An Englishman In New York

(And Other Locations) – Part 1

My first time trip to the US was in May of 2001 with my friend Chris.

There wasn’t much of a plan.

We had three weeks, with the first five nights accommodations booked in New York. After which we would collect a car, and see where we ended up.

The thought of navigating our way out of New York felt too intimidating. So, we looked at a map, decided that Boston wasn’t far, and arranged to collect the car there.

Landing at JFK, we took a train then the subway into Manhattan.

Leeds was somewhat lacking in them, so yeah, it was quite a sight to behold.

Having beheld it for a suitable length of time, we still had to get to the hotel.

It was just the other side of Central Park, so it shouldn’t take long. That was Chris’s opinion. Misplaced confidence was one of his character traits.

Only… the other side of the park meant 51 blocks. It was hot, we had bulky backpacks and a tent – the real budget option for once we were on the open road. We adopted the characteristics of a whingeing kid (me) and the dad who won’t admit he’s wrong (him).

My pestering to get a taxi and the conditions eventually won out. We were never gonna make it on foot.

I’d heard the stereotype that New Yorkers have for rudeness. Mostly we found the opposite.

But there were a couple of times we encountered it.

That taxi ride being the first. I gave the driver the name of the hotel and 110th Street. He wanted the exact address before we set off. I told him it overlooked Central Park, so couldn’t we just drive along 110th until we spotted it? No, we could not. I had to hunt through my backpack for a printout with the full address.

Having reached our destination, the corner of 110th and Malcolm X Boulevard as it turned out, we paid the driver, making sure to include a tip.

Tipping culture isn’t as pronounced here, its still expected but not as formalised as it appears to be in the US. Our friendly ray of sunshine didn’t say a word. He just stood there with his hand out indicating that our generosity was insufficient, and he wanted more.

Into the hotel then. It was basic, our room had two single beds, a fridge and a chair. Like I said, we were on a budget. Homey it was not, but it did have a view of the park, and we wouldn’t be spending much time in there.

I knew the Bobby Womack song, Across 110th Street. I’d heard Bobby sing that “once you crossed that street it was a hell of a tester, where pushers won’t let the junkie go free.” While that was the 70s, from our side of the pond Harlem still had a reputation. Which seemed to be backed up on checking in, as we were instructed that during the day all was fine – but if we were coming back after dark, we were not to go wandering the surrounding area and should get a taxi direct to the door.

We headed out into the city. Being young and British, and at a time when oblivion drinking was a national pastime, we went on a bar crawl. With no idea where we were, we finished the night in a bar with a covers band playing until 2AM.

The first taxi we tried to hail declined to take us when we said “110th Street.” The second was more than happy, a friendly talkative Greek gentleman who couldn’t have been anymore different from our first driver. He dropped us off in front of the hotel (and was more than happy with our tip. Maybe the alcohol helped loosen our wallets). 

By this point with the time difference we’d been awake for 24 hours and hadn’t eaten since somewhere over the Atlantic many hours before. Having been rendered invincible and immune to common sense through alcohol. we decided we needed to find food. It didn’t take long to spot the inviting bright lights of Mama’s Fried Chicken. It wasn’t so inviting on the inside. The metal grille covering the counter made it look like the staff were in a maximum security prison.

Despite now being around 2:30am and midweek it was packed in there and most of them looked like teenagers. Its fair to say we didn’t fit in.

Not for the last time, everyone ignored us.

And as there weren’t any free tables we took our fried chicken back to the hotel. Honestly, I’ve no idea how much the warning from hotel reception was rooted in reality, but Harlem seemed fine when we took a walk round in the day.

The locals were friendly enough as evidenced when we walked towards three huge guys walking abreast along the sidewalk. They each had on puffer jackets that exaggerated their girth, it was a wide sidewalk but they filled it completely. As we moved out of their way to let them pass feeling somewhat intimidated, one broke into a big smile and in a booming voice that startled the entire bird population of Central Park asked “How you guys doing today?” I’m not used to random strangers on the street asking about my wellbeing. “Good” we replied with British reserve. “Good? Well that’s just great” he informed us and carried on.

Looking on Google maps and street view, it seems to have been gentrified somewhat around there. Apart from the hotel which has downgraded to a homeless shelter. Over 20 years on and Mama’s is still there for all your 2:30AM drunken fast-food needs.

If the taxi driver adhered to a commendable level of rudeness a waiter, we had piled it on.

Sunday morning we had breakfast at a diner near the Metropolitan Museum of Art. There was only us and an elderly couple in there. I’d say the waiter was brusque with us but we made up our minds and ordered quickly. The old couple weren’t so quick and they had questions. Some for him, and some between themselves.

The waiter wasn’t standing for any of their dithering and was monumentally rude to them, telling them to sort themselves out and stop wasting his time – words to that effect anyway but with a lot more petulance. It was a masterclass in attitude. The old dears seemed totally oblivious to it. No idea if they were locals and this was a Sunday morning routine that they played out every week or they were still so smitten with each other that the steam emitting from the waiters head didn’t register.

We decided that we’d intercede on their behalf. Not by actually saying anything – there’s no way we were confronting our seething server. Once we’d finished up and got the bill, we did the British thing of avoiding a confrontation, waiting until he’d gone through to the kitchen we left the exact money on the table with No Tip. That showed him to develop some manners.

Or probably sent him to new heights of apoplexy for whoever was unlucky enough to walk through the door next.

There were helpful characters as well.

Riding the subway one evening, we realised that we were on the wrong train. The man next to us overheard and gave us the benefit of his knowledge. He was almost the double of Woody Allen, same look, same physical and vocal mannerisms. I’m 99% sure it wasn’t actual Woody, but he could have passed for “brother of Woody.”

He explained that to go downtown, we had to go back uptown to change for downtown. He explained this in an expressive tone that for all his help, suggested deep exasperation with this uptown / downtown contradiction.

NY completed: it was on to Boston.

We’d seen the movies. We knew that the place to get a train was Grand Central Station. Walked up to ticket booth and asked for a one way ticket to Boston.

Luckily the kids were elementary school age and didn’t get anymore fiesty than shouting “Fie!” a lot, to express their disgust at us.

Time then to get behind the wheel and hit the open road. I was 25 years old and hadn’t driven since I passed my test at 18. Chris was the experienced driver. But it was cheaper to name only one driver, and a credit card was required to secure the booking (which he didn’t have.)

Financial acumen not being a strong point of his, I was the designated driver. I wouldn’t say I was thrilled at the prospect but I’d give it a go. Having never driven an automatic either I took an hour long lesson the week before we travelled. What more preparation could I need?

First though, the rental place had bad news.

I’ve no idea if a Mustang is actually a decent car but it sounded fantastic and instantly planted an image in our heads of driving along with the top down, wind in our hair (I still had some at this point), attracting admiring looks as we swept past swooning women.

The dream wrecking jobsworth took one look at our backpacks and declared that we’d be taking the Windstar.

I was prepared to leave some clothes to pick up on our way back and stuff that backpack in the trunk any which way. But no, we would be setting off in comfort, not speed.

I got behind the wheel, heart pounding and foot shaking on the accelerator. I made it out of the garage and onto the street. By luck rather than planning it was only a few hundred metres in a straight line from the rental centre onto the highway out of Boston.

Not straight enough though…

(to be continued…)

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