American walls

One thing that comes with democracy is the right to paint on public walls. It struck me that a lot of Americans seem to exercise this right, for better or worse.

1. Cambridge

2. Near Northeastern University, Boston.

3. Some very strange people in this one on Mass Ave. Look closely.

4. Is that John C. Reilly? Can anyone explain? (From Chelsea, NYC)

5. Pretty but confusing. (Near Prospect Park Station, Brooklyn.)

6. I Heart My Hood. Fort George, NY.

7. Who's Your Uncle? Park Slope, Brooklyn.

Days 37 & 38: Such sweet sorrow.

Over breakfast, I chatted with a Finnish guy named Nikko, who was also traveling alone and for pleasure. I finally got the chance to ask a real Finnish person if the coffee consumption in Finland was as extremely high as I had heard, and he confirmed it for me. And judging by the way Nikko wolfed down his unwhitened, unsweetened black stuff over breakfast, it must be true.

I arranged to meet Amir in DUMBO, the area Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass (and subject of Jerry Seinfeld’s joke: “They only added the ‘Overpass’ bit so they wouldn’t have to call it ‘DUMB’.”) Apparently it was so named in the ‘70s to deter potential developers from moving in and gentrifying. Typically, it didn’t work, and signs of development are rife, though there’s still enough of the ‘unpolished gem’ in it to remind visitors of its glory days as the backdrop for a number of hard-boiled crime films.

We ate at a popular little patisserie named Almondine then took a walk under the Manhattan Bridge through to the Brooklyn Bridge, which remains a truly impressive engineering and architectural achievement. We strolled along the waterfront to Brooklyn Heights, one of the trendier neighborhoods in New York and, according to Amir, former home to Heath Ledger and Michelle Williams. I could certainly see why an Australian might want to settle there. Its small-scale feel and pleasant, unpretentious shopping strip did recall something of home for me, though I couldn’t say exactly what.

We took the Metro north almost the entire length of Manhattan to Fort George (which took the best part of an hour) where Amir had proposed we visit The Cloisters, a collection of art and artefacts from the Middle Ages housed in an imposing purpose-built museum with medieval architectural elements, such as columns, lintels, corbels and fountains, integrated into the design.

It was yet another wonderful museum with ethically murky origins. The bulk of the collection once belonged to a man name George Grey Barnard who, according to the brochure, “purchased medieval sculpture and architectural elements primarily from French farmers and…local magistrates who had incorporated into their properties works of art abandoned in the aftermath of the French Revolution.” Not being an expert on the matter I’ll leave it at this: such articles that sat harmoniously in the Musee de Cluny in Paris sat here a little incongruously.

Still, this was a thrilling collection, more beautiful than the aforementioned Cluny, but less comprehensive. In many ways, the two complement each other: as you’d expect, many of the tapestries, altarpieces and stained glass windows are very similar. The Cluny has the Lady With the Unicorn tapestries, and the Cloisters has a collection of tapestries narrating the hunt and capture of the Unicorn. All are beautiful and it’s wonderful to have them on display in sympathetic settings anywhere in the world.

The Cloisters, as their name suggests, have something that sets them apart: a series of four cloister gardens, the most impressive of which, the Bonnefont Cloister, overlooks the Hudson River and the George Washington Bridge. In this garden are espaliered trees the likes of which I have never seen, recalling the formal design of a Jewish menorah, and 250 herb species cultivated in the Middle Ages. Like the Gardner Museum in Boston, it inspired a sacred kind of awe.

We caught the train back to Williamsburg and had a couple of quiet tequila chasers at a bar where the surly (but deceptively sweet-looking) bargirl let down her guard enough to compliment Amir on his homemade metal bracelets. Fortunately, chasing shots of tequila with pots of beer makes me love everyone, so I just kept saying how sweet she was.

We walked on through trendy Williamsburg (which evoked a tidied-up Brunswick Street) and browsed around a great DVD store. Unfortunately, the DVDs were only for hire, and neither of us was a member. Still, it gave me an opportunity to prove to Amir that many of the movies I’d made reference to during the week were real and of interest to people other than myself.

It was a longish walk to our evening meal at Moto in South Williamsburg, one of Amir’s favourite restaurants. It was packed when we arrived but the very friendly doorlady told us we could wait at the bar. Fine by me. Only fifteen or so minutes (and a couple beers) later, we had a table – clearly one of the best in a very cramped and popular joint.

The menu added trendy elements to American favourites and the prices were very reasonable. I had a great manchego for starters with delicious quince paste to help it go down. For mains (or in backwards US lingo, ‘entrée’) I had macaroni cheese (or in backwoods US lingo ‘mac and cheese’). It was described verbatim in the menu as ‘aepler macronnen: swiss alps mac and cheese with bundnerkase cheese and homemade apple sauce,’ but it was macaroni cheese. Having once declared on national television that macaroni cheese was my culinary speciality, it had a lot to live up to. It was very nice, but not as good as mine. (Note: this may be five-and-a-half weeks of restaurant dining speaking. By this stage I would have given any number of limbs for a home-cooked meal, even if I had cooked it.)

Soon the live music started up, a whimsical trio of bass, clarinet and piano accordion. It was perfectly pitched, both musically and to the mood of the restaurant. I so enjoyed it I decided to take a photo but, in my lightly inebriated state, forgot to turn off the flash and was promptly rebuked by a passing waiter.

Having gone most of my trip without ever really becoming an ugly tourist, I took this very personally. Such was my disappointment in myself at having broken the unwritten rules of my hosts, who had been nothing but welcoming, I became a little teary. Despite Amir’s reassurances that I had done nothing wrong, my angst soon combined with the after-effects of tequila and beer, and the thought that my trip was almost at an end, to sink me into a deep depression. I started saying things to Amir like, ‘I don’t know if I’ll ever feel this kind of freedom again.’ I then continued to weep silently the whole way home.

To an extent, the feeling of impending loss felt true. The trip had given me a sense of freedom and self-reliance I had never experienced, and knowing that there were only a few days left made me feel like that sense was about to die, never to be resurrected. I’d had such an atypically high number of encounters with perfection and I didn’t want them to stop.

Of course, this was totally irrational. I knew well and good that perfection was where one found it and I had plenty of it back home. And anyway, there was no reason I couldn’t attempt the same kind of trip in the future if I wanted to, and I would stay in touch with many of the great people I’d met. I had no reason to mourn them.

Whatever the reason, the feeling of loss stayed with me, albeit in a less acute form, for at least the next couple of days.

I woke on Saturday with the feeling that I just wanted to go easy on myself and get myself in order before flying out on Sunday. I ate breakfast with a Belgian couple – Sylvie and Michael – who, by the sounds of it, had been far more active than I had, even walking the length of the Brooklyn Bridge (while I just walked under it). I was in no shape to be attempting anything like that, so I resolved just to do one thing at a time.

First: my washing, which only took an hour or so at the laundromat on Flatbush. After that, I decided to take myself into Manhattan and just walk around. There was a market in Union Square, which I overheard someone say was mostly for tourists, but it was nice nonetheless, lending a small-town feel to part of a very big town. I happened to stumble across one of the biggest used CD stores in New York (okay, maybe I had checked the address before I left…) and purchased a few very cheap soundtracks. I could have bought more, but was feeling disciplined.

I walked around 14^th, 15^th and 16^th Streets looking for some lunch and eventually settled on a pretentious-looking sushi place. I ate a bento box, and a woman with a decidedly nervous energy, dining alone, sat down next to me. She seemed keen to engage with me for some reason but waited a long time before saying anything. Finally she blurted out, “What did you order?” as if we’d already been chatting for some time. I told her it was the vegetarian bento box, which disappointed her; she wanted the chicken, so she said no more. That was it. I left.

I took the train to the Brooklyn Flea (Market) in Williamsburg, where Amir and a friend of his sold their wares on weekends. The market was housed in the lavish, re-purposed Williamsburg Savings Bank (pictured below) and was densely populated with irritating hipsters, desperate to show off just how alternative they could be. At least in Melbourne the hipsters have the decency to be a little bit cowed and gloomy. These hipsters all seemed to be laughing and having a jolly hip time. I, meanwhile, could not locate Amir for the life of me. I did about four laps of the market before I gave up and went for a walk around the shopping mall across the road – an infinitely more familiar and comforting experience, recalling the worst of Werribee Plaza, only darker and dirtier.

After one final lap of the flea market, on which I purchased some handmade chocolates for Zenobia, I resolved to sit outside in the freezing cold until closing time, assuming Amir would materialise, but he didn’t. My hands and face thoroughly benumbed, I headed home to check my email and found an angry (well, mock-angry) message from Amir wondering where I had gotten to. He had headed home early from the market feeling tired and exhausted. We arranged to meet up for a final dinner and were dining a short time later in Park Slope, only one station away from my B&B.

We chose a very nice Thai restaurant called Long Tan. One of the offerings on the menu was a kangaroo teriyaki salad, which Amir was very keen to try, but the friendly waitress told us they’d had some trouble getting the kangaroo in that week. Fortunately, the green papaya salad was sensational – crisp and tangy – and the satays were great. For mains we had a juicy, tender pan-seared duck breast with tamarind sauce, and downed it all with a fantastic South African Chardonnay. It was a great last New York meal, and I managed to just relax and enjoy it.

We headed to a nearby bar and I upset the doorman by trying to enter without offering my ID. Amir graciously explained that I was from Australia and the situation was defused, but I couldn’t help remarking inside on just how ridiculous it was that I should need to be asked for ID when Blind Freddy could tell you I’m over 21. Amir ordered some closing night Scotches for us, and we took up pole positions at one end of the boules court (?!). I tried to finish my Scotch but it was wasted on me, and I didn’t want to drink too much anyway, knowing I would have to navigate JFK Airport the next day (a decision that ultimately paid off). Amir was very good about it.

He walked me back to the station and we said our farewells. The last five days had been so much fun, and we’d developed such a bond that it was hard to say goodbye. He had been my compass, my personal assistant, my tour guide, my stylist, my drinking buddy, my confidante, and a kindred spirit in what could otherwise have been an alienating town. I knew I had made a friend for life, and I just tried to be grateful for it.

Days 35 & 36: Bites of the Big Apple

Despite my hangover, I woke at eight and went down for breakfast, reluctant to disappoint Zenobia by not showing up. I soldiered through my bagels and went back up to sleep a few more hours. Vaguely refreshed, I headed out with the intention of having a proper walk around Central Park and visiting the Museum of Natural History. I got off the train at 86^th Street and walked around the Upper West Side in search of something ludicrously American to take into Central Park for lunch in the sun.

For the first time in my life, I visited a Subway (‘sandwich’ restaurant), and couldn’t have been more vague. They kept asking me questions, thousands of questions about what kind of bread I wanted, what I wanted on my sandwich, what kind of sauce. I was in no mood for such grilling and made the mistake of saying, ‘Everything,’ ending up with a concoction of bread, meat and salad roughly the size of a fire hydrant.

I hauled it into Central Park and found a bench overlooking one of the main lawns. Most of my sandwich ended up on the ground, but what I did manage to get into my mouth was tangy, salty, sweet, sour and savoury all at the same time. Everyone walking past had either a baby or a dog, sometimes both, or multiples, and most of the dogs were baby-sized or smaller. The mood was calm, the sky was clear and the breeze was gentle. A great moment.

I had been prepared for a park of overwhelming size, and there’s no question that Central Park is big. David in Boston had remarked on the fact that New York had a forest at its centre, and others I knew who had visited all said how big the place was. To me, however, it didn’t feel so overwhelmingly big. The high-rise buildings on its perimeter serve as a constant reminder of the city, and I found I had crossed from west to east without even intending to. Its north-south length is certainly more remarkable, but I never felt, as David did, that I was lost in the woods. This is in no way a complaint. Circling the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir with the sun beaming down, strolling ever-so-leisurely by The Pool and its bright patches of crocuses and daffodils, and just being in something that felt like nature away from the fumes and bustle of the city were all experiences worth cherishing.

I took a long walk back to the Museum of Natural History, down Amsterdam Avenue, past corner deli after corner deli, just as school was finishing up for the day and kids were making their ways home. I reached the Museum around 4:30 and was told I could either pay $16 for the ticket or wait fifteen minutes and get in free, leaving me an hour to look around. Judging that fate was helping me avoid museum fatigue, I waited out the fifteen minutes in the lobby and took only an hour to look around.

Of greatest interest to me was an exhibition on the evolution of the human brain, which offered insights into the ways in which our ability to use language, music and art have evolved since caveman days. I had never really considered these human functions in an evolutionary context, having always associated them with ‘civilisation’. Hopefully now I know better.

At 5:30, an announcement told us we had fifteen minutes until closing time, so I started heading towards what I thought was the exit. Turned out you can’t go out the way you came in, and I had a hell of a time trying to find the actual exit, indulging for a few moments in the fantasy of being locked inside the Museum of Natural History for the night, with its brightly coloured, life-sized dioramas of taxidermied animals and cabinets full of vicious-looking primitive tools and weapons.

The problem was: every door seemed to have an ‘exit’ sign hanging above it. I went up lifts and down stairs, around corners and along corridors until I found someone who could actually tell me how to get out. I found comfort in the fact that there had been nothing in the exhibition that mentioned an evolutionary instinct for finding ways out of poorly signed museums.

I met Amir out the front and we decided against any further drinking, opting instead to try our luck at the movies. He was keen to see Tim Burton’s take on Alice in Wonderland, and I was running on an open-mind policy. We watched the film and I was bored stiff. I have now seen that film and Avatar in 3D and I cannot understand why anyone would bother with it. For me, it added nothing to the experience. I would be much more interested to see small-scale human dramas, such as Kramer Vs Kramer or Woody Allen’s Interiors, in 3D. At least then the characters might feel real, unlike Johnny Depp’s plainly irritating Mad Hatter.

Anyway, after the movie, we headed back to Union Square Station (a place to which I would soon find Amir had a natural gravity) and grabbed a pepperoni pizza at one of New York’s oldest pizzerias: Tony’s, where the walls are covered in strange murals and photos of celebrities who had dropped in, such as Ron Perlman. The pizza, dripping with oil, was extremely tasty and there were free refills on the Coke. I headed home for an early night.

Feeling vastly fresher and more energised the next day, I met Amir outside his gym in midtown Manhattan and we went for Japanese at a popular little place nearby. He had an itinerary in mind and I agreed to it unquestioningly.

First we took the train over to Long Island City in Queens and had a walk around the charming Socrates Sculpture Park, right on the East River. We were particularly taken by a tree which neither of us thought remarkable at first until we realised it was a piece of sculpture, crafted from steel, glue, vinyl and paint. The artist, Juniper Perlis, had shaped the tree to create a windblown effect and kept the ‘foliage’ deliberately sparse. Gimmicky, perhaps, but still a thing of beauty.

Its Zen stylings were a good warm-up for the delights of the Isamu Noguchi museum only a block or two away. A small, extremely quiet exhibition (we encountered only one other visitor), the Noguchi sets a handful of its works in a tranquil Japanese garden-style setting, while the remainder are housed in a stark re-purposed industrial building. It is apparently the only museum in the US to be founded by an artist during his lifetime and dedicated to his work. As with the Gardner museum in Boston, the gall of such a venture was not lost on me, but Noguchi’s monumental works in stone were worthy of it. I was particularly glad to be viewing them with Amir who, with his experience in sculpture, could impart to me a sense of the pain and tedium Noguchi must have endured to create them.

Never one to venture anywhere too close by, Amir then led me through two train trips down to Lower Manhattan, where we caught the Staten Island Ferry, just for the hell of it. Arguably one of New York’s best free attractions, the Ferry offers great views of Manhattan and Liberty Island (which was further out from Manhattan than I had envisaged). The wind was bracingly cold but the view across the water at sunset, underscored by the soothing hum of the engine and the lapping of waves against the hull, offered the kind of serene moment I hadn’t expected in that huge bustling town. It was easy to see how taking the Ferry could become a part of everyday life for the residents of (otherwise maligned) Staten Island. To celebrate, I ate an apple Amir had stolen from his gym. It wasn't big.

We walked around the Staten Island Terminal for a short while and then headed back to Manhattan, this time taking our vantage points at the very front of the Ferry. I told Amir I had heard about the relatively recent crash that had occurred with a docking ferry and he was gobsmacked. Not for the first time, he told me that I knew way too much about America, and I could see what he meant. This observation of his usually came with an imperative like, ‘Get a life.’

We took the very long train ride up through Manhattan to Harlem, where Sylvia’s Soul Food restaurant awaited us. Acting on a recommendation from my sister, Jen, a longtime lover of all things NYC, it was the first specific place I had requested to visit and Amir was more than happy to shepherd me.

As we were guided to our seats I felt decidedly spotlighted by my own skin, but on closer inspection saw that there were a number of other diners not of African heritage. Not that it bothered me; I had grown somewhat accustomed by that stage to being out of water.

The waiters were extremely friendly and attentive, which made me relax further. Jen had recommended the corn bread and candied yams, but I didn’t even have to order the corn bread; four sizeable blocks appeared on the table within a few moments of my arrival. I sensed I was not in for a light meal.

Keen to have the closest thing to an authentic experience I could muster, I ordered the fried half-chicken with collard greens and candied yams, and one of Sylvia’s signature cocktails called a ‘Waiting to Exhale.’ Amir asked the waiter if the cocktail had been named after the movie or vice versa, but he seemed unsure, and I, for once, hadn’t seen the movie, so was of no use on the matter. (Note: I still have no intention of seeing it.)

The meal was enormous and delicious. The chicken was extremely deep fried but not too greasy, and the collard greens offered welcome vegetable. The candied yams were a little too candied for my liking, smothered in a sickly sweet jelly that almost threatened to overpower the whole meal. But we left unmistakably satisfied. By this stage it was quite late, so I headed home.