With the looming prospect of 24 hours in Exam Schools next term, I was apprehensive about sacrificing two weeks of my Easter holidays on a trip to New York. These fears were short-lived when I thought of what this stateside sojourn would entail: walks in Central Park, Broadway shows and syrupy blueberry pancakes.
So I swapped the ancient walls of Cambridge (yes, I’m sorry to say I live in the ‘Other Place’) for the glinting spires of Manhattan, banishing all thoughts of Pushkin and Proust, Balzac and Blok.
New York is a special place. It’s more than just a city – in the words of the great Jay-Z, it’s an “(Empire) state of mind.” My fi rst few days in New York were a journey of discovery of the many idiosyncrasies of Manhattanites:
Firstly, while in England the phrase “how are you?” automatically elicits the empty response of “fine, thanks, how are you?”, across the pond it has ceased to be a question at all. If you try to respond, your addressee will probably look back at you in a confused and quizzical manner.
Secondly, sportswear is an entirely acceptable form of clothing for any situation. Admittedly, lycra leggings and trainers are more comfortable than most everyday clothes and you are prepared if you happen to suddenly feel an overwhelming urge to exercise. But I draw the line at businesswomen who insist on sporting (pardon the pun) a pair of squeaky white trainers with their work suits.
Thirdly, coffee in paper cups is more than just a ‘beverage’, it’s an indispensable symbol of the Manhattan way of life. You will undoubtedly have seen yuppies (probably in sportswear) rushing along, clutching out-sized paper cups. But have you ever seen them actually take a sip out of them? No? That’s because they don’t. These paper cups are symbolic of the mass consumption and fast pace that characterise Manhattan.
The Upper East Side is a bizarre universe unto itself. Osteoporotic octogenarians, facelifted beyond recognition live in homes of unbelievable opulence. Most apartment blocks on blossom tree-lined Park Avenue are co-ops i.e. they are co-owned by all the inhabitants. The application process for an aspiring resident is famously brutal and involves a thorough character appraisal, close inspection of your family’s bank accounts for the past few hundred years and even an interview with your pooch. Moreover, Park Avenuers are not particularly concerned with diversity, even if you can afford these luxurious lairs, so if you happen to be nouveau-riche or our face doesn’t fit, your application is likely to be ungraciously declined.
A couple of days after this expedition into the world of exclusive living, my sisters and I made our way to MoMA to see what contemporary art in New York had to offer.
‘Density vs. Dispersal’, an exhibition celebrating the museum’s acquisition of Frank Lloyd Wright’s archive, showed off the work of perhaps the greatest American architect. Intriguingly, though a serial designer of New York skyscrapers, Lloyd Wright controversially believed that they should punctuate the countryside, rather than cluster together in cities. Lloyd Wright also designed the Guggenheim Museum, my next cultural destination. The Guggenheim is an architectural feat, rising from its Fifth Avenue site in a white spiral, the interior resembling a seashell, so as you progress through an exhibition you ascend both physically and intellectually. While I was there, the six rotundas were dedicated to an exhibition on Italian Futurism while a couple of side galleries contained a 30-year retrospective on the African American photographer-cumvideographer Carrie Mae Weems — a beautiful exposé of the black experience in America; subtle yet candid.
This brings me to my favourite person on the trip, the African American cab driver who took us to the airport. On learning that we were from England, he asked my Dad which football team he supports. When he heard that my father had been loyal to West Ham since the age of seven, the unimpressed cabbie replied: ‘West Ham?! They suck, man. They don’t do nuthin.’ My dear father got told.
All in all, New York is a unique place. It really is the world’s biggest melting pot. Whether you’re a recent Ukrainian immigrant or a Native American, in New York it doesn’t matter who you are.
Unless you’re trying to buy an apartment on Park Avenue, that is. Then it really matters.
