Onward!!

In London, the clouds hang low, as a near-continuous ash-and-white blanket. There is a subdued feeling about the place, and people seem to slide along listlessly. Couples walk along the street in silence. I don’t know if it’s my tiredness and jetlag or what, but it feels strange being here. There is little of the vibrance and exuberance I got so used to in the last fortnight. Both physically and otherwise, compared to the past ten days, it’s cold.

(I’ll try and slot in posts about the details of my trip since the last update when I get the chance and a slightly clearer mind. If you follow my RSS, you should get them as soon as they are posted.)

I figured that getting going early would spare me some of the heat of the day. Wrong. Walking down the street wasn’t unpleasant in itself, but getting to the subway to get to Battery Park was. The subway cars themselves are airconditioned, but that hot air has to go somewhere, namely anywhere in the station itself.

When I say the cars are air conditioned, I mean all but mine on the way down, but that’s a digression. A lot of people would enter the car (which I had found pleasantly empty at my station), look around in dismay upon feeling the heat and escape via the end doors to another carriage. I figured I might as well sit tight, as it wasn’t unbearable, and my excitement at seeing a bit more of New York (alone, this time) sped me onward.

Arriving at Battery Park with around twenty minutes before the museum I wanted to go to opened, I took a stroll past the ferry terminals, past crowds of tourists waiting to get to Ellis Island, past the street vendors selling water for a dollar, and a teenage Finnish girl complaining about something to her mother. I sat in the shade opposite the Skyscraper Museum and realised that I had rounded the tip of perhaps the most famous island in the world in no time at all. Manhattan really isn’t that big across. A child trailing her mother decided to splash around in the little fountain installation, and proceeded to get completely soaked. Must have made him feel more comfortable, and I kind of wish I could have dared to do the same. A cool swimming pool or lake would have been the bomb.

The museum opened at midday, and I went in to buy my ticket from the thoroughly bored-looking girl at the front desk. Barely bothering to talk past her chewing gum, she said “there’s just one floor, starts upstairs to your left”. And her day had only just started.

The museum itself has two distinct halves, the part focusing on Wall Street and its evolution from a street lined by a literal wall to keep the English out of New Amsterdam to the South, and one about the construction of skyscrapers of mind-shattering height and scale. These included a specific exhibit on the Burj Dubai (boring) and on Hong Kong towers (yawn). I was there for New York! The Art Deco gargoyles leering above a three-hundred foot drop, the workers having their lunch on steel beams suspended above nothingness! So, after looking at the historic exhibit, the most interesting bit for me was the part about the World Trade Center site, and how the dug-out land from that formed an entirely new extension to Manhattan in the Hudson River.

I knew I had to be on the Lower East Side after the museum, but since I’d escaped early I decided to walk up and see some of the sites I’d just looked at in schematics, photos and history. Walking down bustling Broadway, with other tourists stopping every few meters to take pictures and gawk at the sights, I found myself at the World Trade Center site before long. Not having seen the Towers standing, I still knew the historical significance of the place. It was certainly accentuated by the continually-laid wreaths on fire station doors, the thousands of people taking peeks through construction walls and taking photographs, and the bronze statue of a Wall Street worker on a bench, talking on his phone with his briefcase on his lap. I suppose such memorials indicate he died on the spot, or something.  But despite the history, it was hard for me to see the place as anything but an immense construction site, laden with historic baggage.

But then the entire city is laden with historic baggage, starting from the Lenape indians being ousted off Manhattan for the value of a couple of thousand beers.

I wandered around streets I knew by name and through vague media memory to find a subway station with a line going to the Lower East Side. The Tenement Museum was built into historic tenement buildings in an area that is rapidly gentrifying with artists, young professionals and the like. I did begin to wonder whether anyone had done anything similar in London, considering the layered history of the inhabitation in that city.

I never saw the museum tour (bookable in advance on the Tenement Museum website) starting and ending with a round-table discussion on immigration, immigrants, social housing and social mobility, but that’s exactly what happened. In the first round we simply introduced ourselves and the Americans gave their ethnic background. Then we took a sort of time travel tour to two restored apartments in the building, one in the 1890s and one in the 1920s. They really were vastly different 30 years apart. The word “tenement” had wholly negative connotations prior to my visit, but it was really cool to see how the families, especially the German Jewish family of the 1890s, made the most of their situation and gave the best they could to their children.

The museum had reconstructed the apartments to be as authentic as possible, going as far as tracing historical lineages of the inhabitants. For the 1920s apartment, they were able to interview a woman who grew up in that very house. Though it was a continent and several decades away from where my father grew up, I really felt like the two places shared a similar vibe. It was a really cool experience that I’d recommend.

The second round of the discussion quickly descended into strange territory, though. A certain Italian-Irish-American gentleman who was there with some of his friends (a couple in their sixties, as was he) started bashing “our socialist president” for allowing “the mexicans and the chinese” to “do what they please” and for the Arab population “in Detroit, effectively imposing Sharia law!” The horseshit flying out of the guy’s mouth was so impressive that the facilitator, our guide, was stunned for a minute, as were we. It took some sharp rebuttal questions and his friends, the couple, to step in, to steer the conversation to more careful territory.

I’d only seen the Statue of Liberty from Battery Park, and didn’t want to pay for the ferry with a thousand other people crammed on like sardines, so after the museum experience we decided instead to take the Staten Island Ferry (which is free) since it goes past the Statue at quite close range. Seeing New York landmarks like Brooklyn Bridge and the morass of skyscrapers from that angle was really cool, especially on the way back with the setting sun. I had also thought we hadn’t been to Staten Island before but on closer examination it turned out we’d driven straight through it on my drive from hell experience on our very first day!

Worn out from the heat, we ended up getting takeout pasta, including my first ever pasta alfredo, and collapsing in the hotel in preparation for an early morning start to Boston the next day.

The heat in New York could only be described as oppressive. Exacerbated by air conditioning pretty much everywhere indoors, the outdoors felt even more stifling. Add to that the extra heat in the subway stations since the cars were pushing hot air out onto the platforms, and going anywhere was a mission. So we did the only reasonable thing to do: Go to Central Park.

Our hotel was on Columbus Circle, so right on the South-Western edge of the park. Despite that, I managed to leave the hotel in the wrong direction several times over several days. Something about the canyon-like streets flanked by immense buildings completely ruined my sense of direction. Once we did reach the park it was pretty cool to see the buildings disappear behind trees and the sound of traffic quiet down, if not completely. I don’t know what New York would be like without Central Park. Probably not livable. I can totally see how people would come and play softball on their lunch breaks at the pitches, just to feel a semblance of nature and outdoors.

The park is big, too. I somehow thought it was only a mile long (in fact it’s over two miles) and the trees are tall enough for you not to see the street and the buildings flanking the park on all sides if you step in a little bit. Sure, there are cross-cutting roads through the park, but they weren’t that busy with cars. We rambled on, past the lake with boats, through the Ramble, all the while downing copious amounts of water because of the heat. As we were sitting at a bench pretty much parallel to the American Museum of Natural History we pretty much had to give up being outside for a bit. Though the museum appealed, we decided instead to head back for an afternoon nap at the hotel.

Looking for places to go and eat dinner, and knowing that steak was a thing to have in NYC, I stumbled upon the details of a kosher steakhouse (of all things) on the upper west side, near where we had decided to head back to the hotel from earlier in the day. Of course we had to try that, as the idea of rabbinical supervision of a steakhouse was just so… New York. Unfortunately, we seemed cursed with the places we chose. It wasn’t the Sabbath, and to the best of my knowledge no other Jewish holiday, but once we reached Talia’s, it was closed, shuttered and dark. Damn.

Knowing we wouldn’t go far before finding something else, we began walking down Amsterdam Avenue. We ended up choosing a pretty little sushi place a few blocks down, and I’m really happy we did. After the meal, a reasonably-priced bento box that included miso soup and salad and various sushi, I was genuinely content – not too full, not unsatisfied. Just right. It was the best sushi I’ve ever had, too, but that’s not saying much since I don’t have much experience with it. Really tasty.

We had drinks at the Amsterdam Ale House to round off the evening. Despite being a kind of a pub, we were taken to a table by a host and served at the table. An American quirk, I guess. Thing is, they didn’t make us feel welcome. The girl taking our initial order asked “whaddaya want?” and when we did order the beers, one of them didn’t taste at all like the description. When asked (by my companion, I to this day am a bit reticent at confrontation) she said she’d find out what was up. The reply? “Oh yeah, they’ve changed that beer and she forgot to tell you”! Who prides themselves on their beer and then swaps one for another hoping the customer to not take notice? And after all this they expect a tip.

Because they’d sat us down in the middle of the room, under the blasting cold of the air conditioner, I actually started shivering after a while. We didn’t quite know what the etiquette was to move to a free outside table, so we had to ask, feeling rather sheepish. But it was OK, and much more pleasant to be on a quiet side street, in the now-pleasant evening heat, sipping a strong IPA to refresh and relax.

Apparently, airline staff call Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport “The Hive”. Apparently, it’s also the world’s busiest airport. In my experience of passing through one time, it’s all right. We’d left the early enough to make the flight on time but after the worst of the morning rush hour. It proved to be a wise choice, as after leaving our car, we could take the transit train to our terminal, check in in decent time and still have time for a good breakfast. That is, until the plane was announced to be an hour and a half late. Nothing to it but wait.

I had come to understand that for Americans, taking internal flights was like boarding a coach or train in Europe. That’s why they call standard class “coach”. And that’s precisely how it was. Small plane (an Embraer), no frills and only drinks served. It was a brilliantly clear day, and between naps I kept looking down at the territory we’d covered overland in the past few days. It was beautiful, and I kept thinking I could have quite happily kept going.

We arrived at LaGuardia, which was an experience, given that the runway extends into the bay, making it look like the plane is coming down over water. The endless rows of gridded streets below us during descent made me excited for New York. The city that never sleeps, and all that. I knew it would be a world away from Atlanta or any of the tiny places we’d visited on our road trip.

The moment we stepped off the plane we were surrounded by Italian American accents, New York accents and bagel and pretzel stands signaling quite forcefully that we weren’t in Kansas Georgia anymore. The heat was oppressive as we waited for our cab to Manhattan. Turned out the guy shafted us on the road tolls – the helpful info screen in the back of the car said that cabbies have to use their EZPass and “pass on the toll discount in full to the customer,” adding the toll sum to the final meter reading. Either our guy didn’t have an EZPass or something else, but he asked us for the $5.50 in cash, and I wasn’t in the mood for an argument.

We’d both read things about the rooms in the Hudson Hotel being “tiny” and “horrible” but to be honest if you’re spending time in your hotel room in any big city, you’re doing it wrong. That’s why I was ok with our small but comfortable room. It didn’t fit much aside from a bed, and opening up suitcases meant you had to think which way you walked, but it was all ok. Most everyone in NYC lives in pocky little places anyway, it’s not like you can expect enormous caverns like our room in Manassas. Once we settled in we decided on a place for a drink and dinner thanks to a guide book we’d picked up while waiting for our plane in Atlanta.

Given that we hadn’t had a chance to have a drink at the taproom in Asheville, it was nice to go to a beer pub and actually enjoy what was on offer. The Blind Tiger was a pub in the way Americans make them. They emulate the British pubs in the wood paneling and dark interiors, but somehow over- or underdo it, meaning you thoroughly enjoy yourself but think it’s not entirely natural. They had an impressive selection of beers up on the board, clearly constantly changing. When I asked what sort of beer the seasonal peach beer was, though, the barmaid kind of repeated exactly what was on the board (”It’s kind of… a kind of tart, bitter… tart peach”). Oh well, I got that one and a Brooklyn-based beer given that I did want to try local stuff. They were both all right.

Sadly, the place we’d scouted out for dinner ended up being closed. The Blind Tiger is just across from a legendary pizzeria, John’s, and we could have returned there had we not walked a few blocks already. We ended up eating thoroughly pleasant pasta in a lower east side Italian place, where we watched an American man squirm through a business dinner with Chinese men, outnumbered five to one, with only one of them speaking English audibly. Must have been an uncomfortable time. After he’d escorted them out, he returned to settle the bill, and sat reading a newspaper on his iPad for a long time. I like to think he had a drink to calm himself down, too. Poor guy.

Travel always wears you out, as does the heat. Meandering back toward the subway stop we got out at, we stopped at a Starbucks for one of their cold ice teas to chill us out a bit. It must have been 10pm but still incredibly hot, with all buildings and the streets radiating heat even without the air conditioning exhusts blowing at you from every direction. There, sitting, watching the traffic quiet down, and young people hang around the corner entrance to the subway, with an unmistakeably New York skyline in the background, I felt pretty cool. New York City was pretty much exactly as I thought it would be.

The hotel breakfast was ridiculously overpriced and I don’t think we woke up in time anyway. Feeling tender but most likely legal to drive, I settled behind the wheel while some of the people from the previous night loaded up into the car with us. One had been to Atlanta before, so knew to suggest the largest drive-in in the world, The Varsity. I couldn’t contemplate anything better than consuming hot dogs smothered in chili, so I commandeered the decision despite the feeble and hungover protestations of the group’s only vegetarian. Ordering for her ended up being a mission, though.

The place was insane. We could have parked at the drive-in where middle-aged men in paper hats and aprons would come and take our orders, but for reasons of space (5 people in a hire car eating hot dogs) went upstairs to the “restaurant”. Long lines snaked to each of the two dozen cashiers, with a woman yelling “move on down, move on down” much more forcefully than all London tube ushers put together. Dutifully we did, with me getting a meal that makes me feel vaguely ill now just thinking back to it. As we tried to get a grilled cheese and some salad for the vegetarian who was by now looking a bit green, we discovered the guy had served her a chicken sandwich (”grilled chicken” sounding like “grilled cheese”??) and the salad eventually came with a load of chicken dumped on top. Going on a rescue mission, I managed to catch a friend at the counter just as he was ordering, and he offered to get a sandwich without the chicken this time.

Any description I give of the Varsity will not do it justice. I’m sure there are videos of it on the internet, but they won’t convey the masses of people in Atlanta Braves clothing queueing up for their Sunday staples. In a way I’m glad I went but at the same time I was thoroughly, thoroughly disturbed by the experience. At least we got a moment to breathe out of the noise since we decided to sit in the parking lot through one of the most severe rainstorms I’d ever seen battered central Atlanta for about twenty minutes after we finished eating. It was interesting seeing the buildings across the road disappear into a gray mist as the rain blew over us, overflowing sewers and soaking everything in its path.

Something even more troubling than the Varsity was our next stop on the tour, the $15 a head World of Coca-Cola. Being headquartered in Atlanta, Coca-Cola is such an institution there that any soda is just referred to as “Coke” in the region. Along with the Atlanta Aquarium, the place is a chief Atlanta attraction, and I guess it was only appropriate to try and do some touristy things. I never expected to be quite so thoroughly bombarded into consumption submission, though. Almost prophetically, as if discouraging us from entering, the peppy ticket cashier asked where we were from. I said Finland and it was easier to not specify anything else. “Oh wow, Fin-laaand! Welcome to America! Go shopping! Eat pizza!” she crooned at me. No, I was going to Coke World instead.

“WHO’S READY TO OPEN A BOTTLE OF HAPPINESS?!” the host yelled after they had herded us into a trophy room at the start of the tour, and had called out for places people were coming from. At this point, our bloodshot and confused eyes were meeting each other in looks of concern and distress. It didn’t let up at all throughout the tour. The first real stop was sitting through a “documentary” about the “employees of the Happiness Factory“, the grotesque cartoon characters supposedly inhabiting the Coke vending machines. I wish I could have seen the irony.

Herded through exhibits of memorabilia, a “4d film” with moving seats and spraying water about “the secret ingredient” that makes Coke special (you, the consumer), and an example bottling plant, we finally came to the fountain section, where some 80 different Coca-Cola company products were available for tasting. They ranged from the nice (vanilla Coke) to the nigh-on-unfathomably-undrinkable (a Djiboutian mint soda that tasted so strongly of mouthwash it was a challenge to try and swallow). At least it got our blood sugar levels up, if the hot dogs and ridiculously sweet orange soda at the Varsity hadn’t done that.

After those two separate assaults on the senses, I am surprised I was capable of driving, first to the MARTA stop to drop off a friend who had a plane to catch, and then to sit somewhere quieter to contemplate what we’d just experienced in the last 24 hours. It took a while, and we only left when they started putting together a campaign meeting for a democratic candidate for Georgia governor. (Speaking of the gubernatorial primaries, the ads on TV were something else. Personal attacks against other candidates within the same party, as well as references to God and piety in personal statements are things you don’t see in Europe.)

Twenty miles of driving later we were back in the hotel in Marietta, packing and getting ready for one more night in the South, and one last morning with our Buick that had taken us over 1000 miles by that point.