1.06.07 - Hello New York!

Sometimes in life you can find yourself in a mood where you will quite happily talk to an old biddy about the state pension and the expense of heating one's home with gas, but on the odd occasion one does feel quite anti-social. Clearly I was in one of those moods on the second leg of my journey. After eighteen hours on flight SA205 to New York via Dakar I stood up to take my backpack out of the overhead locker and it occurred to me that I had not spoken one word to the lady who was in the seat next to me. We had been carefully avoiding intruding on each other's limited space, moved out of the way to allow access to the aisle when nature called and even had meals and drinks together! What is the world coming to? As if to make up for it we chatted all the way to the immigration control hall... where immigration controlled us.

Convinced. I was certain that this time my bag was not going to arrive.
Unsurprised. I was unsurprised when my bag did not tumble onto the conveyor belt.
Amused. I was amused that I my prediction was correct.
Relieved! Yes the bag did show up!

Prepared for all of the hustle and bustle of JFK airport I strutted (rather awkwardly given the weight of my bag) into the arrivals lounge to be greeted by silence and a complete lack of athmosphere. I was quite disappointed and told the girl at the cafe that they needed some music. Perhaps a spot of Salt'n'Pepa or a snippet of Run DMC would jazz things up a little? A cluster of over-excitable kids decked out in basketball shirts, 'pumps' and gold chains having a dance off would tell me I had arrived in The Big Apple. Instead I had to listen to another traveller's experience of cutting a goat head in half in Morrocco as I drank my coffee.

By 11 o'clock in the morning I had off-loaded my bag in my room at the Thirty Thirty Hotel on East 30th Street, showered and changed and thrown myself out into the street despite having had little sleep. Having made my way south to Union Square I purchased a guide to the city and a Time Out magazine and sat down at a table outside the coffee bar for some lunch. The day is beautiful with the temperature hitting the eighties and the blue sky setting off the skyscrapers beautifully. Concrete, chrome, stone and glass is stacked up into the air all around us as millions of people march through the streets and get on with their days work high above the ground.

Mr Paul Reitz is a great friend of mine who I met on holiday in Mykonos about seven years ago. The nights on this Greek island were always drunken and debaucherous but thus an absolute ball. Paul, born and raised in Oklahoma, lives in Chelsea in the hub of Manhattan and has opened his arms in generous spirit to invite me to stay in his apartment for the main part of my time in New York. My first few days will be spent in a hotel to give Paul time to rest his leg after a rather painful injection in his knee and then I will gratefully accept his offer! I use the term rest loosely because it seems that Paul's idea of rest involves going out on the tiles. That is one of many things I have in common with this New York immigrant!

So this is the part I love. After a day of walking through the streets and checking out the shops and the sights, and having agreed to meet up in the evening for a meal, I headed back towards my hotel. Paul and I had agreed to speak at six o'clock to make our arrangements so at six o'clock I plucked my telephone from my pocket as a rickshaw ambled down the street towards me. "Edward?! Oh my God, Edward!" I hear shrieked out in disbelief! And the voice is Paul's! And the passenger on the rickshaw is Paul! What are the chances of us bumping into each other in such a fashion? With a mixture of bafflement, amusement and JOY we embraced and made our plans.

Sitting outside The Rocking Horse restaurant on 8th Avenue Paul and I caught up over some food and a couple of powerful and tangy margueritas. Before I knew it Mr Reitz had pointed me in the direction of a bar called the Phoenix in the East Villiage. Without hesitation I bid Paul farewell and walked to the bar, only to be turned away as I had no ID on my person. AH! Now those of you who know me well will appreciate that once I have made my mind up I will not back down so easily, so after a good walk to and back from my hotel to colect my ID I was allowed into the bar.

And what a great night I had! With a vodka and coke down the hatch I found myself surrounded by people, so much so that I felt like a celebrity. This is what I have been missing in London! Creative types filled the space in this low key, grungy haunt.... I met a rather uninspiring scriptwriter, a highly successful art dealer from Columbia, an opera writer and a tap dancer! With an swollen address book in my mobile phone and three offers to show me around the town I decided it was time to head home.

So it is true after all.... the Yanks love the Brits!