled the sidewalk. Eventually (recommended by a passing local) we stumble into Morandi on Waverly Place and a posh Italian breakfast – a sort of beautiful, rustic charm, a perfect boiled egg and cheese and garlic soldiers all sculptured and placed – it didn’t fill me up.

If Sunday was Harlem and Central Park, Monday would take us through Downtown and back out through Upper East Side. We spin down and up the Subway, and while on the platform Jess captures a stunning image (on our new Canon Digital SLR camera) of a Lone Commuter, standing isolated on the platform opposite, in the photo trapped between carriages as a train blurs past. We eventually reach the Staten Island Ferry terminal and catch the ferry there and back, imagining that first glimpse of America and Liberty (smaller than you think) after a much longer ocean voyage. We took pictures. A bite to eat and a detour via the National Museum of the American Indian (tip – do the main entrance not the side door…) then the Financial District, Ground Zero, Wall Street, and impossibly tall buildings of concrete, brick, terracotta and glass. Whether you’ve visited NYC or not, its a memory, a fixed point in your head – tucked away in TV clips, movies, photo’s and pictures. So, places like Wall Street and Ground Zero ignite memories and we found ourselves retelling stories – from Starsky and Hutch to mysterious Jumpers and the horror of September 11th.

On route we canter through China Town’s jammed streets and detour off into the over crowded food markets. It’s a mix of zoo and macabre torture house, with the crates of live king prawn, lobster, crabs, and in a dark pool of water at the bottom of a large bucket, eyes staring up, blinking – the giant frogs. Visibly shocked Jess’, Millie and Eve began to plan escapes, but it feels hopeless, the frogs uninterested and oblivious to it all, unconvinced by these young liberators.

From Staten Island we walked a couple of miles in all, navigating umpteen blocks in the sweltering heat. Rach’ in her spotty New York dress, Jess’ into a stride – not quite believing we’re in America, Millie snapping photos, and Eve negotiating another ‘go on your soldiers’ (shoulder ride). Water is pouring off us, my Converse are falling apart, blisters are popping and the inside leg is raw, chaffing badly. On the brink of giving up we finally reached the Tenement Museum. The entrance includes a little shop so the young ones revive and disappear amongst the piles of stuff. We watched a video and did the Fourth floor tour – the Moore Family – a heartrending story of Irish immigration, swill, milk, dodgy Democrats, Irish superstition and Catholicism.

If you visit New York you must clock the jaw-dropping Strand Bookshop – 18 miles of bookshelves, frankly it’s a day out all on its own. We lingered at the Strand on our journey home. Then, drenched in the humid air, (am now all blistered and chaffed to bits, walking like its been 30 years on a saddle...) we reach Chelsea (passing that Hotel Dylan Thomas stayed in) and disaster strikes.

Ask Jess’ and she’ll tell you it was all an accident. Having already borrowed the new camera and familiarizing herself with this brilliant bit of kit, she pressed a button to reformat the memory disk. In a moment everything is gone. Images from Hackney to Harlem documenting detail right through to this dark, damp moment – all deleted in less than a second. The impact is impossible. Jess is gutted. I’m appalled. I’m furious. I’m summarizing… I’m missing out detail. Our storm rages through the subway as we reach the hotel, where calm eventually descends.

Someone wrote that if during an event you focus all the time on taking video and photo’s, then eventually your memory just recalls the images of video and photo’s. Thankfully only two days of stunning unique moments were lost. And even now we have the memories – of brilliant moments and shared stories. Maybe – just maybe (I keep telling myself – half disbelieving) our memories of those two days in New York will be more resilient for it, in part sustained by one moment we won’t forget.

More to follow – we’re liking this – we’re looking at updating an occasional blog page.