Day 9: Sunday, October 8th 2017.
Pouring with rain but hey, we need to see Manhattan! The temperature is in the 20s though and as we stroll through Central Park it’s like being back in hot, sweaty Malaysia. Some famous places seem almost too familiar. I remember visiting Venice and feeling that I was in a grand, baroque theme park that I had already visited several times. It was too wonderful, too grand, too familiar. My brain had an imprinted memory already, which was difficult to override. I think the anticipation and expectation, particularly of holidays, which ‘should’ be and ‘are going to be’ wonderful of course, can sometimes cloud one’s judgement and the actual reality can sometimes mean that any lurking disappointment must be ignored; we’ve paid a lot of money, we’ve come a long way, we’ve told all our friends; this is as great as we thought. Isn’t it?
Not so New York City. Everyone ‘knows’ New York. Everyone has seen the films. Everyone has seen the sitcoms. Everyone has heard the songs. But still it feels new and exciting. 5th avenue, Central Park, Manhattan, the subway, Times Square (ok, maybe not Times Square – see ‘lurking disappointment’ above), all the familiar names we know so well only serve to enhance the feeling of being here, like seeing a great movie that turns out to be as good as the book.
We’ve arranged to meet my Finnish cousin’s son Lari and his partner Tiina later for coffee in Central Park (how cool is that?!) They’ve flown over from Finland to celebrate his 15th year as a professional photographer. But first we make our way towards downtown Manhattan and towards ‘that building’. The Dakota building. Heavy stuff. Particularly if you spent your formative years living only for the next Beatles record to be released. It’s hard to describe that feeling back in the 60s, it sounds all too ‘back in my day’. But to me it really was a Golden Age; an incredible explosion of music, art and liberation. And that’s from someone growing up in a small seaside town in Lincolnshire, which rarely, if ever, was ‘swinging’. But still, wherever the location, the music found me and flowed forever after in my bloodstream. To use another hoary old aphorism, nothing would ever be the same again. I learned to play the guitar and my friend David Cross and I would wait with bated breath for the next Beatles record to come out, (which seemed like most weeks back then), rush round to his house, learn the chords, and then stand in front of the Ferguson tape recorder microphone mounted on the stand we made in woodwork to record our version, which in my mind was identical in every way to the original. I can feel that same gut excitement now. The release of Sgt Pepper in 1967 did become a bit more problematic in terms of re-producing a faithful cover version, but at least I had a kaftan, which helped. Well I thought so anyway.
So standing quietly in the rain at the hallowed portal where John Lennon met his untimely end was unbelievably moving. I can’t say that John was my hero any more than any of the other four. I can’t say I grieved for him especially on that December day in 1980. I grieved for myself of course, for the loss of part of my childhood. The Beatles were killed that day. The idea of them ever re-forming, of living again, was snuffed out right there on that grey, rain-soaked pavement right in front of me. An important part of my past and of a possible future was taken away, which I guess describes aspects of grief. But somehow that doesn’t quite explain the strong emotions brought about by the death of someone famous; the death of someone you never knew but from whom you took so much. Maybe the famous don’t actually give, but we just take all we can from them? Two burly doormen, dressed in smart blue uniforms and peaked caps now guard the entrance, making sure no one comes too far inside the doorway. A bit late for that now.
We walk to Strawberry Fields, an understated piece of Central Park real estate where today tourists hold their umbrellas and smile for the camera whilst standing on the circular mosaic which simply reads, ‘Imagine’. I feel rather uncomfortable about them standing there, as if they are standing on a grave just to get yet another selfie. They leave, and a young man places a Hershey Bar wrapper on the mosaic; it was John’s favourite chocolate he tells me. Another tourist takes it away, disgusted at the ‘trash’. We have our picture taken standing respectfully on the perimeter of the circle.
We arrive at The Ballfield’s Café where the owner is eager to wipe down the wet tables and chairs for us. It’s a slow day and he’s hoping we’ll stay and eat. We just have coffee and then Lari and Tiina walk up as large as life. Ridiculous. The movie keeps playing. Lari and I chat the effortless chat that happens between friends and relatives who haven’t seen each other for years but who have a connection that needs no preamble. Well I guess that’s something to do with Finns too maybe? Not ones for small talk.
We stroll together through the park and make our way downtown: Broadway, Times Square, 5th Avenue, 7th Avenue, the list of songs goes on. It’s busy of course, mostly wide-eyed tourists like ourselves dawdling along through the jungle of skyscrapers, neon advertising signs and yellow cabs, now sadly all Japanese compacts rather than the boxy, chrome gaz-guzzlers of ‘Taxi Driver’ fame.
One big disappointment was not getting tickets for ‘Springsteen on Broadway’, a small-scale concert at the 1000 seat Walter Kerr Theatre. We saw him in concert (in the distance) at The Ethiad Stadium in Manchester last year. It wasn’t what you’d call an intimate setting so we hoped we’d get to see him here, but that wasn’t to be. We had a look at the theatre anyway and as we stood outside I imagined him sound-checking inside, popping out for air, bumping into us, offering us free seats, a back-stage pass and then possibly inviting us round to his hotel afterwards where we strike up a life-long friendship. We gave it 5 minutes but he didn’t show.
We leave Lari and Tiina, who are planning to see Coney Island, and walk further south, glimpsing the Empire State Building through the trees and the beautiful ArtDeco Chrysler Building – not exactly the tallest edifices in town these days but still with some romance in the names.
Then stroll through Bryant Park to the New York Public Library. Pretty impressive and the star of so many films. The walnut-pannelled walls (I didn’t inspect them too closely in case they weren’t walnut) enclose around 2.5 million books and in this Google-age of instant access to questionable facts it’s heartening to know this rock of knowledge still functions, humming with facts, stories and information, all being greedily devoured by the hundreds of people hunched over desks lit by flickering gas lamps (ok I went a bit too misty-eyed there with the gaslamps). And the sight of children lying spreadeagled on the floor, lost in their books, always fills me with hope and optimism.
The building is a kind of classical temple; a celebration of knowledge and learning, thought as well as opinion; and of trust in weighty books written and produced with care, thought and conviction. Not just cut and paste Wikipedia research.
It also houses an anachronistic row of old wooden phone booths standing on a marble floor where countless journalists, fedora hats cocked back on their heads, would frantically dig deep into their raincoat pockets for nickels and dimes so they could file their breaking news stories and catch the early evening editions of The Washington Post or New York Times. (Fantasies from a childhood spent watching too many American movies I fear)
As we leave the library, wander back through Bryant Park and think about catching the subway back home, Jane realises she has left her phone somewhere. Not the first time of course but it’s usually resting on the windowledge at home. Not in New York City. You’d never lose one of those old wooden phone booths. Mild panic, frustration and anger slowly process into acceptance and we look upon it as a release; she is now free from the ‘Thief of the Now’ (my phrase, no point in Googling it). The Mindfulness is paying off at last. Breathe. Except that her phone contract gave her unlimited calls abroad. Grrrr! Breathe again.
We catch the subway back to the apartment and realise that Google might know where the phone is. Why didn’t he/she/it tell us when he/she/it realised it was lost? Waiting to be asked? We Google and are duly shown where it was used last, in Bryant Park. Satellite view is not quite up to letting us zoom in on the exact spot and actually see it (although I guess the CIA might have that facility) but at least we have some idea. I phone the library in the hope that someone has found it, but no luck. For insurance purposes, we decide to call the cops. In New York City. For a lost mobile phone. You never know? I call 911. Of course I don’t, but it sounds good. We are told they would cordon off the library and drop a crack SWAT team in by helicopter. New York City would to all intents and purposes be on lock-down. The movie credits roll, I’m back in the room. We won’t hold our breath.
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I’d always had the intention of playing an open mic night or two while in the US. I probably wouldn’t get the chance again and it would be a good story to add to my surely already engrossing stage chatter when playing with my band, The Wounded Healers, back home. I type ‘open mic nights New York City’ into Google and wait for the response, 90 percent of me hoping the city lock-down meant they were all cancelled, the other 10 percent hoping there was an extremely welcoming, low-key venue reasonably close by. First up is The Prohibition Bar, voted ‘New York City’s best open mic night’. Well that was probably off the list then, and I bet it’s about 10 miles away (hopefully). As it turns out it’s only about six blocks away from the apartment. Oh good. Maybe it’s closed this week. No, it’s tomorrow night. Oh good. Well that’s it then, fate has decreed it, my New York City debut is on for Monday.
Gulp.