London ahoy

LThere really is a ludicrous lack of signage on the New York Subway system. You pull into most stations and immediately panic because all you can see is a dark void and a load of pillars propping up the grimy tunnels. There’s usually very little to tell you where you are. In London, you can immediately see which station you’re passing through. The station names are clearly printed on the eye-catching red, white and blue iconic roundels. In New York, the wording might be on a grubby mosaic or on a little sign attached to a post. There is no consistency, so you don’t know what to look for.

It gets worse, however. Take Franklin Street down in the West Village, where the powers-that-be have made identification considerably more difficult by turning the station into a tribute to the late, great Aretha Franklin. The actual station’s name is written on ornate and very beautiful mosaics, but they’re made from muddy brown and sepia tiles which are barely visible in the darkened tunnels. By comparison, the Aretha Franklin tribute has led to a large number of very official-looking sign-like plaques being placed on the walls which say the word “Respect.”

On my way down to Wall Street I got in a complete tizzy because I was trying to find Respect Station on the somewhat confusing Subway maps! 

We had breakfast in the West Village, at a lovely little cafe called Dante, where I had crispy croissants and Michael had what he described as one of the best-ever avocado on toast experiences. I didn’t like to tell him that Jem had already provided me with that whilst I was staying with him on Wednesday night!

It was boiling hot again, and we decided to walk back to Wall Street via the Hudson. There was a children’s play park down there filled with fountains and all sorts of cool streams and water pumps. I envied those kids so much. I was desperate to dive into some sort of swimming pool.

The hot weather sent us rushing away from the Hudson and back into Manhattan, looking for a shady street to walk down. We ended up in TriBeCa, which, it turns out, is a really beautiful and very quiet part of Manhattan. It’s filled with old warehouse buildings which have been turned into flats and little pocket parks where the New Yorkers walk their tiny dogs - usually dachshunds! The tops of all the buildings, which are normally six storeys high, are covered in the most intriguing-looking roof gardens: little oases of green, which must be wonderful to sit in with a glass of lemonade at the end of a hectic day.

We sat outside a little cafe. Michael drank macchiato and I had a nice cup of tea. The Americans are getting slightly better at serving English breakfast tea, although I did come across some up-himself barista yesterday who told me that my incredibly weak tea had been “steeped to perfection.” I told him to steep it again “‘cus this Midlander doesn’t like dishwater.” He got a bit shirty and started calling me “mate” in a cod Dick Van Dyke “fuck you” kind of way!!

Our destination this afternoon was the Museum of Jewish heritage, which, as one might expect, was a pretty painful journey into the world of the holocaust. There was a wall of photographs of children, mostly from France, who had been killed in the camps. One particular image of a pair of tiny little girls, probably sisters, wearing pyjamas, really affected me. It’s hard to say what it was which drew me so deeply into the picture. It was probably the level of absolute innocence in the children’s faces and the complete incomprehension that anyone could have looked at those two little dots and felt anything other than a deep desire to protect them.

...And then it was time to collect our bags, jump on the E train, and head for the airport. My T-shirt stinks. I’ve only had hand luggage during this trip, so haven’t had enough clothes, and had to hand wash a few things in the hotel. The (tiny) sink didn’t have a plug, so I was doing it all in the shower, and then I couldn’t dry things properly, so now I’m that person that people don’t want to sit next to on an aeroplane. I’m considering buying myself a new T-shirt at the airport because I feel so ashamed!

It’s been a wonderful, exciting, enriching trip, which really feels like it’s lasted an eternity. When I think back to arriving at JFK just a week and a day ago, and eating a pizza slice on 42nd Street whilst heading to Frank’s house in that strange gale, it feels like another world away.

I’m a very lucky man, and I owe everything to the Robinson’s Award, who spotted 100 Faces and gave me this wonderful opportunity. London, I’m coming home.