Pittsburgh

There was a huge electric storm in the night. It was a little surreal because there didn’t seem to be either any thunder or rain. Temperatures are unseasonably high in New York, so thunder storms are likely.

I was staying at my friend Frank’s apartment, which is down by the Hudson on 42nd Street. He has wall-to-ceiling windows and is on the 16th floor, so the flashes of lightning looked spectacular. Great big, Scooby Doo forks in the sky. The sky itself was crimson and angry. It was hugely dramatic.

Maybe because of the storm, or because I was alone in an apartment I don’t know, I woke up in the night feeling disorientated and a little panicky. I watched a bit of telly to calm myself down. Surely US programmes are considerably shorter than British ones? The adverts seem to occur about every eight minutes. My favourite ads are the ones for medicine where a voice over is legally obliged to list all the adverse things which might happen to someone who takes the product; “may cause dizziness, nausea, drowsiness, manic episodes, heart attacks or death.” You think I’m joking?

I had breakfast in a cheap and cheerful little place just up from Frank’s. It’s the sort of no fuss joint which attracts the local coppers. I had a mushroom and feta omelette, which, as is custom in the US, came with fried potatoes and pieces of pre-buttered toast for me to have with grape jam. It’s always grape jam. I’ve never been offered anything else for breakfast. And it’s always delicious.

My internal flight to Pittsburgh took me to La Guardia airport for the first time. It’s a nasty old place, which feels rather low rent. You get herded like cattle through security and thrown into little standing-only rooms whilst waiting to board. It’s the sort of place where apples get wrapped in individual cloches of cellophane. David Attenborough be dammed! Like our carbon footprints aren’t already large enough just by being in an airport!

Our flight was delayed as a result of some sort of weight restriction problem on the tiny little plane we’d been slung onto. People were offered compensation to the tune of $375 to walk away. Four left, to great rounds of applause from other passengers. It was like The Price Is Right. The whole experience made me very uneasy. There was also a weird hot gale blowing as we boarded and the pilot was completely incomprehensible. He used the word “bumping” instead of “turbulence.” I like my pilots to sound articulate to the point of arrogance.

The flight itself was horrible. The plane buffeted, bounced and banked its way out of New York. I felt like I was in a car being lobbed out of a giant catapult. My palms sweated constantly. I didn’t feel at all safe.

The landing was even worse, to the extent that I wondered if I’d ever be able to fly on a small plane again. I ended up with a lap full of Coca-Cola! I was somewhat relieved after we’d landed to hear the co-pilot saying to the hostess, “well that was one of the bumpiest flights I’ve had for a long while!”

I was taken to my hotel by an Armenian Uber driver who was a lot of fun. As we passed the local jail, he waved and then said “that’s the jail: hey bad guys...”

After arriving at the hotel, I took myself for a very long walk along a road called East Carson Street which is well known locally for its many bars.

I have to say, on the strength of my walk, I really rate this city. Rather like Sheffield, it’s known as a centre of steel and iron manufacturing and it wears its industrial past on its sleeves.

It’s situated on three rivers, which carve their way through a steep, green tree-lined valley. Many of the houses which cling to the valley’s slopes look a little Dutch, with clapper board walls and steep roofs.

East Carson Street itself is rather arty and alternative with shops selling crystals, gems, tie-dye clothes and tarot readings alongside tiny independent cinemas and music venues. I was particularly intrigued by a sign in a window which read, ‘“Love each other” Jesus.’ There’s nothing particularly odd about that, except that the sign was surrounded by English flags and stars of David.

The road looks like something from the Mid-West. The buildings are tall and brick built. Probably late Victorian. A hot wind was blowing bits of grit and pollen into my eyes, so there were moments when I simply had to look at the ground and make haste, but I found the area fascinating. Periodically, an old school American truck would trundle past and I was immediately transported to scenes from On The Road, which became even more vivid every time a goods train, on the track parallel to the street let off its whistle, which echoed a perfect minor seventh chord along the valley. It was hugely intriguing and atmospheric.




I came upon an old-fashioned railroad crossing in an area of Victorian warehouses and my imagination started to soar!




I walked back along a river path, surrounded honey-scented flowers, hearing nothing but the rustle of trees in the wind and the chirping of very happy birds. At one point, a woman cycled past, proudly singing Material Girl by Madonna. It was rather lovely to hear. She was better than Madonna herself (based on her recent Eurovision fiasco!)



We ate in a lovely restaurant tonight. I can’t say anything more about what I’m doing here until tomorrow...