Days 32, 33 & 34: The Il Divo-loving atheist, the tar-painter from North Carolina and the Iranian handbag designer

My last morning in Boston held one final surprise. Awoken early by the sound of loud music from downstairs, I headed down for breakfast around 8 to find David strolling around the lounge room with his morning cup of diet cola. He wasn’t singing but there was a man’s singing voice coming from the television, which was projecting the media player from a nearby laptop. The strange thing was: it was singing ‘I Dreamed a Dream’ from Les Miserables (the song recently thrust back in the spotlight by Susan Boyle’s X-Factor performance) with a tinny karaoke accompaniment.

I dared not speak as David seemed totally immersed in the song, admiring every note that poured forth from the speakers, whether it was in tune or not. He almost glared at my nonchalance as I poured my bowl of granola and glass of juice, apparently incapable of understanding how I could not have fallen to my knees on hearing such tones. It was only when he started humming along that I realised the voice on the speakers was actually his own, recorded some time earlier. Could it be that David – this paragon of cold intellect and logical thought – was a closet fan of musical theatre? Did he harbour secret dreams of following in SuBo’s footsteps? It was all too incomprehensible, and too early in the morning.

When the song finally ended, he asked me for my opinion and I politely praised his performance as something like ‘very assured.’ Not content to leave it at that, he insisted on showing me a YouTube clip of Il Divo singing Leonard Cohen’s ‘Hallelujah.’ I remembered commenting to someone only weeks earlier that if I ever heard another version of that song, I was going to impale myself on a spike. To be forced to sit through an entire performance of said song by that quartet of ham steaks almost tipped me over the edge, so I just crunched my granola extra hard to drown out the sound.

But the torture wasn’t over. Completely oblivious to my discomfort, he looked up another Il Divo clip on YouTube, this one a quintet featuring ‘special guest’ Celine Dion. I tried to go to a happy place but David had the music up so loud and was so intent on my enjoying it that I had no option but to listen. When it finished he suggested we go outside so he could smoke and, for the first time in my life, I was grateful for the addictive qualities of nicotine.

Of course, once removed from his imaginary arena spectacular, he reverted to his old ways, spouting what now seemed to me surprisingly cogent arguments in favour of ‘a single law for humakind’ (being: everyone does whatever they want) and against occupational specialization, ever the Renaissance man. He seemed surprised when I told him I would be leaving Boston in a few hours and tried to convince me to stay, even after I told him I’d booked and paid for my train ticket.

Later, after spending my last hours in Boston finishing up a blog entry, I went to hand him my keys. He was still lingering outside, speaking on the phone to a movie producer who was in the North Pole filming polar bears. When he finally hung up, he explained to me that he had been given a role in another of this producer’s films and was discussing his confidentiality agreement. I dared not ask him any more.

Despite my obvious eagerness to leave, he ordered me to pick up one of his cane chairs and led me to a corner of the driveway where the sun shone brightest. We sat there a few minutes, enjoying what he called this ‘micro-climate’ in his backyard. It was indeed significantly warmer than I would have expected on such a fresh day and a nice way to end my time in Boston, which really had been hassle-free and pleasant, almost like being on holiday.

I took the Metro to South Station, where my shiny Amtrak train awaited. As a treat, I had booked a seat in business class. Accordingly, I hauled my bags into the carriage marked ‘business class,’ and was followed by the other business class passengers, who appeared mostly to be basketballers and businessmen on golfing trips. Ten minutes later, the train conductor boarded and told us we were all in the wrong carriage. (As Nick and George would have said: woops.) Thankfully, he said we could stay if we wanted to, despite the distance we would have to walk if we wanted snacks. Fine by me. I had two capacious seats to myself and a great view.

The journey from Boston through Rhode Island and Connecticut and into New York was the most picturesque train journey I’ve taken. Part of my reason for visiting Boston in the first place was so I’d be able to take the train trip to New York and see some of the American landscape from the ground. It was a thrill to see quiet waterside towns like Mystic (of Mystic Pizza fame), larger but equally beautiful places like New London, and even the big, kind of run-down cities like Providence. These were the kinds of places I’d seen in movies my whole life but never seen up close.

It was a sunny Sunday afternoon in the middle of what I believe is called ‘March Madness’ and in every town at least one game of basketball was going on, and often a baseball game too, much like the one that opens my favourite film, Running on Empty. It all felt strangely familiar.

IT’S IMPOSSIBLE TO AVOID CLICHÉS WHEN TALKING ABOUT NEW YORK

The train pulled into New York on a railbridge so high it felt like flying. The five o’clock sun cast the city in gold and made foggy silhouettes out of the Manhattan skyline and the numerous bridges crossing into it, until the train slipped away into the underground.

I got out at Penn Station and found myself in expected chaos. Nick had told me he hated New York City because of the way people rushed around as if where they were going was so much more important than where anyone else was going. At that moment, I could see what he meant. Lugging my suitcase through even the widest passageways made me feel like a pregnant cow in a yard of sheepdogs.

I took the Metro train to Winthrop Street in Brooklyn, which was the most direct route from Penn Station, but also the slowest, making nearly twenty-five stops on the way. Within seconds of emerging from the subway in Brooklyn, a man approached me and told me his life story and how he needed milk for his daughter. He didn’t want money, just milk. Determined not to become a gullible tourist, and not in a position to be giving money away, I politely declined, for which I felt like he hated me.

I followed my nose, more or less, to Rutland Road where my B&B was. Looking for number 58, I was left confused for a few moments, until I heard a whistle from across the road and saw a lady waving her arms at me. I had had some email contact with Zenobia, who runs the B&B, and for some reason had assumed she was an old Jewish lady. But here she was in reality: a young black, bald-headed Earth mother. It took a few moments for me to compute. She waved me over with a smile from number 57. I was two times an idiot. Thankfully she had heard my suitcase wheels clicking over the pavement outside and followed the sound to the tall, lost-looking white guy on the other side of the road.

She showed me to a room that was far bigger than the one I had booked and told me I’d have my first night there for no extra charge. (Note: If you ever want more for what you pay, stay in a B&B. This was my third B&B and my third free upgrade. Sure, it was only for the first night, but what a treat!)

I soon bumped into my neighbour, a woman from North Carolina, around my age, who introduced herself as Laura. She had an upfront manner that I found really appealing (being a little standoffish myself) and within a matter of minutes had asked me if I wanted to join her for dinner. In nearly five weeks of traveling, it was the first time someone had asked me that question. I accepted wholeheartedly.

She showed me to a train station that was far closer than Winthrop Street and we chatted while we waited for the train. I told her I was trying to be a screenwriter and explained that the script I was working on was about cannibals. She seemed a little wary, so I tried to humanise it, explaining that it was essentially autobiographical. Her raised eyebrows made me think she was about to run off screaming for help. (Note to self: if a young woman travelling alone asks you to join her for dinner, don’t tell her anything that may lead her to believe you might try to eat her.) I tried to reassure her that I was completely harmless, but that only made me seem creepier. Eventually, I shut my mouth and changed the subject.

We ate at a fairly tacky Mexican bar, where the food dripped predictably (but deliciously) with oil. Laura told me about her work as an artist: she liked to work with tar to create cell-like forms on canvas. She also worked as a yoga and meditation instructor for homeless men. As usual, I felt inept by comparison, but I didn’t let it get to me. We enjoyed a few beers and a few laughs and I ate a Mexican-style fried ice cream for dessert. I probably shouldn’t have gotten out of there alive.

The next day, I resolved to walk, which seemed essential if I was to survive New York’s food. And I knew that tomorrow I would be meeting the friend of a friend from home who was working on Fifth Avenue and, ever-cautious and not having ventured properly into Manhattan yet, I wanted to know where to go before I had to go there.

It was overcast and a little drizzly, but I strolled through and around Prospect Park in Brooklyn. It was quiet and peaceful and the colours were muted: the burnt oranges of the fallen leaves, the black and silver trunks of damp, dormant trees. Despite the peaceful scene, all I could think of were the films of Woody Allen, where characters would wander around similar parks on grey days exploring their neuroses. (Sidenote: a scenario came to mind in which I would spend time with my therapist discussing my unhealthy obsession with the films of Woody Allen. How postmodern.)

Despite my intention to walk directly across the park, I found myself back more or less where I started, so I opted to take the long walk around the northern end park to get to the other side. After an hour or so, I ended up in 7^th Avenue, where I wolfed down a delicious felafel plate for lunch and finally bought a New York guidebook. I hopped on a train into Manhattan and walked around awhile, though by this stage the drizzle had turned to rain, and I was without an umbrella. I found the place on lovely 5^th Avenue where I was to meet my friend's friend tomorrow and strolled around awhile, hoping that I might stumble across a CD store. (Where others look for Statues of Liberty and Central Parks, I look for soundtracks. Sick, I know.)

With no such luck, I ventured towards Times Square where my map told me the Virgin Megastore was. It was there alright, but if there was a way in, I couldn’t find it. I spent an hour or so doing laps of Times Square in the rain, hunting desperately for a way into the CD store, but it seemed to be closed for renovations. The footpaths (sidewalks) were hard enough to traverse without having to worry about staying dry and dodging fellow tourists, and it was getting late, so I decided to head home.

Hoping for something at least vaguely fat-free, I ate dinner at an atrocious Japanese/Thai/whatever restaurant in Brooklyn, where everything seemed to have spent too long in the microwave and was over-priced to boot. My introduction to New York had not been a great success. And it was the first day of rain I had had on my whole trip. Was my good luck beginning to run out? Desperate to avoid another (relatively) miserable day, I decided to enlist the help of a local. I went home and made arrangements to meet a TravBuddy, Amir, the following day.

Breakfast at Zenobia’s got me hooked on bagels with cream cheese. I used to be closed off to bagels, constantly disappointed by their dryness or lack of substance. But Zenobia’s cinnamon and raisin bagels were dense and just slightly chewy, and the cream cheese added some moisture and dimension. My open-mind policy was paying off.

I worked some more on my blog during the morning, then headed off at midday to meet Kobi. An expat living with her husband and young son in New York, Kobi had been tipped off about my visit by my great friend from Melbourne, Cath, and we arranged to meet during her lunch break so I could get some tips on where she thought I should go. Our half-hour lunch turned into something quite powerful for me: just to be in the presence of a fellow Australian in that huge unthawed melting pot gave me a sense of security and strength that was so comforting. We chatted about her time in the States and about her homesickness and I was relieved to hear she hadn’t found New York to be a bed of roses.

Travelling alone had allowed me to revert to my basest insecurities: the feeling that everyone around me knew exactly what they were doing and that I was just an interloper, or worse: a pretender. Meeting with Kobi helped to remind me that countless numbers of people had experienced what I was feeling at that particular time. In this way, my trip had helped me to reconnect with human beings. For too long, I’d played it safe and avoided risk but it was becoming so clear to me that adversity seemed to bring out my best: my ability to fully appreciate people, my openness to new experiences, my sense of connection.

I’m not sure if Kobi recognised how significant our meeting was for me, but I hope at least that she enjoyed it as much as I did.

After our lunch of lobster bisque and sandwiches, I took the walk up 5^th Avenue towards the Guggenheim, where I had arranged to meet Amir. This was a walk of about forty blocks but I enjoyed it immensely. It afforded me my first glimpses of magnificent Central Park and the lovely architecture of the Upper East Side.

I found Amir sitting outside the Guggenheim, looking like an elfin Cat Stevens, dressed in fashionable (and practical) layers of designer knits. We found the museum a little hard to navigate, especially as two levels were closed for renovation, but what we saw was wonderful. Following my negative reaction to the Impressionists at the Musee d’Orsay, I made a particular effort to appreciate a Manet painting of a woman in front of a mirror. She is facing away from the viewer and her face is not visible in the mirror, but there is an immediacy and poignancy to the scene that made me at least rethink my earlier dismissal of Manet.

Also wonderful were some Brancusi sculptures which particularly excited Amir. Having worked in sculpture before, he could fully appreciate the perfection of these irregularly shaped and seemingly ‘dropped-in-place’ pieces. And I, having never properly considered sculpture, grilled him for his insights. We also shared admiration for a painting by Modigliani. 

Despite my feeling at the time that we were on the same page, he later (after a few beers) referred harshly to our initial meeting as ‘when I was playing art critic.’ Fair enough. But I don’t regret it. And he may have only been half-serious anyway.

We took the Metro down to Chelsea, where he had a dive bar he wanted us to visit. (In America, the term ‘dive bar’ carries an almost affectionate connotation, certainly more than it would in Australia. It’s the kind of place you’d see in a cop drama from the 80s where the NYPD’s finest would go after work to drown their sorrows.)

We took seats at Amir’s preferred spot – the bar – and ordered some house burgers. He got chatting to the barman, a silver-haired curmudgeon who spoke almost in code, but Amir was on his wavelength (most of the time). Over the course of the next ninety minutes or so, we consumed seven pints of house ale, though both Amir and the barman lost count. In the end we were charged about half what we should have been, which was mostly down to the fact that the barman knew Amir and wanted him to return. Or that was Amir’s explanation.

We took a leisurely stroll down to the waterfront, which afforded a great view of Jersey Shore by night. It soon got drizzly, though, so we took refuge in another of Amir’s favoured watering holes, Puck Fair. Having too good a time to stop, I ordered a drink called the Bee’s Knees, which combined about seventy-three different types of alcohol. Before we’d left, I’d had another, plus something else whose name I can’t remember. Amir told me about his adventures as a fashion designer, mostly of accessories and handbags. He had worked for some pretty big names (even I knew them) but seemed pretty disillusioned by the vapid and ruthless fashion industry. I told him how the Australian film industry felt kind of similar, even though I'm yet to even really scrape its surface.

The conversation and laughs flowed easily. I found Amir, despite his occasional total bluntness, to be almost totally free of judgement. I hadn't realised until then just how much I treasure that quality in others. It was a truly great night. I don’t remember feeling so free. 

Until the morning, when I became the prisoner of a vicious hangover.