On Saturday, 20th May, at around 12.30pm local time, I arrived in John F. Kennedy Airport, New York, circumvented some curious customs officials and began a three month journey across the United States. From New York I would be heading north to Vermont, south to Texas, up along the Pacific west coast, across to South Dakota and cowboy country, the mid west and the great corn fields and home again in mid August, just in time for tea.
Along the way I would be spending intermittent weeks working as a reporter at various newspapers in small town America. My first in Randolph, Vermont – a town with a population of just under 5,000, in a state of which around 80% is forest.
On arrival in Manhattan, via the sprawling suburban borough of Queens, it was raining and is it would remain for most of the remaining week, on the cool side.
I continually braved a summer get-up in the insistence that it was America in May and the sun would burst around the corner at any minute. When it did I was usually inside marveling at a great attraction, or stumbling through an intimidating food order in one of New York’s countless and varied delicatessens.
Ironically the most memorable diner I visited was arguably the most untypical of Manhattan. On Thursday, after a champion effort exploring the wonderful Museum of Natural History, I rewarded myself with a pilgrimage to Tom’s Restaurant on Broadway, due to my fondness for the sitcom ‘Seinfeld’ in which it features heavily. With a shameless embrace of Americana, I ordered a cheeseburger, cherry pie with whipped cream and a glass of root beer and it did more than enough to recharge those weary limbs. Tom’s is as basic and unassuming as it comes in Manhattan. In fact that very week a review in ‘The Onion’, the satire paper, alluded to the fact that rather than courting its potential celebrity, the restaurant remains a staple of local college students looking for some cheap nutrition after a hard day of study or a night on the town.
As I walked through and alongside Central Park, the first thing that struck me on my first full day was New York’s love of dogs and the particular types of canines that invade the famous green space before the start of the working day.
In urban Britain, the fashion tends towards ‘hard’, mean looking mutts. In Manhattan, often seen as the front-runner in the world of fashion, the consensus seems to be the smaller and the sillier the better. Wealthy residents seem to be outdoing themselves in search of the tiniest and most feeble living companions. As aloof and sophisticated as their owners, they looked on with a quiet bemusement as an inane grin spread across my face as I clapped eyes on each one.
Having watched the European Cup Final in an Irish bar among a throng of enthusiastic ‘soccer’ fans, I headed for the garish wonderment of Times Square. I had picked up a map in the Irish bar, which included a list of the best Irish bars in the city. It was the first free and compact map I had come across and the bars were just an incidental distraction. That’s my excuse anyway.
Actually I had been keen to ‘taste the ham’ pretty much as I’d soon as I’d landed. Back home I tend to avoid Irish bars like the potato famine but in New York I felt an intrinsic need to tap into my Irish ancestry. The finest gin joints in all the world would be by-passed for any hostelry displaying a neon shamrock or promoting British delights such as Newcastle Brown Ale (it’s everywhere in New York).
In Times Square I was coaxed into the HA! Comedy Club. I parted with the $7 entrance fee partly in the hope of seeing the next great talent to come out of the big apple but mostly because I wanted to get out of the persistent rain. The waitress escorted me to a table right in front of the stage and I was experienced enough to know that this would be asking for trouble.
It was still relatively early in the evening and the club made for a rather sorry sight. If it hadn’t been for a congregation of already rather rowdy sailors there would have been only a smattering of tourists to lap up the blue humour. It hardly felt like I was witness to a cultural revelation.
The headliner, a Puerto Rican comic who had apparently featured on ‘The Tonight Show’, based his act around the origins of his audience members, none of whom were from New York. His ‘English’ jokes, which he eagerly wheeled out, were drawn from our unfortunate double meaning of words, well spoken tramps in Leicester Square and the two finger salute. It gave me a laugh although I’m not sure how much of that was nervous energy built up hoping I would be left in anonymity to plot a quick escape.
Between ambling through the famous sites, I took in a journey on the Staten Island ferry, a fantastic free excursion that journey’s past the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island and offers travelers an ideal vista of Manhattan, Brooklyn, New Jersey and beyond. The island itself offers little to get excited about.
There must be countless tourists who disembark across the other side of Upper New York Bay in the hope of beating the tourist trail, only to return to the St. George Ferry Terminal in defeat.
The weather provided a pleasant walk along the boardwalk but the surroundings couldn’t really be described as picturesque.
As soon as you arrive, every sloping path or towering wall seems to exist to prevent you from entering the main body of the island. If there are attractions further ashore they are well hidden and kept in the modest clutches of a failing tourism committee.
With so many delights to tempt me back to Manhattan, its poorer cousin came a distant second.
I left New York from Penn Station, the busiest transport facility in North America. Despite all its glory, it was somewhat of a relief to be leaving New York for calmer climes. Everything in New York seemed to be a rush, with competition for space at every turn. I had visions of sitting in blissful isolation in the train up to Vermont as I gazed out onto the rolling greenery. As it was, the train, perhaps due to the Memorial Day public holiday, was at full capacity and the jostle from A to B continued apace.
As we progressed out of the city, I was offered an impressive view of the Lego block – like Manhattan skyline, displayed in greater proximity and comfort than the Staten Island Ferry. The instantly recognisable scene boosted my spirits for the travels ahead and the eight and a half hour progression north.
The train trundled past the open side of the local baseball stadium in Bridgeport Connecticut to showcase an ongoing game before eventually making its way to Vermont, my fourth state of the day and surely the greenest place on earth.
Sure enough, this charming place would offer a significant contrast to the city that never sleeps.
Along the way I would be spending intermittent weeks working as a reporter at various newspapers in small town America. My first in Randolph, Vermont – a town with a population of just under 5,000, in a state of which around 80% is forest.
On arrival in Manhattan, via the sprawling suburban borough of Queens, it was raining and is it would remain for most of the remaining week, on the cool side.
I continually braved a summer get-up in the insistence that it was America in May and the sun would burst around the corner at any minute. When it did I was usually inside marveling at a great attraction, or stumbling through an intimidating food order in one of New York’s countless and varied delicatessens.
Ironically the most memorable diner I visited was arguably the most untypical of Manhattan. On Thursday, after a champion effort exploring the wonderful Museum of Natural History, I rewarded myself with a pilgrimage to Tom’s Restaurant on Broadway, due to my fondness for the sitcom ‘Seinfeld’ in which it features heavily. With a shameless embrace of Americana, I ordered a cheeseburger, cherry pie with whipped cream and a glass of root beer and it did more than enough to recharge those weary limbs. Tom’s is as basic and unassuming as it comes in Manhattan. In fact that very week a review in ‘The Onion’, the satire paper, alluded to the fact that rather than courting its potential celebrity, the restaurant remains a staple of local college students looking for some cheap nutrition after a hard day of study or a night on the town.
As I walked through and alongside Central Park, the first thing that struck me on my first full day was New York’s love of dogs and the particular types of canines that invade the famous green space before the start of the working day.
In urban Britain, the fashion tends towards ‘hard’, mean looking mutts. In Manhattan, often seen as the front-runner in the world of fashion, the consensus seems to be the smaller and the sillier the better. Wealthy residents seem to be outdoing themselves in search of the tiniest and most feeble living companions. As aloof and sophisticated as their owners, they looked on with a quiet bemusement as an inane grin spread across my face as I clapped eyes on each one.
Having watched the European Cup Final in an Irish bar among a throng of enthusiastic ‘soccer’ fans, I headed for the garish wonderment of Times Square. I had picked up a map in the Irish bar, which included a list of the best Irish bars in the city. It was the first free and compact map I had come across and the bars were just an incidental distraction. That’s my excuse anyway.
Actually I had been keen to ‘taste the ham’ pretty much as I’d soon as I’d landed. Back home I tend to avoid Irish bars like the potato famine but in New York I felt an intrinsic need to tap into my Irish ancestry. The finest gin joints in all the world would be by-passed for any hostelry displaying a neon shamrock or promoting British delights such as Newcastle Brown Ale (it’s everywhere in New York).
In Times Square I was coaxed into the HA! Comedy Club. I parted with the $7 entrance fee partly in the hope of seeing the next great talent to come out of the big apple but mostly because I wanted to get out of the persistent rain. The waitress escorted me to a table right in front of the stage and I was experienced enough to know that this would be asking for trouble.
It was still relatively early in the evening and the club made for a rather sorry sight. If it hadn’t been for a congregation of already rather rowdy sailors there would have been only a smattering of tourists to lap up the blue humour. It hardly felt like I was witness to a cultural revelation.
The headliner, a Puerto Rican comic who had apparently featured on ‘The Tonight Show’, based his act around the origins of his audience members, none of whom were from New York. His ‘English’ jokes, which he eagerly wheeled out, were drawn from our unfortunate double meaning of words, well spoken tramps in Leicester Square and the two finger salute. It gave me a laugh although I’m not sure how much of that was nervous energy built up hoping I would be left in anonymity to plot a quick escape.
Between ambling through the famous sites, I took in a journey on the Staten Island ferry, a fantastic free excursion that journey’s past the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island and offers travelers an ideal vista of Manhattan, Brooklyn, New Jersey and beyond. The island itself offers little to get excited about.
There must be countless tourists who disembark across the other side of Upper New York Bay in the hope of beating the tourist trail, only to return to the St. George Ferry Terminal in defeat.
The weather provided a pleasant walk along the boardwalk but the surroundings couldn’t really be described as picturesque.
As soon as you arrive, every sloping path or towering wall seems to exist to prevent you from entering the main body of the island. If there are attractions further ashore they are well hidden and kept in the modest clutches of a failing tourism committee.
With so many delights to tempt me back to Manhattan, its poorer cousin came a distant second.
I left New York from Penn Station, the busiest transport facility in North America. Despite all its glory, it was somewhat of a relief to be leaving New York for calmer climes. Everything in New York seemed to be a rush, with competition for space at every turn. I had visions of sitting in blissful isolation in the train up to Vermont as I gazed out onto the rolling greenery. As it was, the train, perhaps due to the Memorial Day public holiday, was at full capacity and the jostle from A to B continued apace.
As we progressed out of the city, I was offered an impressive view of the Lego block – like Manhattan skyline, displayed in greater proximity and comfort than the Staten Island Ferry. The instantly recognisable scene boosted my spirits for the travels ahead and the eight and a half hour progression north.
The train trundled past the open side of the local baseball stadium in Bridgeport Connecticut to showcase an ongoing game before eventually making its way to Vermont, my fourth state of the day and surely the greenest place on earth.
Sure enough, this charming place would offer a significant contrast to the city that never sleeps.
2 comments:
I enjoyed reading your article, brings back memories from years ago,well done GOOD LUCK ON YOUR TRAVELS TAKE CARE MARION
i love you in a way
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