Driving test

Today I saw the first female cab driver I’ve come across in New York. My attention was drawn to her cab because a) it was travelling along at a reasonable speed, b) it indicated before moving across lanes, and c) it came to a gentle stop that did not leave the customer dazed, with a nice egg on their forehead as a memento of their trip.

I watched her passenger emerge with a smile on his face, not something you see terribly often when a yellow taxi is involved, and I just had to give the driver a thumbs up. She looked straight back at me, poker faced, obviously weighing up whether I was flagging her down or was just a little crazy. Then, having decided on the latter, she proceeded to drive off as fast as her cautious nature would allow. I swear she would have pulled away with a screech of the tyres had she not been a woman driver. I waved my thumb in her direction until she was out of sight.

My last journey in a cab began with a request to take us to the Flatiron Building. Not only was I asking to be delivered to one of the most iconic buildings in New York City, but it wasn’t all that far and did not involve taking any complicated route or braving the West Side Highway, which is enough to give anyone nightmares. Particularly a nervous passenger like myself. (I admit it, I absolutely hate it when I’m not in control. Ask He Who Knows Best.)

Anyway, the driver, who spoke one of the 800 languages for which this city is renowned – it just wasn’t our language – apparently had no idea where the Flatiron Building was. Or what direction he might head in. Or which direction might be east. Still, we are understanding folk, so we reassured him we would be able to direct him. He nodded enthusiastically and blatantly couldn’t make heads or tails of what we were trying to convey.

Still, we were willing to give it a go. All well and good, until the driver, now fondly referred to as Mr Flatiron by those of us hanging on for dear life in the back seat, roared off at speed without a glance in his mirror or any consideration for his fellow road users. Trying to gesticulate directions while keeping your eyes tightly closed and wishing you knew how to pray is nigh on impossible. All we knew was that all around us people were making full use of their horns. And getting their money’s worth.

When we finally emerged from our ordeal unscathed, He Who Knows Best turned to me with a weak grin and promised never, ever to tease me again about being geographically challenged. I promised to return the favour by never, ever criticising his driving again. Then he had a bright idea: we could become  taxi drivers. After all, we were more than qualified.

Inspiration struck today at ... Starbucks, West 15th Street and 7th Avenue

It had to happen. When you come across a Starbucks store every couple of blocks, it’s inevitable that you will end up there one day – and not just for the free drinks you usually get for giving your order in a terribly British accent.

Pros: this is a brand new store, so the baristas aren’t jaded yet. You might even call them perky.
Cons: they serve cold sweet drinks for the summer that just beg to arrive with whipped cream on the top. Not good, not good at all.

Accent-uate the positive

A flash of an English accent results in ears perking up all over the place here in the Big Apple. With some great results. There are the free drinks from the Starbucks around the corner (don’t tell the manager, but the baristas are suckers for a bit of British). There are the lengthy conversations with strangers whose second cousin thrice removed once lived in London, though no one is entirely sure where – there was a pub on the corner, though, if that helps. But most of all when people hear you speaking Betty Britain’s language, it prompts them to talk to you out of the blue (or the red, white and blue) – and suddenly the city is a friendlier place.

When I point out that back home we don’t actually reside in the great city of black taxis and Union Jacks, that in fact we now live about thirty miles north-west of London, in a pretty village with fields and sheep and a tennis club and – oh, pride – a cricket club on the village green, their eyes glaze over. Everyone knows something about London – they are excited that the Queen is guarded by some dapper guys with huge furry affairs on their heads who are forbidden to smile; they know there are strange-shaped buildings named after vegetables – but beyond the end of the Northern Line, what happens there?

#6, the only one of our offspring who lives here with us in Manhattan (the rest having scooted off to that big scary land called Adulthood where everyone parties all night long and no one has any money left by the end of the month), is embracing her Britishness on a need-to-use basis. She is full-on English at home (I could almost have sworn she said ‘Oh drat’ the other day when she dropped a cereal bowl and decorated the kitchen floor with a very avant garde arrangement of Cheerios and 2%) – and positively American at school (though I have yet to hear her describe anything as ‘swell’). Until she wants to be noticed, and then it is all the vocal equivalent of tea and scones and cucumber sandwiches.

I tell people with great pride that our daughter is bilingual. She simply offers up a sigh of despair at her embarrassing mother and asks where her sneakers (trainers) have got to.

However, a word of caution. One thing we Brits do not take kindly to is the question, Are you from Australia? I don’t know why, because I know lots of lovely Australians (well, a couple anyway), but somehow I always feel most affronted at being mistaken for an Aussie. There’s only one thing worse: being mistaken for a northerner.

Inspiration struck today at ... Gotan, Franklin Street, Tribeca

I have been meaning to visit this place for a while as it looks so cool, perched at the meeting point of several streets downtown. So I’m afraid to say I was left with a nagging feeling of disappointment.
Pros: You can sit and chat incessantly with your friend for two hours and frankly my dear, no one gives a damn.

Cons: The coffee comes in one size only, is tepid and leaves something to be desired taste-wise. Sorry, ultra-trendy baristas of the older variety, you haven’t quite got it right.

Uh oh

So, things have not been working from a geographical perspective this week. First, there was the trip to the Upper East Side for #6’s singing lesson. Having said we rarely take the subway, this new venture necessitates a trip up, up and away, so it’s off to the 1 train we go. Only today, when we arrived at 86th Street and I was congratulating myself on getting there with time to spare (a novel experience, as those of you who know me will appreciate), I suddenly realised that not only were we on the west side because we had forgotten to change at 42nd Street, but I wasn’t sure which way was east. Uh oh.

I was convinced we could still make it in time, if only we could work out in which direction to head. So out came the iPhone and behold, Google Maps told me it would take just over 23 hours to get there. Hmmm. Apparently the Upper East Side is now in Minnesota. Who knew? I started to perspire more than I was already.

Luckily, at that point a man came along and recognised a panic attack about to happen. I love that New Yorkers love to give directions. And so we were off in an easterly direction and I was convinced we still might make it on foot – until a barrier of trees loomed. Who could forget Central Park? At that point I sagged in despair, so #6 flagged down a cab and we piled in and I rang the singing teacher and apologised, five times. She assured me she had done the very same thing that very same week and blamed it on the humidity – I didn’t believe her but I appreciated the gesture.

Second, I was meeting a friend for coffee, at Charles and Seventh. I set off along West 4th, which seems to have been overtaken by construction workers. There is digging and bashing and all sorts going on, though I have no idea who is doing all this banging and crashing as there were hordes of yellow hard hats huddled all over the sidewalk, not wielding tools but rather bent over cell phones, thumbs wiggling madly. I remember the good old days when road workers would have been standing in a hole in the ground, talking about who was going to win ‘Strictly’ on Saturday.

Enjoying the sun, I took the opportunity to size up the restaurants along there as we are going out to dinner with some new friends and they want us to choose the venue. (I wonder if this might be some kind of test? Uh oh.) And so it was that I forgot to look out for Charles Street but found a lovely jewellery shop I had meant to revisit and I had a jolly chat with the Romanian salesgirl who came here nine years ago as an au pair and stayed, and then I bought a silver ring I had been coveting for a while, and then I remembered my friend.

Uh oh.

Inspiration struck today at ... Dominique Ansel, 7th Avenue and Charles Street

Sitting in the shade at this trendy little coffee shop, you almost don’t notice the buses and taxis and crazy drivers whizzing past.
Pros: Cute outdoor venue for drinking coffee and spotting people you haven’t caught up with in a while.
Cons: Strange set-up inside that necessitates some climbing, so not suited to those of us who aren’t terribly bendy.

Too hot to handle

It’s hot here. I mean really hot. I mean clammy, disgusting, frizzy-hair kind of hot. And we are only part way through June. Now I know our nearest and dearest back in Britain will be sitting in their deckchairs and dabbing their foreheads with their knotted hankies and scoffing, because the iPhone says their temperature is bigger than ours, but at least they are safe in the knowledge that, being Britain, it will all be just a distant memory by this time next week. Whereas we have several months still to perspire through.

I shouldn’t complain. I love the feeling of the sun on my skin, and there is no doubt it is a real mood lifter. But there are days here when a minute after getting out of the shower in the morning you just want to jump right back in. Yet you still need to cart a cardi around with you because on the subway platform it might be sweltering but the train carriages are air conned enough to give an Eskimo goosebumps. As are many of the restaurants – don’t trendy chefs realise it’s hard to eat when your teeth are chattering? I console myself with the thought of all the calories I am sweating out and burning up as I put on my cardi, then take it off, then put it on …

And don’t even get me started on the smells. As any visitor to NYC knows, this is not a city for the faint of stomach. Festering trash cans, discarded hamburgers, days-old urine – all this is roasted and amplified as the sun shines remorselessly down on us. It becomes a challenge to get from one place to another without breathing in too deeply.

But the best part of this time of year has got to be the sights you see as you wander along at a snail’s pace because, frankly, you can’t go any faster. Today I have encountered: 1. A rear view – and not a pleasant one – of a construction worker (not one of the working-out-in-the-gym types, it was abundantly clear) who decided to bend from the waist just as I walked past; 2. A man who looked to be of Native American descent, with long black braids (a sensible ’do in this heat, to be fair) who was waddling along, without a care in the world, and almost without a stitch either – just skimpy Speedos and a pair of flippers on his feet; 3. A clutch of ladies who had obviously over-indulged all winter long but really didn’t seem to care that last summer’s get-ups were several sizes too small this year.

Best of all, though, was in the park where I stopped to avail myself of some water and a little shade. Collapsed on a bench after the effort of traipsing two blocks, I was rewarded by the sudden springing to life of the water sprinklers on the grass – just where people had spread themselves out to indulge in a little sun worship. I haven’t seen anyone move that fast in days. 

Inspiration struck today at ... Sweet Corner, Hudson Street

If there was an award for service with a smile, this place would win hands down. What a difference it makes to be greeted so delightfully.

Pros: Cute little bakeshop, delicious drinks, mouth-watering bites, seats for people-watching both inside and out.

Cons: Can’t think of any!

Trash talk

One of the things I love about living in Manhattan is the recycling culture. Not just the daily collection of plastics/tins/cardboard/paper but the detritus of people’s lives that makes it out on to the sidewalk. So far this week we have counted, from our apartment window, one utilitarian-looking wardrobe, a desk with a leg missing, two mangy office chairs, a rather fancy dressing table (reminded me of the one I had for my Barbie, many years ago) and a coffee table that had most certainly seen better days.

Back home in Britain, the clearing out of these dead items would have necessitated borrowing/hiring a suitable vehicle, risking lifelong back problems during loading of said items, a perilous trip to the local dump (we once lost a fridge en route and were eternally grateful that nobody was driving along behind us) and the inevitable confrontation with the frustrated traffic warden playing his version of god by ruling which items could or could not enter through his pearly gates. You could end up losing the will to live yourself.

Not so here in NYC. No sooner do such items hit the sidewalk than business starts drumming up. It is fascinating to watch. Everyone is interested – men in rags, men in suits, men in skirts. The saddest looking furniture possesses magnet-like qualities, luring people to cross the street, change direction, brave the rain. Everyone loves a bargain.

A few years ago we had friends to stay from the UK. The husband used the exchange rate as an excuse to buy himself a fancy new pair of trainers but was struggling to part from his old beloved, and decidedly smelly, pair. Then we had an idea. Rather than consign them to the rubbish chute, we placed them tenderly on the sidewalk below our apartment window, wished them luck and went inside to watch their fate.

Amazingly, despite a flurry of initial interest, they were still there an hour later. Our evening was broken up with trips to the window to watch their progress. Zilch. But someone had to crack, and they did. The next morning, the trainers had disappeared. We all hoped they had gone to a good home.

During the run-up to our first Christmas in the city, we passed a discarded Christmas tree lying by the side of the road. ‘Pick it up!’ yelled my cousin, a veteran of New York with a keen eye for a freebie. We hesitated, being newbies and British. My cousin took charge. Holding the tree upright, we examined it and came to the conclusion that someone had tried to trim it and got a little carried away, no doubt after too much egg nog. One side of the tree was definitely not as bushy as the rest. ‘It’s perfect!’ my cousin declared, and so He Who Knows Best hoisted it over his shoulder and we set off for home.

Halfway there he suddenly muttered something incoherent. Turns out something was dripping on to his neck. We all shuddered. But it was a free Christmas tree, after all, so we tried not to think of the implications and soldiered on. With some strategic placing of fairy lights and tinsel, we congratulated ourselves on our beautiful festive tree. And what a bargain – we’d saved ourselves $80! I turned to hug He Who Knows Best, but he was already off scrubbing himself furiously in the shower.

Inspiration struck today at ... Irving Farm Coffee Roasters, East 81st Street and 3rd Avenue

We ventured out of our comfort zone for once and all the way up to the Upper East Side. We really should get out more.

Pros: no wi-fi. How refreshing.

Cons: we had to wipe down the table before we sat down – always a bit of a turnoff.

Wi-fi and weirdos

We don’t take the subway very often. It’s not because it’s inconvenient – there is a station right around the corner, just past the medley of weirdos on the old bank’s stone steps – or because it’s expensive – public transport in NYC is incredibly cheap, and efficient – or even because 14th Street station is filthy dirty and home to even more weirdos. No, all these things aside, it comes down to the bubonic plague.

You may think I am getting my cities confused. Or my centuries. This is not London in the fourteenth century. Or Paris in the seventeenth. But there are rats. They can be spotted poking and sniffing around along the tracks as soon as a train pulls out of the station, brazen as you like. Thank goodness New Yorkers like to chuck their trash on to the rails with gay abandon. Say the rats.

Yet it’s not even the rats. They are subterranean entertainment while you wait for the next train to arrive and try not to make eye contact with any weirdos. No, it all comes down to the fact that He Who Knows Best read somewhere (source to be confirmed) that some scientist investigating on some part of the subway system found traces of the plague. So now we walk everywhere we can, and at a push we take a bus, where a whole new species of weirdo can be found.

Today, however, we struck out for the E train because #6 was having dinner with a friend in Queens and we didn’t want her coming back alone after dark. She, of course, scoffed at this because she is 14 years old and knows best, and also because she foresaw the agony of accompanying ageing parents who try to get from A to B (or Manhattan to Queens) without touching anything.

I was delighted when the E train arrived, not just because we didn’t have to linger on the platform in the sweltering heat but because it was a Subway Library Train. I had read about the train just this morning, so was excited to encounter it on the very first attempt. The train is part of an initiative by the city library and various other interested parties. Basically, the free wi-fi allows you to explore all sorts of literary gems online, if for no other purpose than to give you an excuse to avoid eye contact with the weirdos. As an added bonus, if you upload a photo of the train, you can win a prize. I do love a good prize.

I was explaining all this to He Who Knows Best as he sat with his hands firmly folded between his legs, having got thus far without making physical contact with anything not directly related to himself. I could see that he was itching to whip out his phone and see what was on offer, but that would have entailed releasing his hands, so he tried to peer over my shoulder instead. Enjoying his discomfort, I kept my screen just out of reach, so that he was wriggling and squirming in his seat, hands still hidden from sight. I looked up just in time to spot the other passengers glancing away quickly, obviously not wanting to make eye contact with the weirdo sitting next to me.

Inspiration struck today at ... Jack’s Wife Freda, Carmine Street

The website for this little eaterie describes it as ‘an immigrants’ love story’. Which makes me wonder why He Who Knows Best hasn’t opened a trendy little restaurant named after me.

Pros: Good simple food, reasonable prices, coffee topped up before you have time to finish the last gulp.

Cons: Acoustics are terrible – the crowd at lunchtime were twenty-somethings without volume control, which made conversation a bit of a pain, especially for those of us whose hearing is declining with each advancing year.

Free-for-all

It’s quiet and tidy around here since Daughter and Boyfriend #1 jetted off back to London on a cloud of Valium (due to Daughter #1’s dread of flying, overcome only by her fondness for foreign holidays and a sympathetic doctor). They cleaned up after themselves so well that I didn’t have much to do once they had gone and I had finished shedding a tear or two, so I headed out for a walk around the neighbourhood. He Who Knows Best was at work and Child #6 was settling back into the bedroom she had vacated two weeks previously, which was in an unsettling state of uber-tidiness. So I set off alone, secretly relishing the prospect of a little me-time.

Alas, even if you live in a relatively untouristy part of Manhattan, as we do, it is impossible to enjoy a gentle stroll around the hood when it’s a free-for-all on the sidewalk. Wander aimlessly, text your friends while charging along, let your dog sniff all over the place at the end of a long and deadly leash, and you’ll fit right in. Be a Brit with good pavement etiquette and an expectation of common courtesy and you’ll stand out like a sore thumb. Which is the least of what you’ll get if you don’t stay vigilant.

I admit I’m a slow learner. But I think it’s finally time, after more than four years in the city, for me to gen up on the rules around here. So, here goes. Rule number one: as a pedestrian, you are obliged to suddenly change direction with no warning whatsoever and not even a glance over your shoulder to alert those unfortunate enough to be pedestrianising behind you. Rule number two: do not show the slightest consideration for your fellow travellers, it’s bad form. Rule number three: under no circumstances excuse yourself or apologise for walking slap bang into someone, even if it happens to be an elderly person with failing eyesight and a walking frame – they shouldn’t be holding up the traffic.

He Who Knows Best has even less tolerance for this kind of behaviour than I do. He can frequently be found muttering about people walking too slowly or stopping suddenly so that there’s a human pile-up. He has taken to throwing his hands into the air in a gesture far greater than the crime merits and declaring, in a fine rendition of your average New Yorker, ‘Really? Really??’ I have stopped taking him to high-traffic places like Times Square in case he starts to lecture New York’s Finest on how to do their job when it comes to shepherding the crowds.

Anyway, I finally settled for sitting outside and savouring the sunshine and a cup of java. And it was so much fun watching from the sidelines as people bumped and tutted and gesticulated. I swear I even heard some muttering … but surely He Who Knows Best was at work?

Inspiration struck today at ... The Grey Dog, West 16th Street, between 7th and 8th

It had been a while since I had been here but the atmosphere was as relaxed and the coffee as mediocre as I remembered. Food is good, though.

Pros: Good pub atmosphere for all age groups all day long.

Cons: Always busy, so you don’t feel you can linger over one cuppa while you write the next ‘Gone with the Wind’ and avoid eye contact with the waiter.

All grown up

Child #3 is all grown up. I don’t just mean she is in her mid-twenties and has a real, adult job, with a salary and five weeks’ holiday, and bills to pay. That she has to make her own sandwiches for work and get to bed at a reasonable hour on weekdays. No, I mean she has started to say the kinds of things that grown-up people say.

Most notably, she has begun to express dismay at the way some teenage girls dress and act. Their skirts are unbelievably short, they show way too much cleavage, why so much make-up? How are they so confident with adults? Not her sister, yet, but we are keeping a careful eye on that situation, not least #3, who is taking it terribly seriously.

Funny how things change. As I point out to her, we have photographic evidence of her younger incarnation dressed in ridiculously tight dresses that barely covered the essentials. He Who Knows Best and I reminisce about the time she was grounded for a month along with #4 after the pair of them disgraced themselves with way too much revelry at way too tender an age. She grimaces at the memory. We laugh and breathe a sigh of relief in the way that parents can manage only once all that is behind them.

What I don’t tell her is that I was older than she is now when we went partying after work one night and I was the star of the photo on display in the office the next day. Dressed in a mini skirt, dancing on tables, whooping it up to the cheers of my only slightly more sober colleagues. He Who Knows Best carried me to the car over his shoulder that night. I’d like to see him try that now – I’m guessing it would end with him enjoying an extended stay in the hospital and complaining for ever more about how his back will never be the same again.

#3 and Boyfriend #1 will be heading back to London in a couple of days. #6 will get her room back, there will be no more discarded items of clothing strewn across the floor (well, not if she wants her allowance, anyway) and the food bill will drop significantly. There will be no more raucous laughter well after an acceptable time at night, no more rum bottles littering the tiny kitchen counter, no more gambling with pennies and accusing each other, at great volume, of cheating. Peace will reign once more, we will settle back into our routine that cannot rightly claim to be a routine by most people’s standards … and we will miss them like hell.

Inspiration struck today at ... Washington Square Park

While this beautiful green space at the bottom of Fifth Avenue is buzzing during the day, especially at weekends, first thing in the morning it is a tranquil spot, attracting dog walkers, yoga classes and those unusual types who have time for meditation before a hard day at work.
Pros: Pristine surroundings, with some top-notch street artists demonstrating their talents.
Cons: Impossibly skinny thirty-somethings stretch their slender limbs on the lawns while the rest of us fantasise about having croissants for breakfast.

Fishy business

Last summer Children #4 and #6 won five goldfish at the San Gennaro street festival in Little Italy. Apparently fluorescent plastic keyrings and gaudy plastic cups full of bubblegum-flavoured syrup weren’t enough. A few carefully aimed ping pong balls and hey ho, we were going home with three little bags of water (I made them give two back, ignoring their sulky faces).

The fish, named Peggy, Eliza and Angelica after #6’s favourite Broadway show, were soon exploring their new home, formerly known as our vase. (Luckily it was empty as He Who Knows Best buys me flowers on a rather sporadic basis.) An emergency dash to the pet store for foul-smelling fish food and we all sat around the coffee table to enjoy our new pets. After two minutes (and that was a stretch), #6 was back on Snapchat, #4 was strumming away on the guitar, I headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on … and He Who Knows Best was perched on the sofa, mesmerised.

His tea went cold, he spoke to no one. After a while we just had to see what was so captivating, and so we crowded around once again. Nothing, just three little orange fish swimming round and round, one after the other, in the same direction. No racing, no nuzzling up to each other, nothing. Just one adoring new owner.

Half a year later, we have one surviving pet. One died of boredom just a few days after being released into our vase, so we upgraded to a small fish tank, complete with pump. Apparently the pump required some adaptation – I think He Who Knows Best is missing the DIY he so loved back in our house in England – and so there was a little trimming of a pipe and a lot of cursing. Something must have been amiss, however, as the second fish had disappeared the following morning. We looked everywhere – behind the tasteful plastic fern swaying gently in the water, on the floor around the tank – until there was only one place left to search …

He Who Knows Best was heartbroken, particularly when I made him deal with the fallout. So he turned his full attention to his one survivor. We are unsure whether this one is Peggy, Eliza or Angelica. We are also pretty sure it is in fact male, judging by the enormous proportions it has achieved since it started eating food for three. But the strangest thing is, it has returned the devotion of He Who Knows Best – it responds to his voice and gets excited at the sight of him. Honestly.

The kids scoffed when we told them this. We could see them shaking their heads and muttering among themselves about how we were finally losing the plot and what should they do with us? But when Child #3 and Boyfriend #1 arrived, they were amazed to see the blatant bond between man and fish. Nevertheless, it is not the done thing in this family to admit someone is right, so #3 merely grunted a grudging acceptance of the fact and declared: Dad, the water stinks. I think she hurt his feelings – and Peggy’s/Eliza’s/Angelica’s.

Inspiration struck today at ... Caffe Reggio, Macdougal Street, just south of Washington Square Park

Came across this little place and felt like a trip back in time to l’ancien Paris.

Pros: Friendly service and lovely outside tables in this quaint Village street.

Cons: Very dark inside so not for sufferers of seasonal affective disorder.