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.