New York was everything I had hoped it would be. I loved every minute of it. It didn’t feel overwhelming or in the least bit strange – it simply felt familiar, a bit like stepping out onto a movie set. All those iconic images – yellow taxis, steaming drains, retro school buses, Tiffany’s, places for brunch, and so on. I had expected it to be a frenetic and manic city, not dissimilar to Hong Kong, but it felt a lot softer than that. Perhaps that is the legacy of 9/11 or perhaps it is because the dollar is weak.
It is not easy to get under the skin of a place in two days – we failed to spend any quality time talking to Americans about life – what they thought about Tony Blair’s resignation, Iraq, global warming, shoes. So instead, we went shopping. Had there been an Olympic category for Extreme Shopping, we would have won a medal. We shopped ourselves out – at two for the price of one, we had no option. It was a carefully orchestrated affair. We even cut all the labels off and posted back the receipts in case we got caught going through customs on the way back. We looked ridiculous on the return journey – the departure lounge was full of cool people wearing linen shorts and glamorous flip flops owing to the hot weather, whereas we sweltered in Ugg boots, several pairs of jeans and as many layers of Abercrombie and Fitch clothing as we could manage whilst still being able to move our arms (you’d be surprised at how many!). We also pretended to jiggle about to non existent music on our newly purchased, but not yet programmed Ipods.
We had to fill out a Customs Declaration Form on the way in to the US. The form seems designed to get you to lie – no one in their right mind, sitting on a plane bound for the US of A is going to tick the “YES” box for any of the following questions are they?
Do you have a communicable disease or mental disorder or drug addiction?
Are you seeking entry to engage in criminal or immoral activity?
Are you involved in espionage or sabotage or in terrorist activities or genocide? Or between 1933 and 1945 were you involved in any way in persecutions associated with Nazi Germany or its allies?
Our hotel was in the Lower East Side area. “Budget chic” it was described as, which loosely translated, meant that an office block had been turned into a hotel effortlessly, by turning off all the lights so that you couldn’t see that it was still an office block with beds. It was like venturing into the nocturnal animal house at the zoo – your eyes took a while to adjust. The lobby floor and walls were lined with red velvet, as were the lifts – more like a brothel than a hotel. Our room had a great view, but it was impossible to see anything after dark and the bathroom only offered the tiniest glimmer of a light. Consequently we spent a lot of time fumbling around and bumping into each other. We went down for breakfast every morning wearing far too much make-up and looking like transvestites.
It was very exiting to actually know one of the artists exhibiting at the Guggenheim. There was a huge poster outside so we had to take pictures of ourselves on the mobile phone and send them to her. I was desperate to tell everybody in the museum that the artist is my friend’s sister, but she wouldn’t let me. Instead, I engineered knowledgeable conversations with strangers whilst we stood and read the blurb about her. One of them asked “what does ouvre” mean? “oov-er-ee” said her friend, it’s like ovary – to do with her female side”.
My girlfriend is a member of Soho House, so we had dinner there one night – full of beautiful people – mostly women. I suspect it represents a reasonable reflection of the current demographics, which I gather is typical of NY these days. Not enough men. Lucky (heterosexual) men.
I have had a ridiculously busy week since my return very early on Monday morning. No time to contemplate jet lag. I’m doing a lot of extra teaching this week because a number of instructors are away, teaching abroad. Haven’t had a moment to update my blog.
I’ve been immersed in the world of interest rates, which is extremely dull. I don’t want to know about them, they’re boring. However, I have no choice but to attempt to understand and take advice on the various mortgage options available. I really hope this house does go through – the landlord told me yesterday that he is going to put the house on the market – which means in two months I’ll be homeless again. Bollocks. This is a nightmare. I’m not sure I can face another move so soon.
Yesterday had to be written off completely. My Australian cousin got married. It was the strangest wedding I have ever been to. All the men wore kilts and had grown beards specially, in manner of “Braveheart”, I presume. We had to sing “I’m Walking On Sunshine” by Katrina and The Waves (I’ve always hated that song) halfway through the service and then ring little bells whilst they signed declarations with white feathers. The best man had to read a long poem about a pea and the groom got out his guitar during the vows, but then couldn’t play the bit he wanted because every time he put his leg up on a chair we could see his goolies. Finally he sat down on a chair and crossed his legs, which didn’t look particularly rock and roll. It was however full of raw emotion, blind love and laughter – long may it last.
I know most families can boast certain levels of dysfunction, but yesterday my family were right up there with the best of them. My mother had too much to drink, which meant that she cried at all the wrong moments and fell over twice. My brother had too much to drink which meant that he was rude to everybody and then passed out on a chair during the dancing. In addition, he seems to have acquired an alarming propensity to urinate in inappropriate places whilst drunk. He carefully wee’d in my understairs cupboard once he got home and behind the television during the night. My father propositioned one of the bridesmaids and I drooled in a desperately sad, “far too old for you love” kind of way over all the gorgeous 30-something men in the room, being far too loud and showing off and failing to pay appropriate respects to the gorgeous 30-something men’s wives and girlfriend. My younger brother was the only member of the family who retained his dignity. My cousin’s new husband has introduced an even more colourful array of characters into the family fold, and it now means that I am vaguely related to a lesbian sister, a brother who went off to shag (allegedly) one of the guests and missed his speech, another brother who was unable to attend owing to mental problems and a father that wasn’t invited. His mother and her partner seemed nice though.
