Banner photo: The morning sun shines off the Manhattan skyline. Taken from Pier One, Brooklyn.
Six twenty in the morning and the runway lights are lit: blues, greens, flashing reds, and yellow direction markers. When I was a kid I thought they were the coolest thing ever. I still do. Mesmerized as the jet rumbles towards the runway before takeoff to New York City.
Throughout the flight, the plane is as dark as a tomb. Is it some new form of etiquette that all the window blinds are left down? What’s the use of the window seat if some new air travel correctness says you can’t look out the window? And just who came up with this bad idea?
Inflight coffee. Almost as bad as Nescafé but it’s a necessity on an early morning flight.
A Jason Statham movie. Oh look, a surprise plot. Jason plays the retired special ops operative. He was once the most lethal member of Her Majesty’s Army but now he’s just looking for a peaceful life as a recluse. Alas, trouble finds him and he’s compelled to kill scores of bumbling active duty special ops soldiers, none of whom can shoot straight. Gratuitous violence, the girl is saved, the corrupt government officials are foiled and
the dog dies.
Whaddya mean the fucking dog dies?
Damn it, I hate it when the dog dies. Why isn’t “the dog dies” included, in bold gigantic red letters, in the content warnings?
More inflight coffee.
Labored through more of Crime and Punishment. I started it because it’s one of those classics that they (whoever they are) say you must read to make your life culturally complete. The problem is, it’s just a treadmill of a story (Halfway through the book I cut my losses and deleted it from my phone. Color me culturally deficient).
More inflight coffee and one pack of the usual American Airlines cello wrapped biscotti. They’re really pretty good. I could eat a box of these. And dipping them into the coffee makes the swill taste slightly less like dishwater.
Wheels down.
The clicks of a hundred unbuckling seatbelts and moments later
the “fasten seatbelt” sign is turned off.
The jetway ejects the passengers. A file of automatons march in mindless obedience to the overhead signs that direct them to baggage claim. They make their way, benumbed and spiritless, as if programmed, through concourses, up and down escalators, and around countless turns to arrive – finally – at baggage claim.
At JFK it’s a trek, and by the time we’ve arrived at the carousel our bags have been offloaded and placed in a line, waiting like faithful puppies to be picked up.
Deprogramming happens when you have to figure out how best to get to your hotel.
Given the current state of air travel I’m not sure if it’s a good thing that in my younger days I experienced the “golden age” of air travel. Sometimes ignorance is bliss.
Depending on where I’ve landed, my financial mileage has varied when it comes to taking transportation from the airport. Before we step out of the terminal and into the fray I’ve asked Google which is preferable, cabs or rideshares.
Since cabs, the authentic ones, are bound to charge a flat rate, and they don’t add surge pricing, Google advises taking a cab from JFK to Manhattan.
The myth is dead. The one about New York cab drivers taking rubes for a scenic ride around the boroughs in order to fluff up the meter. Legit drivers are required to charge a flat $70.00. After taxes, tolls, and possible congestion and rush hour surcharges it’s maybe $80.00. After the tip it’s about $95.00. That is unless you’re a cheap, soulless fuck and you have no compunction about stiffing a workin’ man.
A yellow cab is as much a part of popular New York lore as lox and bagels, so it just feels right to take a cab. The scene would be complete if the driver, with a cigarette dangling from his mouth and wearing a flat cap, greeted us in a wiseguy Bronx accent with, “where to, Mac?” I guess I’ve watched too many movies. No schmag, no flat cap, and the accent isn’t Bronx. I’m guessing West African. Points for the Yankees cap though.
I take rideshares when it’s cheaper or necessary but I’m still more partial to cabs. The cabbies are blue collar guys who patiently waited to get their medallions, then put in the long hours and longer miles, only to have the rideshares muscle in – often bending regulations during the early days of Uber.
According to Gemini there are 13,587 licensed taxis in New York City. They’re ubiquitous. So much so that 13,000 has got to be a gross undercount. In the FiDi it seems like every other car is a yellow New York City taxi. On our way to the Museum of Modern Art, I glance down 6th Avenue to see a yellow train; cabs lined up bumper to bumper to bumper waiting for fares.
By contrast, in San Francisco the taxi is becoming extinct. Sadly, in San Francisco, the number of Waymo robotaxis will soon eclipse licensed yellow cabs. Within the stark cold gravitational pull of Silicon Valley progress is measured by human jobs lost to machines.
We’re staying at Club Quarters, a hotel on Washington Street just a short walk to the Trade Center. There’s construction all around. A building site is right across the street and I’m happy that construction hasn’t yet begun.
I selected Club Quarters because it offers kitchenettes. Not because we plan on cooking – we don’t – but because the kitchenette units are more spacious than most standard New York City rooms, which typically don’t have enough room to swing a cat, much less open your suitcase.
It’s not an auspicious start. When we walk in, the first thing that hits me is a funky odor. Also the carpet just outside of the bathroom is damp. We do have an unobstructed view of
the side of the building just across the alley.
During our first night we’re reminded that our room is right next to the elevator. It wouldn’t be any more noisy if we were bedded down next to the tracks at the Wall Street subway station.
In the end it works out. Next day the odor is gone, the carpet is dry (maybe some spillage from housekeeping mopping the bathroom), and the front desk has offered to change our room. We’re keeping the room. After the first full day we’re so tired that the elevator is no more annoying than a gurgling creek and crickets near a mountain cabin. The view?
Well, it’s the view.
Business mundane . . .
is what they should call the current Wall Street fashion.
Strolling around the Financial District on a weekday morning, I have to wonder
has the business suit been replaced by the colorless and inelegant business casual and the briefcase supplanted by the backpack?
I suppose it’s good for the wearer, but Wall Street is looking less like the hub of worldwide commerce and more like the student union.
I did stumble across a gaggle of giddy suits one morning in front of the New York Stock Exchange. All decked out for the IPO.
Perpetual motion
Moderate and leisurely are not things in the FiDi. Everyone and everything is in motion – dashing, darting, dodging – and it isn’t slow. The only gear is frenetic. FiDi-ers zip into Starbucks, grab their preordered Frappuccinos and zip back out; headed for the office, for home, a meeting, to catch the subway, or run a string of errands .
It’s as if they’re equipped with radar as they maneuver and zigzag through the churning crowds with their eyes riveted to their phones. Collisions are avoided with last second moves that would put an NFL running back to shame.
The warmth of the sun barely touches the deep concrete canyons of the FiDi. And if the perpetual shade leaves a chill in the air, there’s an air of impersonality that pervades this center of national and worldwide commerce. Seeing two people slow down to greet and talk with others is a rarity. The social gathering places seem to be the food carts, of which there are myriads.
That said, every cart and newsstand seems to have its share of regulars. Dressed in their biz casual, they stop to order morning coffee, an undersized hotdog, or a tray heaping and heavy with chicken or lamb over rice, from a guy wearing Knicks or Yankees gear. There’s a quick friendly interaction, order the usual, a few smiles and a few laughs and it’s see ya tomorrow and back to business.
New Yorkers are passionate about their sports. If you’re a winner, you’re deity. Just ask Derek Jeter, Reggie Jackson, or Patrick Ewing. If you fall short of expectations, Daniel Jones, Bobby Bonilla, and Julius Randle will tell you that life in New York can be Dante’s ninth circle of hell. Yeah, New Yorkers like winners. Every other head is topped by a Knicks or a Yankees cap – winners. Giants, Jets, Nets, Mets? Not so much.
I love baseball. Ever since I was a kid baseball has been magical for me. I may not have grown up a New York Yankees fan but like any fan of baseball, I was touched in some way by the New York Yankees. The names are carved in my childhood memories; Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra, Bobby Richardson, Whitey Ford, and Roger Maris. Is there a baseball fan old enough who can’t remember Reggie Jackson and Billy Martin going at it in the dugout in a game against the Red Sox? Forget the names. The uniform, simple as it is, is timeless. The pinstripes, iconic.
It’s Saturday night, second game of a double header against the rival Boston Red Sox and we’ve got decent seats just on the outfield side of third. There are brand new stadiums and then there are the temples of sport. Sitting in Yankee Stadium, I get the same feeling that I had when I sat in Wrigley Field, Dodger Stadium (even though I hate the Dodgers), and Busch Stadium. They’ve all been modernized and refashioned to some extent, but those changes don’t erase the history made in those stadiums.
For a baseball fan, these are the genuine fields of dreams, arenas where moments that are decades old survive in memory as if they happened hours ago. These are the fields where giants roamed, legends were stamped, and history written. These are the stands where dreams came to life and hearts were broken.
Tonight we’re Yankees fans. We might just as well be, because our own San Francisco Giants are historically awful this year and their season has been all but over since around Independence Day. We’re also cheering on Yankees outfielder Heliot Ramos who was traded by the Giants to the Yankees in August. Lucky him. He’ll see the playoffs while his old mates will be cleaning out their lockers and headed for the golf courses.
The Yankees win, but Ramos has a quiet night. I end up with my usual stadium souvenir, a small plastic helmet that was originally filled with ice cream. I could’ve done without the ice cream but I wanted the helmet so my gut had to take one for the team. The downside of the evening is that we never did try any of the specialty stadium food, which is sort of a must when visiting another ballpark. Too full from the pizza we got on Arthur Avenue earlier in the day.
Below: Arthur Avenue, the Bronx’s Little Italy.
On a hot afternoon in late summer, descending the stairs to the subway is like dropping into an overcrowded sauna. On the platform women are fanning themselves and men remove their lids to wipe sweat from their glistening foreheads. When eyes aren’t fastened to their phones, which is most of the time, they’re looking anxiously at the information board to see when their next train arrives; a minute is cool salvation, ten is eternity.
The mouth of the tunnel lights up and a few moments later the train clatters alongside the platform – cla-bang, cla-bang, cla-bang – before squealing to a stop. Doors whoosh open and the train spits out riders, as it sucks in new ones. A cheerful yet admonishing male voice warns passengers to, “stand clear of the closing doors please,” and a moment later the doors whoosh closed before the train lurches back into the darkness of the New York City subway system.
“Don’t be somebody’s subway story,” reads the sign inside the subway train. That’s MTA ( Metropolitan Transportation Authority) speak for, ‘Don’t be a dick.’
The forced intimacy of a rush hour subway train, where you don’t always get to claim your own personal space, makes patience a necessity. Most of the time, eyes shut and teeth gritted forbearance wins out.
Sometimes not.
I’m seated on a crowded train and my straight ahead view, mere inches away, is a forest of butts, groins, bellies, and briefcases. At any given moment I can’t even see the other side of the car. Hovering right in front of me is a petite Asian woman and about an inch from her is a bulky backpack worn by an even bulkier man. Neither is in position to make eye contact with each other, but they are about to go to war.
With every pitch and roll of the car, the man is jostled, and the backpack bumps the woman. Not big bumps, more like taps, – but he’s big and she’s not. For her it’s a subway version of water torture. Each bump brings from her an audible angry sigh; bump – sigh – bump – sigh. The bumps go on and the sighs get louder and longer. Her patience is the boiler with the redlining pressure gauge. If this were the Starship Enterprise, Scotty would be imploring, in his Scottish brogue, “She canna take much more Captain.”
Finally a bump forces a pressure release of Mandarin billingsgate from the woman which is clearly directed at the man who probably has no idea what she’s saying but is relatively certain it isn’t an invitation to meet up for a dim sum lunch.
He responds.
She harumphs.
I have two stops to go and directly above me the dogs of war have their teeth bared. Figuring that I don’t want the escalating hostilities putting the woman in my lap, as attractive as she may be, I offer her my seat. “No, that’s okay,” she says.
In my mind I’m telling her, ‘What the fuck do you mean it’s okay? Nothing here is okay. Put down that fucking cross you’re bearing and take my seat.’
But instead I say nicely,
“I”m getting off anyway. It’s all yours,” as I get up and squirm through the crowd to the nearest door. When I look back, the woman has given the seat to her friend, creating space but not detente.
We reach our stop. Peace out!
The slim young man’s boombox is shaking the walls of a mostly empty car. He performs a couple of clumsy leaps and jumps and then he grabs one of the poles in the center and swings awkwardly before landing like a sack of bricks (he should go to a strip club and get some pole dancing pointers). He pauses and yells to everyone in particular, most of whom are looking nervously into their phones, “I don’t want your fuckin’ money” (Really he does). He stomps up and down the length of the car and finding no takers he heads into the next car.
The New York subway has been dogged by lurid tales of brazen muggings and murders (not to mention the novel The Taking of Pelham One Two Three, and its 3 movie versions). Maybe the subway was dangerous at one time. Today, everyone is on the subway; businessmen, tradesmen, tourists, old ladies, school children, the infirm, little yippy dogs on leashes, and cats in carriers.
It’s a city. You watch your Ps and Qs, and the Ps and Qs of anyone who might look sketchy. We’ve seen the entrepreneurs like the clumsy pole dancer, or the guy with the violin who was playing Christmas music – in September. I’ve been uncomfortable on a train but never felt unsafe, even when returning from a nighttime photo session, carrying two thousand dollars worth of photo equipment. Ps and Qs.
You get off, or squeeze off, the train onto the platform sauna, go through the exit gate and with every step towards the surface the air gets cooler and less heavy. At the top the air feels as fresh as if you’ve arrived in the Rockies, but you’re back to the Big Apple bustle.
We’re just about to enter Dunkin’ to get a cup of coffee, something a bit more robust than the thin dilution at the hotel lobby, when we’re stopped by a young man in tattered jeans and a soiled hoodie. He’s probably in his early twenties but he could easily pass for forty-something. There’s a lot of hard times behind him.
“Could you please get me something to eat?” he asks. Not at all threatening, his voice is childlike and apologetic.
“C’mon in,” as I open the door for him.
The young man orders two Boston creams and a medium coffee. I pay, he thanks me and leaves to have his breakfast.
The night before I’d dropped $800 dollars on a tasting menu for Cora and I. The incongruity doesn’t escape me. Eight-hundred dollars can buy a lot of Boston creams and a lake of coffee.
“These days Times Square looks like a theme park. It used to be this, you know, New Yorkers were the scariest thing in this neighborhood. Now Mickey Mouse is the baddest dude on this block.” ~ Anthony Bourdain
I guess Bourdain had a point because there’s Mickey and Minnie, smiling and waving and,
wait, what’s this?
They’re headed straight towards us. Underneath those smiling heads they might not be all that happy because I took their pictures.
Why did the mice cross the road?
To try to strong arm me out of my money. Beneath the costumes are a pair of squat women who offer, in rather firm tones, to take selfies with us – for a price of course. In Times Square everything has a price.
Cora, in even more firm tones, quickly shoos them away and they take off, skinny rodent tails tucked between their legs. Don’t fuck with an angry Filipina – especially one with a particular animus towards scammers.
This isn’t your granddad’s Times Square. Depending on your point of view, Times Square was either cleaned up, or shamelessly Disneyfied and ruined, during the 1990s. Before that, with its peep shows and hookers, this probably wasn’t the place to bring the kiddos. It may have been colorful, but the shades were distinctly more ominous.
Why exactly are we here?
We’d thought about a Broadway show but that didn’t fit either the schedule or the ballooning budget.
Shopping? Meh.
We certainly aren’t here for lunch. There’s plenty of food options here, from food carts to fast food to bad food chains (Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you, Mr. Bubba Gump) to places like Gallaghers, a highly rated New York steakhouse. I try to stay away from restaurants in tourist central since the prices usually tend to run from slightly high to larcenous.
So
why?
Even if you don’t plan to spend a dime at Times Square the spectacular, massive digital billboards are worth a short visit. You turn around and take it all in, slack jawed and overwhelmed. After a while, once the digital high starts to wear off, your attention is drawn to the other Times Square spectacle – the human one.
It’s a blocks long curiosity shop. If people watching is your hobby, Times Square is your nirvana. Like a disturbed anthill, people scurry about. Turn in any direction and you’ll see someone in a costume of some sort. The man dancing to Norteño music with his skeletal Day of the Dead marionette partner wears a passionate expression. His partner? Well, she looks kind of – you know – dead.
There’s a Spiderman at each of four street corners and accompanying each Spidey is a gigantic gorilla. The Mickey and Minnie we saw earlier are apparently part of a platoon of “Disney” rodents. It’s an infestation. And they’re not looking for cheese. They’re sniffing out bread – the coin of the realm.
At one of the pedestrian plazas in what’s called the bowtie, the ever roiling crowd largely ignores a young woman playing the violin. A violin, even well played, doesn’t seem to be a good fit here. Conversely almost anything can fit here.
Case in point?
A few feet away a young Hispanic man standing on his soapbox, speaks through a small amp, baring his sins and proclaiming his new found faith. He’s selling God but nobody on Times Square appears to be in a God buying mood today. More attention is paid to a big guy in a brown tunic, wearing a red headband – he’s trying the brazen honesty strategy as he holds a sign in one hand that reads, “need money for weed.” His other hand is held in the air in a pledge of sincerity.
There’s an army of photographers with digital cameras and laptops who scurry about, offering everything from a few snapshots to staged photo sessions. Legit? I imagine your mileage may vary. Just keep that Visa in your wallet – or your hotel safe.
It seems like every few feet someone is trying to hand us something, from handbills to who the hell knows. We’ve read the warnings – don’t take anything from anybody.
In the middle of all of this is a U.S. Military recruiting station, which seems to me like an odd location. Who goes to Times Square to join the Army?
A human maelstrom churns in aural turbulence; horns, sirens, laughter, shouts in anger, and shouts of joy. Business is happening all around you, some legit, some sketchy, some just outright begging. Sidewalk preachers peddle various versions of God. Music – good and bad. Laughing families, stressed out cops, the buzz of a thousand conversations, mixed with the tortured voices of the troubled souls in agitated debate with their personal phantoms.
I imagine that there are some old timers who look at this flashy version of Times Square with disdain. Old boys longing for the old days when you could duck into a dive bar at ten, sit on a worn bar stool and stare down into the deep well of a shot of Fleischmann’s Vodka. They may have a point. I’m pretty sure I’d find a lot more character and genuineness in a dark dive than in Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville.
Having grown tired of the carnival, we consider having a lunch of fried chicken and the strange (yet strangely good) spaghetti at Jollibee, the Filipino fast food outlet, but opt instead for finding a bathroom and then the subway back to the hotel.
We’re in the Museum of Modern Art waiting to see Van Gogh’s, Starry Night. Waiting, and waiting. We’ve arrived early and while the crowd is relatively small, two women have planted themselves right in front and they
Are.
Not.
Moving.
We’re standing right behind and I’m poised to whisper in their ears, ‘Ladies, it’s a painting, not a fucking movie. Those stars ain’t gonna twinkle and that moon is not going to set, and there are people behind you.’
Finally they step aside. Stirred by the tapping of the dozen or so impatient feet behind them?
Bedtime. Tomorrow is our last full day in New York. Before turning out the lights on the day I take a quick peek at my emails and see one from American Airlines regarding our flight; it’s either the usual “your flight leaves in two days” reminder or, God forbid, a flight change. Well, it is a change – we’ve been given an upgrade to business class. I’m so giddy, I want to wake Cora up and tell her. Seventy-years on this planet and I’ve finally won something.
It’s 3:30 in the morning, rain is drumming on the roof of the taxi that’s stopped at an intersection somewhere between our hotel and JFK and we hear a plaintive cry coming from somewhere out in the dark wet misery.
A woman is standing on the corner. “Money. Please give me money.” Her wail comes from the depths of desperation.
No rain gear and no umbrella. Just jeans and a sopping sweat suit jacket. Without even a cap, her rain drenched hair pours down the sides of her head.
Seeing the driver make eye contact, the woman takes a step towards the car. He wags a finger and slowly shakes his head. The red light doesn’t last long but it seems like an eternity.
Glancing over at Cora I see the pain in her face.
The cab pulls away and off to the left I see another of society’s castaways in a far corner. In the dark, thin and bent, he looks more phantasm than human.
The land of opportunity.
It’s everywhere, not just New York. In our quiet little bedroom community of Hercules it isn’t unusual to take an early morning walk and see a car with all the windows cardboarded over and realize that someone is living inside.
We enter the terminal and make for the American Airlines counter. With our business class boarding passes we’ll be in the express line.
Not so fast.
Between us and a small counter far, far away, is a scattering of kiosks and around each kiosk is a knot of passengers in varying stages of confusion, frustration and anger. American Airlines agents are going from kiosk to kiosk assisting passengers. Welcome to self-service bag tagging.
We’re seething in front of one of the kiosks while I’m trying to figure out the instructions. An American Airlines agent approaches and walks us through the process. We’re done but in no way is Cora going to let this pass.
“What kind of service is this? We don’t do this in San Francisco.”
“That’s San Francisco. This is JFK,” the agent answers dryly as she moves to the next victim.
We roll our tagged bags to the counter, where the agent checks our I.D’s and boarding passes. I lift the first suitcase onto the scale. The agent checks the tag. There’s a pause as the agent and I look at each other.
The unsaid, ‘Well?’ hangs in the air.
She motions me to lift the bag from the scale onto the conveyor.
Oh, so that’s how it is.
I’m considering giving the agent my address so that she can mail me my share of her paycheck. I also stifle the notion to remark that Cora isn’t able to fly the plane for the pilot today because her feet won’t reach the pedals.
“Watch out for pickpockets.”
That’s often the first reaction when I tell someone that we’re taking a trip to a big city.
Madrid. “Watch out for pickpockets.”
Rome. “Watch out for pickpockets.”
Barcelona. “Watch out for pickpockets.”
Not, “Ooh, how fun,” but, “Watch out for pickpockets.”
“Watch out for pickpockets,” has always struck me as insulting and provincial.
Before we went to France I wasn’t warned about pickpockets. That time I was told that the French are snobs and they hate Americans (given the behavior of the current squatter in the White House, the latter would be understandable). During our stay in France, I was overwhelmed, not by French rudeness, but the friendliness and courtesy of the French. Yes, even in supposedly snooty Paris.
“New Yorkers are unfriendly,” was the warning this time around.
You know – surly. Like all those early morning runners on the Brooklyn shore who offered a friendly greeting as I set up my tripod to take photos of the Manhattan skyline. Or any one of the many people who stopped to give Cora directions (because I won’t ask) when we were lost. Or that late night, when an off duty station agent on her way to somewhere saw me staring at the MTA map, loaded down with photo gear. She changed direction and walked me through my route; which train to take and which platform to take it from.
The stereotypical accent might sound like it has an edge, and maybe that’s as it should be. But the universally unfriendly New Yorker?
He’s a myth.
