I was just here, feeling lucky, and I’m here again, ready to be thrown out into the freedom of the city, in time to overdo it until it’s time to come home again. First there’s the small matter of getting into the country and then into the city. I ran off the plane straight into the full stop of a non-moving immigration queue. It took 90 minutes in a hot, low-ceilinged room and was as loveless a welcome as we reserve for people who want to come into the UK. It passed, but it drained my aims for an evening of expansive exploring in upper Manhattan and the Bronx. This would have to wait. Instead I paced the streets around the hotel, had a beer, ate something I can’t remember that I think was a typically vast, welcome to America sandwich, and thought about tomorrow’s early start.
Before dawn, or just around it, I hopped on a couple of subway trains north, slightly panicky in my decision-making and in a pre-office headspace, itinerant and pacing. The subway was hot and surprisingly well-used at this hour, though passengers had thinned out by the time I reached the former Polo Grounds site and then through Washington Heights, closed doors and quiet in the early morning. The houses were beautiful and there was a sense of elevation and space. I had no idea who lives here. Manhattan is narrow at this point and rivers felt close by. I had enough done in my bag to show whatever face I felt the need to to colleagues for the day.
That evening I managed to escape again, this time to and from Grand Central Station, rattling uptown through Harlem, twice in a day, to a place that could be called anywhere and is called Fordham, not somewhere I’m especially interested in but that formed the basis of the outing to leave Grand Central and then return again. Both start and finish of the journey were strange and spectacular. The underground platforms and tracks formed a labyrinth of ramps, sidings, dirty iron columns and other indistinguishable things. Was that a dirt and darkness-covered glimpse an ancient railway carriage, or something else? Who was down here with me? And then suddenly through a narthex doorway back into the main body of the station, walking straight out of the vast concourse but turning round each time one last time. Each time might be the last time, so I took one more look. Then one more. You never know.
On Wednesday morning I became more of a regular member of the human race and met colleagues at 6am outside their hotel. Immediately the pace slowed, other people need tickets, need a coffee here and there, want to stop and look at things, are fun and good company. But we got over to Brooklyn Heights before 7am, to that wonderful promenade, then across the Brooklyn Bridge in the windy and cold early air. I was cold, but it was a good morning and in particular I felt good at helping other people, though I’m not sure how much they needed it.
Wednesday evening, team outing, a place called Bedford Stuyvesant in Brooklyn but could be anywhere. I liked it. The best bit was the rattling subway over the Manhattan Bridge with Patrick, a here-i-am feeling with the evening sun shining off the East River and the skyscrapers to the south. The train was noisy and smelt. We emerged onto Atlantic Avenue and walked for miles, another area of the city that’s full of people and sound and makes you feel like New York is endless. The night ended with a walk home along Broadway, a walking cliche, listening to Television. I’m not normally awake at night in New York and enjoyed it a lot.
5am Thursday and home time later that day. I was without a major destination so decided to walk downtown to the World Trade Center, a walk of about two and half miles not counting diversions. I spoke to several people on this trip about 9/11 – the taxi driver who had a close escape and several colleagues, and knew there was a coffee stop and some historic buildings to look at from the outside. Everything’s always closed at this time so interesting buildings are good things to aim for. It was cold again, the sunshine not really breaking through. At the memorial I watched as three fire trucks came in and unloaded with firefighters in full gear. They didn’t stick around longer than to be a ghost of that day.
After work – nothing to say about the strange silence of this day, other than that it reminded me of the last days of 240 Blackfriars and I didn’t like it – I ended up aimless, before heading to the airport, a sketchy and unhappy journey of wrong turns ending at the tidal marshes by JFK. So distant and detached, but served by very regular subway trains, I can only imagine myself pacing for a few minutes around Broad Channel, or Far Rockaway, then retreating to fight through the airport. Time was already becoming confusing, it was time to go home. 30,000 steps a day or something. Or something else.
Tom Hall: travel, London, other things 