Another eventful journey on the subway. Deeply engrossed in the New Yorker (a great read, if not a bit too frequent) on the way home on my own, when suddenly there is an uproar in the carriage. A rather relaxed, possibly high, old guy is standing there nonchalantly smoking a cigarette. The smell is over powering and fills the carriage very quickly. The people sitting near him are shouting at him to put it out, telling him that he can’t smoke on the subway. He is getting it from all angles, I have never known so much passion on the subway before. He smiles and seems confused. He looks at his cigarette longingly and drops it on the floor, lightly stepping on it to put it out. The he picks it up, blows on it and in an attempt to re-use it later, he pops it into the brim of his woollen hat and walks out of the carriage at my stop. His hat is smouldering.
Category Archives: People
New York’s gone Irish mad
It’s St Patrick’s Day tomorrow, but New York is in full Irish mode today as the St Patrick’s Day Parade is underway. Unfortunately it has just started snowing here, but I doubt that will stop any of the enjoyment and excessive Guinness drinking. I saw people going into Irish bars early this morning, bedecked with green clovers and flags. Even in Fairways they are in the same spirit with these rather fetching cup cakes!
Tea talisman
I don’t drink coffee. In fact I have said on this blog before that I love tea. Big time. But I don’t feel the need to walk the streets holding a cup of it all the time. I like it at home, in a mug, sometimes with a biscuit. Nothing fancy. But here, my goodness holding a styrofoam or some other kind of cup, it’s like a fashion accessory. I was in the 42nd Street area earlier today, this is the busy bit around Grand Central Station, and I think that pretty much every person I went by was clutching a cup from all manner of places, slurping or just holding it like a talisman. It’s encouraged: the small silver coloured carts sit on most street corners dispensing drinks for a bit over a dollar and a range of artery hardening sugary snacks to boost the energy levels. They are cheap. Very cheap. But gone by midday to be replaced by the hot food vendors: caveat emptor, that’s all I can say about that. So off I go to my 10am appointment and I am strangely driven to go into one of the many food places that will make the enormous bagels (blogs passim), get a cup of tea, English Breakfast, black, and clutch it hoping some of the magic will rub off on me too.
“I’m really ever so not well”
…says Lola to Charlie. “I’m not happy, Charlie,” says Lola. “Why do I feel so really, really not well?” So Charlie says “It’s those germs in your mouth.” “Germs?” says Lola. And Lauren Child, author of the Charlie and Lola books, illustrates what germs look like with a kaleidoscope of colourful splodges with childish scribbled faces against a dramatic black background. E learnt about germs that way and if Lauren Child had been writing her books today, here in the US, she would almost certainly included a reference to Purell to zap those germs. I’d never heard of Purell when I lived in the UK. I’m not sure if it’s even sold there, but in the US everyone knows what it is. Purell is a hand sanitiser. It’s the clear, alcohol based gel that clean-obsessive New Yorkers carry in their bags everywhere they go. It is pretty much a verb here. This week’s New Yorker magazine spent five pages documenting the rise of Purell from an idea by a couple called Goldie and Jerry Lippman who founded Purell’s manufacturing company, Gojo Industries in 1946. The dispensers for Purell and its competitors can be found in the library, by the post boxes in my building, by the door to the school, pretty much everywhere. Like the motion sensitive paper towel dispenser, the goal is not to touch anything, if you can help it and if you do, immediately apply Purell. I was with a native New Yorker a while back and we had been to a public building and as we walked out she said to me “you’ve got your Purell, right?” I looked confused. She whipped out a bottle and told me what it was and I said, but I use baby wipes if my hands are mucky. Not any more. I went to the chemist (drug stores, they’re everywhere too) and bought a tiny bottle for a few dollars. Just to fit in. Just to be a proper New Yorker.
No IDea
To be admitted to Government buildings you need ID. Most New Yorkers carry their drivers licence and use that. I don’t have a US driving licence, I only have my passport. I am loath to carry my passport with me everywhere because it’s expensive and a complete pain to replace if it gets lost. I forget to take it on this occasion. I show the security guard my credit card and other cards in my wallet and tell him I have an appointment. I play the British card and see if that works too. Then, as if from nowhere an older lady interjects. ‘You gotta have ID, what happens if you die? Who’s gonna know who you are?’. I try to ignore her and focus on the security guard but to no avail. ‘If you die and and you don’t have no ID, you’re gonna end up in the morgue and in City Cemetary and no one will know where you are. You gotta have ID.’ She is not helping my cause and I am still not getting in the building. She carries on, ‘I carry my ID even when I go to the store, you never know when you’re gonna get run over and die’. Eventually she shuffles off, ID fully on show on a chain around her neck and I am now faced with the supervisor, who is also deeply concerned I have no ID. I am saved by someone from the office who collects me and I breathe a sigh of relief. Gotta get some ID. Can’t face that again.
Star spotting
I had hoped to see many stars wandering the streets of New York but as yet, no luck. I did see a dead ringer for a young Brad Pitt in my spin class this week, which made the class much more pleasant. A trip to a massive toy store yesterday was greatly improved by being advised by a very nice man who appeared to be channelling Dustin Hoffman! And walking up Madison Avenue, home of the high end designers and ultra expensive clothes, it’s good to see your classic fur wearing, high heel tottering ladies-who-lunch sporting sun glasses when there is no sun and hailing taxis with great success. Not quite Sarah Jessica Parker and the world of Sex and the City. Will keep looking for celebs and report back.
Manners matter
My daughter’s old school in NW3 had a big thing about manners. It had the rules about good manners emblazoned on the walls of the dining hall and I have to say, I thought this was a real strength of the school. I’m British, I say ‘thank you’ and ‘please’ and ‘cheers’ a lot. No one says cheers in New York, it’s what marks me apart. I say thank you when someone gives way to me and my buggy on the pavement; I do the same when someone let’s me in a shop, holds open a door or does something nice. New Yorkers don’t. I am sort of getting used to it, but it does seem pretty rude when you give way, hold a door or whatever and you get nothing. And yet when I am in a lift (must remember to say elevator) and someone gets out they bid me ‘have a good day’. When I go in a shop, a cafe or anywhere in fact, I am always greeted with ‘hello, how are you?’ and it sounds sincere. I always respond ‘good, thank you’ and then swiftly move on to what I want, having failed to ask them the same. If I’m feeling New York enough I will respond with a ‘how are you?’ I have come to the conclusion that actually no one cares how I am, these are just words that are used to greet you, it’s just a bit of a verbal dance to get to the main attraction. I will keep trying to respond spontaneously and I think if I say ‘thank you’, ‘please’ and ‘cheers’ enough, someone may actually do the same.
Double Divas
I have discovered my new favourite TV show. It’s called Double Divas. Two women from Atlanta have a lingerie shop called Lili Rae and they make all their own merchandise. It’s a cross between Anne Summers and Agent Provocateur. They are huge characters and care deeply about the women they fit – think Trinnie and Suzanna with southern US accents. The series highlight so far is the fitting of Norma Stits, who cannot find a bra to fit her enormous breasts. She leaves happy and elevated. Other customers include the rapping cowboy looking for something for his girl and the completely misjudged batchelorette (hen) party full of ladies who lunch, horrified at the lingerie party put on by Molly and Cynthia. It’s incredibly entertaining and if it’s not in the UK yet, it should be.
We don’t sell ducks
So I go into a well known toy shop and, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of people and the pinkness of it all, I ask the sales assistant where can I find the dogs? She looks at me and says, ‘dogs? We don’t sell no dogs’. I counter this by saying, ‘yes, yes you do, dogs for the dolls, where are they?’ Looking at me like I’m being a bit irritating, she responds, ‘Ma’am, we do not sell dogs’. Exasperated at this point I resort to saying ‘dogs, things that go woof’. Success. ‘ah, over there. I thought you said ducks.’
Open all hours
It’s funny to think about Ronnie Barker on the streets of Manhattan, but it did strike me that Arkwright is alive and well here. The supermarket is open until midnight every night (no Sunday trading laws to scupper business here) and the pharmacy is open 24 hours. The pharmacy has gone way beyond its drug dispensing remit and sells pretty much everything. I am yet to see Nurse Gladys Emmanuel, the object of Arkwright’s affections, in the queue (that’s ‘on line’ here in the US, apparently queues don’t exist here) at CVS. I like it at CVS because it doesn’t have cashiers and the self service tills take all of the change I keep accumulating because I’m too slow to count it out in normal shops.
I love our local deli, open 8am till 9pm 7 days a week, which makes its own cakes in front of you. I think they may start charging me and E for watching them several times a week. So nice. I am gradually trying them all out. In true New York style we don’t cook and get take out from the deli – don’t want to boil those sprouts? Then buy them ready cooked, as the guy in front of me did. Want chicken for dinner? Well, how about 8 different types cooked and ready to eat. I frighten the man in front of me by saying I will have the other half of the chicken he has just ordered; he looks at me like I’ve just proposed to him. Nearly home and there’s a delivery guy in the lift (elevator) with a small brown bag that says Luke’s on it. I ask him what he’s delivering. Lobster. He’s delivering 2 lobster and prawn (shrimp) sandwiches and 2 fish soups. Now that’s true New York. You don’t go out to get your food, you get it delivered. Granville used his push bike, up and down the hills of his Doncaster suburb to deliver barm cakes to local housewives. The delivery guys here use mountain bikes to deliver lobster. Not so different from 1976, eh?
nw3 to nyc 