1. First Impressions

Arrived in Manhattan (Midtown East) in a yellow cab driven by a Russian and the buildings just hit you in the face. You know there are going to be skyscrapers (the Woolworth Building, the Empire State, the Chrysler Building, and so on) but every single building is taller than anything in Newcastle, and in Paris come to that (if we discount the Maine Montparnasse). They are in your face the whole time, and you walk round with your head in the air and mouth open. The older brown-stone ones, the art deco ones, the new one-way-mirror glass ones that reflect the one next door, the pointy-top ones, the triangular ones, the ones built like Lego blocks that get thinner the higher they go.

It means there is no view from our flat of course – except of the top of the CitiCorp building and a lot of brown brick walls with the back ends of air-conditioning units mooning out of the windows. We are near a number of hotels – the Waldorf Astoria for one, but closer to the Marriott, pronounced like the Marie in Marie-Celeste and the -ott as in blot. The Marie – ott has a super-strong air-conditioning system whose fans produce a constant background noise. We have learned to sleep with it – but not yet with our own air-conditioning on.

The other irksome noise is that of the yellow cabs. Every other vehicle seems to be a cab and they seem to have squeaky brakes, the noise of which, at night from the flat, we first thought was the sound of squealing tyres going too fast round corners (Osborne Road conditioning), and it does go on all night.

Can there really be enough people around to fill up these office blocks and residential blocks? As in the UK, you see people gathered outside office blocks or by the rear service entrance of Marie-otts all smoking since the mayor has recently banned all smoking on work premises, including restaurants and bars, but there are really only three or four at the bottom of each 40 storey building. Perhaps it takes too long to get down to the bottom, so they give it up as a bad job or cheat somehow. To be investigated.

It really does seem as though we are two nations separated by a common language. The Russian cabbie told us he could understand us better than he could the locals. I too have problems especially on the phone –it seems partly the speed, although I know that’s just a common false impression for language learners and le nooyoikais is a foreign language to me. I took a bus all the way down to City Hall yesterday and in response to my question about where the bus stop was for the return journey, I understood the driver to say, with a flick of his head, by Jenners. I saw roughly where he meant and when I crossed the road I saw it was a shop called J&R. I need to adjust my listening.

Buses are great of course, if you get the right stop. I found the right line on Lexington Avenue and saw, not a yellow line on the pavement as the guide book said, but a red, white and blue sign that indicated M101 and M103 – M being for Manhattan. I wondered why buses were driving past me – I stretched out a tentative hand and the next bus swerved out of the bus lane to give me an even wider berth. I walked up the street to the next stop and found some locals waiting –exclusively older female and Afro-Americans – no change there then – and found it said that this was a limited-stop stop, which means even the limited-stop buses stop there. And, sure enough, one did.

A lady who winters in Florida and spring-and-summers in Noo Yoik, sat down beside me with a pile of polythene-covered library books – one week’s reading - she loves Ed McBain. She gave me a running commentary on the Stuyvesant Town and the Peter Cooper village, which seem like US gated communities and where there was no point in going to look since there were no shops or anything, but said I should go to the South Street Seaport, where I guess there are shops.

Shopping is not an unpleasant experience- the assistants and cashiers do all say “Have a nice day” – but they sound as though they mean it and that raises the spirits. My Nat West debit card causes as few raised eyebrows but it does work, and I am asked if I want any cashback – there’s globalisation for you. I can’t get over the amount of recognisable European food – don’t the Americans make any cheese of their own apart from something that resembles Kraft Cheese slices? And where can I find some ordinary semi-skimmed cow’s milk? The fat-free organic is a bit thin, but it does all come from a cow; the Fat Free ultra-pasteurized Half & Half’s second ingredient is corn syrup and claims to be free of most other things such as cholesterol, vitamin C, most calories and even fat - except for a “trivial amount of fat” from the added cream – it sure tastes of cream but drowns out the coffee taste in the morning.

And where can I get a decent cup of coffee? I made the mistake of going into a Starbucks to regroup in a doubtful area I had wandered into when searching out the Bodum shop. The only thing I recognised on the big sign above the counter was “mocha”. I indicated by sign language that I wanted a small (should I have said regular?) cup. The assistant picked up the smallest paper cup and I nodded – he shouted: “one tall mocha”. Don’t ask. I declined the squirty cream on top, but the second assistant remembered too late and had to ladle it out, but then added further half&half. I didn’t pick up the straw and, by the time I had finished it, found the chocolate had gravitated to the bottom. Jennifer tells me I should go for a flat white.

I say ‘doubtful area’ because I went into a discount store and found a pack of six clothes hangers for $1.99, but in order to get out of the shop I had to have the receipt that had been pinned to the plastic bag signed by a black guy the size of “the Refrigerator” on the door.

Bodum by the way because, despite the flat being well equipped with an all stainless steel set of ice-cream scoop, pizza cutter, beer-can opener, corkscrew, potato peeler, tablespoon measures and an over-complicated coffee percolator, it has no simple cafetiere. Indeed, the word ‘cafetiere’ or even ‘caffatier’ (with an increasingly desolate rising intonation) evokes no response. I did find a kitchenware store that had everything including very helpful staff who recognised the name Bodum and my description of a glass container and plunger and told me I needed a “French press”. Le Monde, by the way, is even harder to find than a coffee maker.

To get to Bodum’s I take my first ride on the subway and on my way back I confidently assured a German tourist that, yes, the incoming train was going ‘uptown’. There seems a lack of subway maps both on the platforms and in the carriages. It appears a bit dirty, but only in contrast to the streets that are completely free of litter and dog mess. Just as well since I shall again today be walking around with my head in the air.