New York, New York

A quick bumpy plane flight and we were in New York. Miss Bec gave the pilot a 2 out of 10 for his landing. She tends to be very fair in her ratings. I think she was generous this time, but the flight was roomy and fast—and we landed, so all ended well. Another quick bumpy cab ride and we were in the heart of Gramercy Park at our hotel, and immediately fell in love with it, and its surroundings. The neat tree-lined street is so narrow that a taxi slows down any through traffic. The neighbourhood is neat with medium height homes, apartments and one or two boutique hotels, some with fire-escapes, some with steps, all hugging each other. It is styled much like a historic French hotel with its narrow ornate facade and colonnaded portico so appealingly olde-world that Woody Allen evidently used it as a setting in one of his films. 

The halls are narrow and thickly carpeted, with brass lights lit low. The elevator fits only three people with luggage, six without—similar to hotels in Paris. It feels much the same. The rooms have lovely old wooden mould ceiling inserts framing traditional light fittings, elegant olde world wallpaper and charming paintings, all from another era. Perfect for us. 

We unpacked and headed straight out for dinner and had only to go a block before we found a terrific Greek restaurant that can do espressos, lunch and dinner, though we later found out there is food everywhere. We dined well on the advice of the Greek owner, as we listened to his doomed love story, accompanied by lots of gesticulations and heart thumping. He had been engaged, some forty or more years ago, to an Aussie girl, which did not work out, so she left and headed back to Australia. He lost touch with her. He also has a best friend who lives in Sydney but visits New York often. They have been friends a lifetime, just living in different continents. In the last six months, though, his Sydney friend was introduced to a lady, who after but a few minutes chatting, turned out to be the former fiance of our host in New York City. The Sydney friend had not met her when they all were younger, but did so now. So, his tale is another of those amazing coincidences that seem to happen in life. 

Next morning, we walked the three short blocks down to what will likely be our transport hub, the Union station metro, and bought weekly passes for the city transit system and took the advice of a perfect stranger who quickly taught us how to understand the express subway system and caught the fastest subway to lower Manhattan. Not that we are in a hurry, but still. It could have been longer for me. 

I loved the characters on the train: the Black Panther-like fellow with a stocking skull cap, sitting next to his elderly grandmama, bending gently to her as they chatted. The traditional Jewish man in his long black coat, his twisted curls escaping from the brim of his black felt hat—busy-busy, his fingers twitching. There are businessmen in their tight shiny suits—the fashion this year is skin-tight buttoned-up jackets, hugging the body, and seriously tight pants, cut high and hugging the legs—pointy shoes, and a thin co-ordinating briefcase. Their outfits are too uncomfortable to work in and they will likely have to stand to have their morning coffee. The African women with their sad, distant eyes above high beautifully carved cheekbones, as still as Nefertiti— sit silently, looking into forever. 

Young couples are addicted to their iPhones, and not to each other. And smart metros with their hair oiled and glistening, their bodies wafting flowery ‘fumes, busy talking to whoever is on their ear buds about where to meet tonight. They sound like a cross between the Godfather and Rocky and they are the only ones I can understand as yet. So many people speaking so many different languages just in our one carriage. A veritable melting pot. Fun. 

Our wonderful New York hotel

Elegant like Paris hotels

Our local diner cafe