...so good they named it twice. Or something...
I am just about recovered from my long weekend in the Big Apple. Well, I did recover physically a while ago but there has been a certain amount of catching-up, and anticipation of BahHumbug Day, to do.
It was non-stop excitement and non-stop.
When the Victoria Line decided to conk out at Victoria I thought that that was a foretaste of problems to come, but, actually, that was the only thing that went wrong in the entire trip. And me knowing Victoria like the inside of my hand, I was able to get to the secret taxi rank whilst thousands queued at the well-known one.
Instant check-in at Heathrow, and then time to get something to eat. Surrounded by paparazzi, as it happens. I was chatting to the paps, they were awaiting the Spice Girls. Which was sort of exciting. I am not disappointed at not seeing them, although it would have been mildly interesting to witness the process. As it was, I engaged my cynicism gene. I am almost positively certain that if they had wished to slip in discretely, it would have been within the powers of Heathrow to afford them VIP treatment. But presumably, the paparazzi in pursuit is their lifeblood, all carefully co-ordinated by a PR machine.
We joined the security queue just at the right moment, when the man started asking people on flights at 1630 and 1635 to step forward (we were on the 1635). It amused me that other people had been standing for half an hour or more in vain. Suckers...And by the time we had finished in Duty Free our flight was being called. The flight over was without incident. Because we had booked our tickets separately, we were not initially seated together, but that was changed at the gate. I was sitting next to a slender woman who was sitting next to her small daughter. The seats in front were taken by a large number of children of Primary School age and below and there were quite a few more small children in our part of the plane. I was slightly apprehensive at the implications, but every child was impeccably behaved; I only really noticed the presence of any small children when, at the precise point my ears began really to hurt on descent, a wailing came from a few rows back!
Immigration was a pain. Literally. We queued for a very long time in a room without any seats. I amused myself by eavesdropping on the Italian cabin crew being very very rude about French people. I always feel it is unwise to make assumptions about the language skills of random people standing nearby!
Regarding my criminal past, I had been advised to lie. In the event it wasn't necessary. The green slip of paper merely asked for details of criminal convictions involving drugs, moral turpitude or imprisonment of more than five years. As I don't know what moral turpitude is, and the others certainly don't apply, I did not lie and have a clear conscience. As we went through, the Homeland Security Official asked us if we were a family. I said yes, he asked the relationship, I said living together and engaged. He said 'you're not a family - yet'.
Insolent sod, I thought, how dare you pass judgement? Would it make a difference if we have bred, would the presence or otherwise of products of breeding be material? What do you say to gay couples who are 'civil partnered' or married? I deferentially replied "If you say so..."
As we strolled to the taxi stand, I reflected to Jimmy how nice it would be to visit a foreign country where we wouldn't be constantly harangued by people trying to get you into their shop or restaurant. However, we were immediately confronted by taxi touts who kept telling us how long the taxi line was. I must admit it did look long, but illegal taxis are the oldest trick in the book and a constant in every tourist destination. I can't believe that people still fall for that one. Just when I thought we might be stood there all night, a cavalcade of twenty taxis turned up. The driver hands a slip of paper to an official, who hands it to me. This has the driver's badge number and instructions on how to complain. The official told me, what a friend had already told me - the fare to Manhattan is $45 plus $4 toll plus tip.
And we were at our Midtown hotel in fifteen minutes. I repeat, fifteen minutes - JFK to Manhattan. Is that a record? But even in that time Jimmy managed to get travel sick, so all he wanted to do was get a beer to settle his stomach. (Alternative medicine?) The area around our hotel didn't seem very salubrious at that time of night but we fell upon a Plastic Paddy pub. We stepped outside for a cigarette and I suggested he looked up. He was peering at the signs over the pub so I said "Up! up!"
"That's tall!" he said. Yes, I said, that's the Empire State Building. It's quite famous for being tall!
As we turned in at 1 am, I reflected that my body didn't seem to know that it was 6 am body time. I am good at that adjustment at the start of a holiday, totally useless at the end.
For me, all that mattered on the Friday was the tickets we had to the opera. A heady mixture of excitement and sick with nerves, trying not to think of all the things that might go wrong - Plácido cancelling, me not being able to find Lincoln Center, us being captured by the White Slave Traders and being whisked away to a seedy part of Outer New York. Or New Jersey. Every time I received a text I was sick with nerves in case someone was letting me know Plácido had cancelled.
But we did manage to do a bit of Fifth Avenue - wandering around Lord and Taylor, peering at the Christmas Tree and Ice Rink in Rockefeller Plaza, and popping into St Pat's Cathedral. I then decided to flag down a taxi and say "Take us to Greenwich village, somewhere where there are restaurants." An entirely random decision, but I wanted a decent lunch. Himself was having severe motion sickness, but the taxi set us down outside a Plastic Paddy Pub so that was alright. He was Himself after a beer.
We strolled around looking at menus outside restaurants, eventually deciding on a Spanish one that looked attractive. We went in and asked for a table, the hostess said 'fifteen minutes' which was fine by us. I then noticed a framed photo just inside the door. Presumably of restaurant management posing with a rather famous Spaniard (clue - he's a singer and conductor). Jimmy groaned 'I can't escape from That Man' but conceded that it was probably tantamount to a recommendation. And we certainly had a fine meal, which set me up nicely for the walk back to our hotel. Over thirty blocks, did I complain? And all for his Travel Sickness, otherwise I would have hailed a cab.
We managed to get a lie-down before getting ready to go out. I was nervous about my ability to navigate the Subway, about how long the line at the Box Office would be, and still sick with nerves in case I had come all this way only to find a rare Domingo cancellation. In the event, the Subway was unproblematic and we arrived with more than an hour to spare. Before we had even entered the opera house I already spotted a familiar face. I commented to Jimmy "I keep seeing that woman, at Covent Garden, when we went to Berlin, and now here. I think she follows Plácido around the world..." I don't know why he gave me a strange look.
After Iphigenie en Tauride (yes, I will write a review later, don't fret) we were both hungry. For some reason we ended up at Hard Rock Cafe at Times Square. By the Restrooms I spotted Billy Joel's motorbike. I was sort of impressed until I remembered that the first time I had visited the States I had spent some time with my Aunt's God-daughter who often used to spot Billy Joel in the local supermarket. Having noted 'Allentown' on the flight route map, I embarked on a Billy Joel Tribute Weekend. When trying to decide which way to get the Subway at one point
I said 'Uptown, because I'm an Uptown Girl.' A song I later heard in another Plastic Paddy Pub.
On the Saturday we had a big breakfast before heading to Lincoln Center for Romeo et Juliette (review later, I promise). Himself was moaning, I didn't come here for Bloody Opera, to which I said 'Fuck You' because there was no way I would have organised the trip without the opera, he decided to tag along later, knowing full well what my plans were!
After R&J I phoned Pampano and reserved a table. Because of Jimmy's travel sickness and my misreading of the Subway map I decided that the only way to get there was walking. I'm sure at some other time it would have been a pleasant stroll, but at approximately five pm on a Saturday ten days before Christmas? Do me a favour! When the sidewalks were reasonably clear people decided to walk really slowly, strung out across the pavements. Grr, Bloody Tourists I moaned, forgetting I wasn't in my own city, where I hate Bloody Tourists. Also, my superb navigational skills hadn't taken into consideration that we would be crossing Fifth at Rockefeller Plaza. Nor having to pass Santa outside Radio City Music Hall. Grr, BahHumbug, it's only a man dressed up as Santa, you don't have to have your photo taken with him, not if you're blocking my route!
Pampano was definitely worth the walk! We started with cocktails and Guacomole, which set us up well. At the waitress's recommendation we took the Signature Dishes - Tacos de Langosta and Huachinango, with Platanos Fritos. Hmm, Snapper and Plantain, very Sarf London - but not exactly served Sarf London style. My only criticism was that there was a bean in the salad that I didn't especially like. Broad bean I think, I'm not sure, but I have never cared for its taste. But one can't blame a restaurant for serving an ingredient I have never liked! For pud I had an almond tart; Jimmy had ice cream, which passed his formidable ice cream test. After the main course we stood up to pop outside for a cigarette, the waitress was really worried, is anything wrong. Not at all, we assured her, just popping out for a cigarette! When we had finished, and I was in the restroom, Jimmy was telling the waitress why we were there, and wondered if if I could take any memorabilia away, so she suggested he asked the hostess for a souvenir wine list. I now have a wine list from Pampano, so maybe next time I see Plácido, I might ask him to sign it! We only really went there because it's his restaurant, but, you know, we know a thing or two about restaurants and about food, and I would recommend it to anybody (except vegetarians!). I suppose it helps if you're a fish/seafood fan but there is some meat on the menu. Everything was just perfect, the service, the decor, everything.
On the Sunday after another hearty breakfast, we did a rapid fire attack on the menswear department of Macy's. I was not entirely convinced that Jimmy was getting the bargains he believed he was. Sure, he was getting Calvin Klein shirts a lot cheaper than he would at home, but personally I see no point in paying a premium for a brand. At least they don't have a logo on them.
We then met up with Richard off the internet, whom I have met a couple of times in London. We agreed to meet outside Carnegie Hall, I asked how to get to Carnegie Hall. Disappointingly, he said, 'Get the Subway to 57th and 7th' whereas the real answer is 'practice, practice, practice...'! He had a number of suggestions at what to do, but by that time my body had declared walking to be totally impossible. First of all, owing to my desperate flight from Macy's due to an unfortunate need to retch (JFK, the Met restrooms, foot of the Empire State building, Richard Tucker Square, Macy's...I picked my retching points in NY well...more impressive than Millbank, Brixton Hill, Streatham High Road, work, home, but I'm over the retching now, funny how the hormonal side-effects linger weeks after the main event...), we needed the loo desperately, so we sneaked into the spa at Hampshire House (I believe there are some celebrity residents of Hampshire House*...)
We then went for a horse-drawn carriage ride around Central Park, which was not necessarily the most obvious thing to do in the snow and biting wind but actually was a bloody good idea. Central Park in the snow! I have seen it, crowded, in exceptional June heat, and now, nearly deserted and snow-covered, looking really quite different! We then went for a guided (by Richard) tour of the Upper West (and some of the Upper East) Side, parts of Manhattan I had not previously seen. Being a local, he sent packing one taxi that wouldn't let Jimmy sit in the front; sitting in the front and looking ahead was much better for the avoidance of travel sickness! It was interesting seeing parts that I have not seen before, over to Riverside, with the residences of various rmo/Opera-L denizens being pointed out, and the former residence of Zinka Milanov.
We tried to get into the Tavern on the Park, but there was a long wait for tables, so we just walked round. Talk about kitsch, in a really over the top, inyerface, but somehow, apt way. On balance, it was probably better to go to a restaurant near Lincoln Center (although I only had chocolate cake). Lisa Gasteen was at the next table; I almost broke my golden rule of not approaching celebs off-duty, but I just remembered in time. She was eating with another woman, whom I fondly hoped was a Valkyrie; I like the idea of Valkyries popping out for late lunch/early dinner together, it seems a sisterly thing to do!
We parted from Richard and went shopping in Macy's again, Jimmy picking up his purchases, and me going into major shopping strop. I didn't especially want to buy loads and loads of clothes, partly because my weight has ballooned recently and needs attending to, but I thought I would at least look for trousers. To my dismay it was not possible easily to locate trousers, being that everything was sold under its brand name, and I really couldn't be arsed to look through floors and floors of really bad taste 'designer' outfits and even worse chav-crap in the hope of finding a pair of well made and fitting trousers I could locate in five minutes in M&S/Next etc. So I declared I hate shopping and we returned to the hotel. We were planning to go out to eat in one of the many local Korean restaurants, but somehow got watching TV documentaries on Jeffrey Dahmer and Charles Manson. I felt quite ill afterwards, but mainly from the adverts which were largely for prescription drugs or for low sodium foods all guaranteed to get you pathologically worried, especially considering it seemed necessary to list all the possible side-effects. I began to feel I was suffering from all the side-effects of taking medication for bi-polar disorder and Erectile Dysfunction. I am sure there is a totally insensitive joke to be made about someone with bi-polar and ED, but I can't think of it right now. Still, it was better than watching the news (it's just a snowstorm, so, the country's grinding to a standstill, what's with the weather obsession /g; or the battle between one right winger to win the right over another right-winger to challenge the right-winger in a contest to see which right-winger of which right-wing capitalist party gets to be President /vg).
We finished off shopping in the morning, or rather, Mr Grumpy did. He didn't want to see the bloody Statue of Liberty or go up the bloody Empire State Building. For someone who doesn't think much of New York he gave the plastic a good bashing. I didn't. I looked again for trousers, but there was very little in my size. My trouser size is just about the average for a British women. I refuse to accept that the average American woman is any smaller (And maybe even a bit bigger). Perhaps the shops had been inundated with average size women over the weekend. Perhaps American shops manage stocks like British shops do - in some delusion that everybody is a stick insect - result, lots of stick insect clothes (8-12 UK, 4-8 US) left on the racks as the 14-20/10-16 sell out to average shaped women. May I apologise now to clothes manufacturers for having a perfect hourglass figure with hips.
Our journey to the airport took considerably longer thanks to standstill traffic on the Long Island Expressway. Although I have been to New York before I was nevertheless shocked by the extent of traffic congestion. It's the eternal paradox of Western Society: the more one is dependent on motor vehicles, the less pleasant a way it is of getting around. I personally don't see the attraction of sitting for hours inching forwards in heavily polluted jams getting nowhere slowly. But each to their own, I suppose. We were disappointed not to spot a single stereotypical grossly obese American person, but I suppose New York is like London - the relative attractiveness of public transport/walking provides a shocking contrast with the car-dependent lard-arses in the sticks. I'd be totally gross if I drove everywhere, even though I walk a lot less than I used to, I did prove, twice, this weekend I can hoof it, and at speed if needs must.
Our return flight was excellent, we even arrived a little bit early. There had been a mix up, with me and four other people down for a very low fat rather than veggie dinner. In a not dissimilar circumstance coming back from Sharm, Excel Air's response had been, tough starve, or else maybe you'd like a lot of stale bread rolls. American Airlines attitude was - fine, we'll get you a Premium Cabin veggie meal, but please be discrete or everyone will want one! I have to award AA cabin staff a special award for being the least ostentatious power-crazed prats I have ever travelled with (although I have in fairness to be nice about the Airtours crew coming back from Goa who were two down after one was needed to supervise the violent druggie in handcuffs and one to supervise the desperately ill woman below stairs). Going through Immigration was a cinch, and we were back home two hours after we had touched down.
Bizarrely I took very few photos. I think I am going through a seriously non-photo stage of my life. It will pass.
As we landed at Heathrow Jimmy declared he never wanted to go on another long distance flight. I decided that our next holiday will be in Norfolk (except for operatic trips to Barcelona and, hopefully, Madrid) then when Moaning Jimmy gets the wanderlust, we will travel Business Class. He wishes to revisit Australia and also go to South Africa, and I have decided that he will. But not for a couple of years yet.
* including You Know Who, I believe...
. Sunday's weather is 
. However, Friday and Monday are 
. So, I'm packing my pashmina and sarong, my bikini and my woolly pully, my flip-flops and my boots, my cagoule and my sun hat. I doubt it will rain, because I have it on very good authority that the Rain in Spain stays mainly in the Plain
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