I wrote this in the 1980s. I know the city has improved since then. I hope you find my observations amusing, or maybe you were there then and agree with them.
IMPRESSIONS OF NEW YORK
‘New York, New York, it’s a cow of a town.’
That’s not how the song goes, but it’s how I hear it. Some call it the ‘Big Apple’ but I find it more like a smelly cabbage—those fumes seeping up from the underground railway system, like an evil mist rising from Hades. Three or four times I’ve flown to the city. With each touch-down I hope that this time I’ll experience the excitement—the magic—that others rave about.
My impressions of New York are dominated by yellow taxis – dirty, rusty, yellow cabs with horns blaring non-stop, day and night—and their angry drivers, who look and sound as though they’ve just arrived from Ethiopia, or somewhere equally unlikely to have provided any training for this occupation. At every traffic light they scream to a halt, then roar away on burning rubber as if their tails are on fire, to stop again at the next red-lit corner, fifty yards away.
Insanity runs high in this maddening metropolis. Count the crazy women walking along the wide pavements, talking to themselves, each in her private mumbo-jumbo language. See how seriously they scrounge in rubbish bins at every corner, yelled at by the black man who has staked out this one. Situated on his corner of Manhattan, he claims ownership of the bin and the begging rights that go with it.
He sidles up, then pounces on the unwary. I’ve been warned to avoid eye contact and pretend not to hear the strange whistling – can whistling be a foreign language, I wonder. About to check my watch, I stop myself—mustn’t make it known that I have a watch hidden up my sleeve. I walk on, studying stone foundations of the buildings I pass, far too busy to hear his plea.
‘Give me dollar, please give me dollar. I promise I’ll spend it on food.’
What else would he spend it on? Keep my head stiff – mustn’t look, mustn’t see the misery in his eyes. He’s a druggy – just said so didn’t he?
Native New Yorkers can handle these streets. I’m a stranger, a woman, frightened by the stories of robberies and bashings, the sudden knife stabbings that seem to be accepted as normal.
Part Two
Fifth Avenue shops surround me. I search in windows, see the effect of my racing heart reflected in the glass. So many clothes, jewels, knick-knacks, inviting me to step inside securely guarded doors. The luscious smell of leather envelops me as I succumb to a need to touch cases, bags, wallets, belts. Their earthiness restores my equilibrium—for a few moments I lose the haunting, hunted animal fear of those beggars—so many of them, like jackals around a body newly dead.
Further along the pavement is a small oasis of billowing coats and genteel conversation where beautiful women with impeccable hair and brightly varnished nails, turn their backs on the world to sip coffees and nibble delicate morsels. Taking a deep breath, I plunge into elegant space, sit myself at a teensy table and examine the parchment menu, knowing that I only want a coffee and a chance to breath freely – well, expensively.
The tales I could tell from the few moments spent trying to catch the waiter’s eye– of the daughter who ran away from home and the sister whose husband has been caught dealing with young boys; of the bird killing adventures of Aunt Mary’s cat; of the new son-in-law and his cocaine habit.
A tinkle of ice in the glass freshly brought—still warm and dripping from the dishwasher—distracts me.
‘What would madam like today?’ His voice is refined, in keeping with the establishment, not the usual twang of New York waiters.
I place my order for coffee and ask for one of the lady-sized cakes in the display case by the door. He’s back in less than a minute, seemingly as delighted to deliver my humble request as he would be if I’d asked for lobster and champagne.
Back on the street, feeling revived and quite uplifted by the pleasant service, my feet now let me know how far I have walked. My destination, Tiffany’s jewellery store, is just two more blocks. My shiny new credit card, tucked inside my purse, is impatient to be out and active.
I stand outside the shop, twiddling the chain around my neck. One doesn’t want to be mugged on the way to Tiffany’s so all my jewellery is hidden under jumpers and up inside sleeves. Even my rings are turned around, revealing no more than plain gold bands. A small gold watch appeals but, as no prices mar the tempting displays, I step inside, intending to chat with one of the haughty men or women behind the counters. They ignore my sensible shoes and lightweight raincoat.
Around and around the shop I walk, choosing items, but never being served. Rubbing glass counter tops, or sorting through the contents of drawers that require the turning of their backs, is far more absorbing and important than attending to this unadorned, ordinary looking woman. The credit card is clicking away inside my sensible brown leather bag, pleading to be let out, to go on a rampage amongst this array of gold and silver, diamond dripping earrings and the tiny pearl pendant in its smooth, cream velvet case, perfect for our daughter’s special birthday.
On my third circuit, I look around at the other clientele who must be so much more important than me. Fat drops of emeralds hang from ear lobes; sapphires wink on fingers that are weighed down with crystals; watches on elegant wrists are not nearly as attractive, or probably as expensive as the one I pull out from under my sleeve. The weight of my gold chain is heavy, and the opal—round and fiery with shafts of green and mauve—bounces against the black cashmere jumper as I remove my coat and turn to face the busy staff.
‘Was madam looking for something in particular?’ He seems to glide towards me, smile radiant, hands clasped like an angel.
‘Oh, no,’ I lie, ‘I’m just looking.’