I took a melatonin tablet last night, which has done wonders for my jet lag. Whether tonight will find me tossing and turning all over the place I've no idea, but I woke up feeling very perky at 11am after twelve hours' sleep.
Being back in London is a trial. It's done nothing but rain and there were autumn leaves on our car bonnet. I knuckled down to admin, applied for a job and moped about feeling a bit flat before heading over to Michael's to pick up and go through some music. I'm singing in a synagogue on Saturday as part of a choir and because we're singing in Hebrew, I need to be as prepped as possible. There's a heck of a lot of material to learn. It's not like a Christian church with a couple of hymns and a few set numbers. There's pages of the stuff, some of which is written in old Hebrew so a number of the vowel sounds have shifted, which makes it doubly confusing! So I'm essentially learning the rules of a language as well as a shedload of dots which I think can only be described as a steep learning curve. Of course, the more I sing, the more repetition I'll start to notice, both linguistically and musically, but until that point it's all a little bewildering.
There's really not much else to say for the day. I've started a health and fitness regime and, after the rain, there was a glorious sunset which made me feel a little more positive. I was also not caught by a single traffic light or jam on the North Circular, which has to be some sort of record.
I listened to an interview earlier with a young girl called Alma Deutscher who is being described as a Mozart-like child prodigy. She plays violin, piano and composes, all to an exceptional standard. She's very sweet, but fairly odd. She seems to be English but speaks with a German accent. I'm told she wrote a violin concerto at 8 and an opera at 11. She's twelve now, and carries a pink skipping rope around with her for inspiration. She wanted to write an opera because she liked red, velvet curtains. The music all sounds very Mozartian but it is remarkable for her age. It's just all a bit freaky. How does a kid get like that with so few hours in a day? And how on earth will she develop as an adult?
Thursday, 31 August 2017
Tuesday, 29 August 2017
Trump chocolates
We were up astoundingly early this morning, and sat, for some time, at 4.30am, on the subway at 50th waiting for the train to arrive whilst two Malaysian forty-somethings snogged on the stairwell. They were really going for it and the noises they were making were preposterous. Hollow, salivary, slurping sounds. Hugely disconcerting.
Sam chatted to a Chinese bloke on the long journey to JFK. I tuned into their conversation at one point to hear Sam talking about James the First. We could have taken a taxi to the airport, but it seemed such an unnecessary cost after such a ludicrously expensive holiday. What's an extra half an hour if it saves each of us $50?
We reached Sutphin Boulevard, where you leave the subway system and get on the Airtrain to the airport. As Nathan topped up our Metro card, we were accosted by a man who told us we wouldn't be able to pay for tickets for the Airtrain using the card. It was, of course, a scam, because he then said, "so as you've no use for your Metro card now, can you give it to me?" Well cheeky! For the record, you CAN pay for the AirTrain with a Metro card!!
This particular monorail is covered in little posters of JFK himself, with a series of quotes which appear to want to paint him both as a martyr and a saint, "he saw a world where nature and science would work in balance." The quotes, of course, aren't attributed to anyone specific, and got more and more preposterous. I'm no great follower of American history, but I'd suggest that although JFK was an interesting, handsome, effective, popular, fresh and deeply charismatic president, he wasn't Ghandi! In fact, the Vietnam War pretty much kicked off during his tenure, and the Cold War got a heck of a lot colder.
They were selling Donald Trump chocolates in the Duty Free shop. I couldn't work out if it was meant to be a joke; an ironic gift you get for a friend back home who hates Trump, in the way that we used to buy my Dad pictures of Charles and Di's engagement so that he could deface them. I wanted to turn every single chocolate bar around on the shelf. Or run at the display with flailing arms like a toddler. Or stick a radiator in front of it so the chocolate melts and looks like that bastard's warped face with a Shredded Wheat shoved on the top. An airport seems a funny place to be celebrating that desperate lummox.
The flight was not the greatest time I've ever spent in mid air. A fair amount of turbulence royally freaked me out, and because we'd got up so early, I kept lolling off to sleep. The problem is that I've developed an insane tick which means that every time I drop off to sleep on a plane, I immediately (and violently) wake up again whilst punching the person next to me! Anyone who's ever done a long haul flight sitting next to me will attest to this insanity. And of course the bloke in the seat in front immediately pushed his chair back, so I was boxed into a tiny space.
So, I sat for some time, thinking about our trip and wondering if it could possibly have been any more magical. Again and again, nature provided us with perfect sunsets and sunrises. We had just two hours of rain in three weeks. There were magical mists in San Fran. And then that remarkable eclipse in clear, clear skies. We never missed an appointment. We always arrived in cities and at locations on time. There were no rows. It was the perfect trip in every way.
We touched down in Heathrow at 7pm. I can safely say that I've never crossed the Atlantic that speedily. Considering that the flight to San Fran was over eleven hours, we were really quite surprised when the captain told us that particularly good tail winds would see us back to Heathrow in under six. We were warned that we might need to faff a bit in the sky over London, waiting for air traffic control clearance, so were astounded when the "cabin crew prepare for landing" announcement came. Seconds later we felt the wheels hit the runway.
We were through customs and baggage reclaim remarkably speedily. Taking a morning flight out of New York is massively preferable to the night flight, when you arrive at Heathrow having not slept a wink, feeling like death warmed up. Yes, we were up supremely early this morning, but we'll be home about 9 o'clock, be exhausted by 10, and, with any luck, be able to sleep through the night and wake up feeling fairly refreshed. That's the plan anyway.
Could do without this epic tube journey home though!
Sam chatted to a Chinese bloke on the long journey to JFK. I tuned into their conversation at one point to hear Sam talking about James the First. We could have taken a taxi to the airport, but it seemed such an unnecessary cost after such a ludicrously expensive holiday. What's an extra half an hour if it saves each of us $50?
We reached Sutphin Boulevard, where you leave the subway system and get on the Airtrain to the airport. As Nathan topped up our Metro card, we were accosted by a man who told us we wouldn't be able to pay for tickets for the Airtrain using the card. It was, of course, a scam, because he then said, "so as you've no use for your Metro card now, can you give it to me?" Well cheeky! For the record, you CAN pay for the AirTrain with a Metro card!!
This particular monorail is covered in little posters of JFK himself, with a series of quotes which appear to want to paint him both as a martyr and a saint, "he saw a world where nature and science would work in balance." The quotes, of course, aren't attributed to anyone specific, and got more and more preposterous. I'm no great follower of American history, but I'd suggest that although JFK was an interesting, handsome, effective, popular, fresh and deeply charismatic president, he wasn't Ghandi! In fact, the Vietnam War pretty much kicked off during his tenure, and the Cold War got a heck of a lot colder.
They were selling Donald Trump chocolates in the Duty Free shop. I couldn't work out if it was meant to be a joke; an ironic gift you get for a friend back home who hates Trump, in the way that we used to buy my Dad pictures of Charles and Di's engagement so that he could deface them. I wanted to turn every single chocolate bar around on the shelf. Or run at the display with flailing arms like a toddler. Or stick a radiator in front of it so the chocolate melts and looks like that bastard's warped face with a Shredded Wheat shoved on the top. An airport seems a funny place to be celebrating that desperate lummox.
The flight was not the greatest time I've ever spent in mid air. A fair amount of turbulence royally freaked me out, and because we'd got up so early, I kept lolling off to sleep. The problem is that I've developed an insane tick which means that every time I drop off to sleep on a plane, I immediately (and violently) wake up again whilst punching the person next to me! Anyone who's ever done a long haul flight sitting next to me will attest to this insanity. And of course the bloke in the seat in front immediately pushed his chair back, so I was boxed into a tiny space.
So, I sat for some time, thinking about our trip and wondering if it could possibly have been any more magical. Again and again, nature provided us with perfect sunsets and sunrises. We had just two hours of rain in three weeks. There were magical mists in San Fran. And then that remarkable eclipse in clear, clear skies. We never missed an appointment. We always arrived in cities and at locations on time. There were no rows. It was the perfect trip in every way.
We touched down in Heathrow at 7pm. I can safely say that I've never crossed the Atlantic that speedily. Considering that the flight to San Fran was over eleven hours, we were really quite surprised when the captain told us that particularly good tail winds would see us back to Heathrow in under six. We were warned that we might need to faff a bit in the sky over London, waiting for air traffic control clearance, so were astounded when the "cabin crew prepare for landing" announcement came. Seconds later we felt the wheels hit the runway.
We were through customs and baggage reclaim remarkably speedily. Taking a morning flight out of New York is massively preferable to the night flight, when you arrive at Heathrow having not slept a wink, feeling like death warmed up. Yes, we were up supremely early this morning, but we'll be home about 9 o'clock, be exhausted by 10, and, with any luck, be able to sleep through the night and wake up feeling fairly refreshed. That's the plan anyway.
Could do without this epic tube journey home though!
Drag and Brooklyn
I woke up this morning with a terribly sore back. I think I must have slept in a funny position. I think I'm also knackered. My mind and body are telling me to stop over-stimulating them.
We got up early so that we could travel to 112th and Broadway, which is the corner of New York where Tom's Restaurant sits. We'd eat up there every day during periods when we stayed with Christopher and Kevin. Nathan was literally craving their banana and pecan nut pancakes. They actually fry the pancakes with the bananas inside, which makes everything go all caramelised, gooey and scrumptious. In our entire trip across America, we've never found another place which does them like this, so the pilgrimage was worth it. My omelette, on the other hand, was slightly tasteless, and the fried potatoes were dry.
Tom's Diner is famous for two reasons. Its neon exterior was used extensively in establishing shots for the show Seinfeld. It's also the Tom's Diner mentioned in the hugely atmospheric Suzanne Vega song:
"I am sitting in the morning at the diner in the corner. I am waiting at the counter for the man to pour the coffee. And he fills it only half way and before I even argue, he is looking out the window at somebody coming in."
Brunch complete, we took the subway down to Brooklyn, marvelling at the sound of the trains, which, when they leave the station, make a bizarre whistle which sounds like the opening four notes from Somewhere, from West Side Story.
A woman by the subway train door was chewing gum and making an infernal noise. She must have been squeezing the air out of the chuddy behind her top teeth because she was making a sort of cracking noise, like a mixture of the sound of bones shattering and an unwelcome dose of diarrhoea!
We changed trains at 42nd Street, and passed a number of street preachers, one of whom was rapping her non-sensical message in a monotone. She appeared to be in a trance. It was like some sort of Beckett one-woman play. Lots of people in New York seem to feel the need to stand on corners, extolling the word of the Lord. All are extremely aggressive and come across like compete nut jobs. Quite why they think this abnormal behaviour is "spreading the word" is beyond me. I can imagine Jesus up there in heaven thinking, "Seriously?! Team atheist get raconteurs like Stephen Fry and Sandy Toksvig, and I get this bullshit?!"
Nathan told me an hysterical story about his meet and greet up at Knitty City yesterday. At the end of the day, someone came up to him with a print out of one of his patterns which she wanted him to sign. As he signed it, she told him how much she enjoyed his designs, before somewhat dryly adding, "I watch your podcast with the sound on mute." Nathan, somewhat taken aback said, "what? Just the visuals?" To which she responded, "you're a little chatty!"
We were heading to Brooklyn to see my dear, dear friend Sharon whom I have probably had more fun with over the twenty one years I've know her than almost anyone else I know. She's had a rough five years. Her son, Edzie, is autistic, and life has been very complicated as a result. When I last saw her, about two years ago, I got the distinct impression that she'd lost sight of who she was. About a year ago, however, she reclaimed her life, lost a shed load of weight, went on a healthy eating and exercise regime and emerged, like a glorious butterfly, looking barely a day older than when I met her.
She met us at the door without a scrap of make up on, looking stunningly beautiful and we spent an afternoon laughing so much we wanted to wee. Edzie has come on in leaps and bounds since we last saw him, and was really good company. Sharon's made a very brave decision in terms of his schooling next year which we both think is an excellent one. If anyone can noticeably improve that kid's prospects, it's Sharon. God knows it must be tough on her, and I'm sure she must feel lonely and housebound, but she has positivity and tenacity running through her veins. I genuinely didn't want to say goodbye.
Jem told us a really funny story last night about the somewhat-deluded, am-dram extras you sometimes get in film, TV and theatre projects, who often try to make themselves seem a little grander by literally making stuff up about the work they've done. One women he worked with was talking obsessively about all the musicals she'd "starred" in, and mentioned being in Cats. "Oh? Who did you play in that?" asked one of the other extras. Puffing herself up as grandly as possibly she replied, "the tiger!" I suspect this is only funny if you know that there are no tigers in cats!
We left Brooklyn and headed to the East Village to look around the vintage shops with Cindy. I was slightly disappointed to find very few pairs of cufflinks. It turns out that "vintage" in New York is almost exclusively a girl thing. What made me very happy, however, was the sight of old lady in Washington Square Gardens, riding a mobility vehicle which had a giant pole coming out of the back with a rainbow flag on it.
I eventually found myself a rather nice brown vintage tie in a little place called Hamlet's, somewhere in the West Village. It'll be nice to have something which reminds me of this part of the trip. Our final day. We ate our tea in a place called Cow Girl next to an entire wall made out of brightly-coloured images of Frida Kahlo, plainly painted by local school children. One of them had drawn her with a moustache instead of a mono-brow, which seemed a little unfair!
We had a fabulously amusing chat about the differences between pumps in the UK and the US. In America, pumps are high-heeled shoes, which is about as far as you can get from pumps in the UK which are black, rubber-soled, children's gym shoes. Or at least they were at my school. Nathan tells me he called them daps. I eventually found a picture of a pair of British pumps and showed them to Cindy who couldn't believe why anyone would wear anything so repulsive... for any purpose.
We had a drink in Julius', which, it turns out, is New York's oldest gay bar, and the New York home of the Mattachine Society throughout the fifties and sixties. The Mattachines were probably the most influential gay rights movement in the history of our struggle and I felt rather excited to be in their gaff.
The night ended with a drag show at Pieces, which is a gay bar I haven't set foot in for about 8 years, largely because the last time I was here, I was with Nathan and Philip Sallon of all people. I remember vividly that Philip was wearing some kind of red and white checked 1960s waitress uniform underneath a floor length white fake fur coat. (Think of all the chemicals who died to make him look that glamorous!) As we left the bar, Philip went up to the doorman and said, "do you know what the best thing about this club is?Losing it!"
The evening was a competition designed to promote new drag talent presented by a hugely talented queen called Shequida who, by the sound of things, and the way she presented herself, has been on the circuit for many years. She's also an opera singer with a glorious, fruity, bass voice. The evening was won by a queen called Betty Bottom whose schtick was that she pulled a series of hamburgers out from her never regions whilst lip-synching her number, which she proceeded to much away at with an air of absolute innocence. A glorious night. An inanely wonderful trip.
We got up early so that we could travel to 112th and Broadway, which is the corner of New York where Tom's Restaurant sits. We'd eat up there every day during periods when we stayed with Christopher and Kevin. Nathan was literally craving their banana and pecan nut pancakes. They actually fry the pancakes with the bananas inside, which makes everything go all caramelised, gooey and scrumptious. In our entire trip across America, we've never found another place which does them like this, so the pilgrimage was worth it. My omelette, on the other hand, was slightly tasteless, and the fried potatoes were dry.
Tom's Diner is famous for two reasons. Its neon exterior was used extensively in establishing shots for the show Seinfeld. It's also the Tom's Diner mentioned in the hugely atmospheric Suzanne Vega song:
"I am sitting in the morning at the diner in the corner. I am waiting at the counter for the man to pour the coffee. And he fills it only half way and before I even argue, he is looking out the window at somebody coming in."
Brunch complete, we took the subway down to Brooklyn, marvelling at the sound of the trains, which, when they leave the station, make a bizarre whistle which sounds like the opening four notes from Somewhere, from West Side Story.
A woman by the subway train door was chewing gum and making an infernal noise. She must have been squeezing the air out of the chuddy behind her top teeth because she was making a sort of cracking noise, like a mixture of the sound of bones shattering and an unwelcome dose of diarrhoea!
We changed trains at 42nd Street, and passed a number of street preachers, one of whom was rapping her non-sensical message in a monotone. She appeared to be in a trance. It was like some sort of Beckett one-woman play. Lots of people in New York seem to feel the need to stand on corners, extolling the word of the Lord. All are extremely aggressive and come across like compete nut jobs. Quite why they think this abnormal behaviour is "spreading the word" is beyond me. I can imagine Jesus up there in heaven thinking, "Seriously?! Team atheist get raconteurs like Stephen Fry and Sandy Toksvig, and I get this bullshit?!"
Nathan told me an hysterical story about his meet and greet up at Knitty City yesterday. At the end of the day, someone came up to him with a print out of one of his patterns which she wanted him to sign. As he signed it, she told him how much she enjoyed his designs, before somewhat dryly adding, "I watch your podcast with the sound on mute." Nathan, somewhat taken aback said, "what? Just the visuals?" To which she responded, "you're a little chatty!"
We were heading to Brooklyn to see my dear, dear friend Sharon whom I have probably had more fun with over the twenty one years I've know her than almost anyone else I know. She's had a rough five years. Her son, Edzie, is autistic, and life has been very complicated as a result. When I last saw her, about two years ago, I got the distinct impression that she'd lost sight of who she was. About a year ago, however, she reclaimed her life, lost a shed load of weight, went on a healthy eating and exercise regime and emerged, like a glorious butterfly, looking barely a day older than when I met her.
She met us at the door without a scrap of make up on, looking stunningly beautiful and we spent an afternoon laughing so much we wanted to wee. Edzie has come on in leaps and bounds since we last saw him, and was really good company. Sharon's made a very brave decision in terms of his schooling next year which we both think is an excellent one. If anyone can noticeably improve that kid's prospects, it's Sharon. God knows it must be tough on her, and I'm sure she must feel lonely and housebound, but she has positivity and tenacity running through her veins. I genuinely didn't want to say goodbye.
Jem told us a really funny story last night about the somewhat-deluded, am-dram extras you sometimes get in film, TV and theatre projects, who often try to make themselves seem a little grander by literally making stuff up about the work they've done. One women he worked with was talking obsessively about all the musicals she'd "starred" in, and mentioned being in Cats. "Oh? Who did you play in that?" asked one of the other extras. Puffing herself up as grandly as possibly she replied, "the tiger!" I suspect this is only funny if you know that there are no tigers in cats!
We left Brooklyn and headed to the East Village to look around the vintage shops with Cindy. I was slightly disappointed to find very few pairs of cufflinks. It turns out that "vintage" in New York is almost exclusively a girl thing. What made me very happy, however, was the sight of old lady in Washington Square Gardens, riding a mobility vehicle which had a giant pole coming out of the back with a rainbow flag on it.
I eventually found myself a rather nice brown vintage tie in a little place called Hamlet's, somewhere in the West Village. It'll be nice to have something which reminds me of this part of the trip. Our final day. We ate our tea in a place called Cow Girl next to an entire wall made out of brightly-coloured images of Frida Kahlo, plainly painted by local school children. One of them had drawn her with a moustache instead of a mono-brow, which seemed a little unfair!
We had a fabulously amusing chat about the differences between pumps in the UK and the US. In America, pumps are high-heeled shoes, which is about as far as you can get from pumps in the UK which are black, rubber-soled, children's gym shoes. Or at least they were at my school. Nathan tells me he called them daps. I eventually found a picture of a pair of British pumps and showed them to Cindy who couldn't believe why anyone would wear anything so repulsive... for any purpose.
We had a drink in Julius', which, it turns out, is New York's oldest gay bar, and the New York home of the Mattachine Society throughout the fifties and sixties. The Mattachines were probably the most influential gay rights movement in the history of our struggle and I felt rather excited to be in their gaff.
The night ended with a drag show at Pieces, which is a gay bar I haven't set foot in for about 8 years, largely because the last time I was here, I was with Nathan and Philip Sallon of all people. I remember vividly that Philip was wearing some kind of red and white checked 1960s waitress uniform underneath a floor length white fake fur coat. (Think of all the chemicals who died to make him look that glamorous!) As we left the bar, Philip went up to the doorman and said, "do you know what the best thing about this club is?Losing it!"
The evening was a competition designed to promote new drag talent presented by a hugely talented queen called Shequida who, by the sound of things, and the way she presented herself, has been on the circuit for many years. She's also an opera singer with a glorious, fruity, bass voice. The evening was won by a queen called Betty Bottom whose schtick was that she pulled a series of hamburgers out from her never regions whilst lip-synching her number, which she proceeded to much away at with an air of absolute innocence. A glorious night. An inanely wonderful trip.
Monday, 28 August 2017
44 1/2
I woke up feeling brutally hungover this morning. I was probably exhausted as well. As we reach the final days of our holiday, I've started to realise quite how tiring the experience has been! Every second of every day has been filled with adventure. San Francisco feels like it happened last year.
We had brunch in a lovely little diner called 44 1/2. It's called that because it's on Tenth Avenue, halfway between 44th and 45th Streets. We were there to meet up with Christopher Sieber and his partner Kevin. Nathan and Christopher were in Spamalot together in the West End and immediately became firm friends to the extent that Christopher actually spent Christmas with Nathan's family. Seeing them is always a treat. We've had some fabulous adventures together over the years. They live on an island, on a lake, in the countryside forty miles outside New York. We have spent many a happy hour out there, swinging on hammocks amongst the humming birds and chipmunks.
After eating, we strolled down to the Hudson. It was a wonderfully sunny afternoon, and we spent some time running through a fountain like little girls. It was one of those unpredictable fountains, where different jets of water leap out at different heights in myriad patterns. Part of the joy of the game is knowing that you're going to end up soaking wet.
After a blissful few hours, they very kindly drove us up to Knitty City, New York's premier yarn store, where Nathan had organised another one of his "meet and greets." The store had done some publicity to let its customers know that Nathan was going to be there, and we were literally besieged by people as soon as we arrived. The store owners couldn't bring enough chairs out to seat the people who had come. Nathan duly held court, surrounded by a lovely-looking group of adoring lady knitters... and one bloke. There were maybe 30 or 40 of them. The store owner was thrilled. He's becoming quite the knitting celebrity.
I milled around the Upper West Side for a while. I bought a muffin and a cup of tea at a bagel bakery. This particular part of the city is full of wealthy Jewish people and the experience of walking into the cafe was something else! I panic-bought a muffin because everything was so fast-paced and noisy in there. There's a certain type of shouty, brusque New Yorker that you see in the films but don't often find in mid town or down in the village. They all seemed to be in that bagel bakery!
I found myself a bench on a pavement in the middle of the two lanes of traffic on Broadway, by the subway station at 79th Street and spent some time writing postcards whilst the trains rattled noisily underneath me.
After a brief snooze back at the hotel, I went to the stage door of the Book of Mormon to meet the lovely Stephen Ashfield, who's currently over here doing the show. I actually gave Stephen his first job, fifteen years ago, playing Boy George in the show, Taboo. I'm extremely proud of the way that his career has developed and it was wonderful to see him looking so well and happy. We drank in a cafe called Frisson on 47th Street, and were joined, briefly, by some of the others members of the cast, who seemed very jolly indeed.
There are many stage door Johnnies in the US. People take musical theatre so much more seriously over here. Huge groups of people gather at the stage doors to get autographs of and selfies with the cast. Musical theatre is revered in a way which almost makes me want to weep.
We met Ian from the stage door of Anastasia at 6pm and randomly popped into Joe's Pizza to cheekily use their loo. It was a huge surprise and an enormous thrill to bump into one of the waitresses there, who happened to be my old drama school mate, Lesley. I sometimes forget how many good friends I have in this city. I'm hoping to catch up with her tomorrow.
Ian led us back to his house in the very northern tip of the Borough of Queens. Jem and Ian live in a predominantly Mexican neighbourhood where the first language is Spanish and everyone is genuinely tiny! Ian, by contrast, is a very tall, blond man who literally couldn't look more different from his neighbours if he tried. He tells me that the locals are incredibly friendly. There was certainly quite a buzz on the streets.
Jem cooked an exquisite meal which included a quiche, sweet potato chips, a salad and a delicious homemade chocolate mousse with blueberries. I was in heaven for the longest period of time! Conversation flowed. We discussed musical theatre orchestration, Egyptian wigs, Dante's Inferno, Pompeii and call centres. It's hideous that we have to say goodbye to them again for goodness knows how long. Seeing them has done nothing but remind how much I've missed them.
We had brunch in a lovely little diner called 44 1/2. It's called that because it's on Tenth Avenue, halfway between 44th and 45th Streets. We were there to meet up with Christopher Sieber and his partner Kevin. Nathan and Christopher were in Spamalot together in the West End and immediately became firm friends to the extent that Christopher actually spent Christmas with Nathan's family. Seeing them is always a treat. We've had some fabulous adventures together over the years. They live on an island, on a lake, in the countryside forty miles outside New York. We have spent many a happy hour out there, swinging on hammocks amongst the humming birds and chipmunks.
After eating, we strolled down to the Hudson. It was a wonderfully sunny afternoon, and we spent some time running through a fountain like little girls. It was one of those unpredictable fountains, where different jets of water leap out at different heights in myriad patterns. Part of the joy of the game is knowing that you're going to end up soaking wet.
After a blissful few hours, they very kindly drove us up to Knitty City, New York's premier yarn store, where Nathan had organised another one of his "meet and greets." The store had done some publicity to let its customers know that Nathan was going to be there, and we were literally besieged by people as soon as we arrived. The store owners couldn't bring enough chairs out to seat the people who had come. Nathan duly held court, surrounded by a lovely-looking group of adoring lady knitters... and one bloke. There were maybe 30 or 40 of them. The store owner was thrilled. He's becoming quite the knitting celebrity.
I milled around the Upper West Side for a while. I bought a muffin and a cup of tea at a bagel bakery. This particular part of the city is full of wealthy Jewish people and the experience of walking into the cafe was something else! I panic-bought a muffin because everything was so fast-paced and noisy in there. There's a certain type of shouty, brusque New Yorker that you see in the films but don't often find in mid town or down in the village. They all seemed to be in that bagel bakery!
I found myself a bench on a pavement in the middle of the two lanes of traffic on Broadway, by the subway station at 79th Street and spent some time writing postcards whilst the trains rattled noisily underneath me.
After a brief snooze back at the hotel, I went to the stage door of the Book of Mormon to meet the lovely Stephen Ashfield, who's currently over here doing the show. I actually gave Stephen his first job, fifteen years ago, playing Boy George in the show, Taboo. I'm extremely proud of the way that his career has developed and it was wonderful to see him looking so well and happy. We drank in a cafe called Frisson on 47th Street, and were joined, briefly, by some of the others members of the cast, who seemed very jolly indeed.
There are many stage door Johnnies in the US. People take musical theatre so much more seriously over here. Huge groups of people gather at the stage doors to get autographs of and selfies with the cast. Musical theatre is revered in a way which almost makes me want to weep.
We met Ian from the stage door of Anastasia at 6pm and randomly popped into Joe's Pizza to cheekily use their loo. It was a huge surprise and an enormous thrill to bump into one of the waitresses there, who happened to be my old drama school mate, Lesley. I sometimes forget how many good friends I have in this city. I'm hoping to catch up with her tomorrow.
Ian led us back to his house in the very northern tip of the Borough of Queens. Jem and Ian live in a predominantly Mexican neighbourhood where the first language is Spanish and everyone is genuinely tiny! Ian, by contrast, is a very tall, blond man who literally couldn't look more different from his neighbours if he tried. He tells me that the locals are incredibly friendly. There was certainly quite a buzz on the streets.
Jem cooked an exquisite meal which included a quiche, sweet potato chips, a salad and a delicious homemade chocolate mousse with blueberries. I was in heaven for the longest period of time! Conversation flowed. We discussed musical theatre orchestration, Egyptian wigs, Dante's Inferno, Pompeii and call centres. It's hideous that we have to say goodbye to them again for goodness knows how long. Seeing them has done nothing but remind how much I've missed them.
Sunday, 27 August 2017
Ground Hog Day
I'm afraid I'm a little pissed as I write this blog. We've been out at a piano bar all night and someone fed me Gin and Tonic.
We had breakfast in a little diner on 9th Avenue this morning. It was the usual fodder. Pancakes. Waffles. Omelettes. Sam tried grits, an anaemic looking, corn-based mush, which look like porridge and are apparently fairly tasteless. I don't actually know whether to talk about grits as a plural or a singular.
The diner had English football matches playing on its television screens. Newcastle were playing West Ham at one point. English soccer is massive news over here, as it is all over the world. I am eternally astonished that we can't seem to put together a decent national team. Not that I remotely care about football. I find the game faffy and feminine and the fans are crude and aggressive.
We walked the length of the incomparable High Line this morning, which follows the length of a raised railway track, which fell into disrepair in the second half of the 20th Century. It reopened as a walk in 2009, and every time I come here, they've extended it a little bit further. It now stretches all the way from 34th Street down to Gansevoort Street in the Meat Packing District, which is over 20 blocks away. It's a very special resource. The raised walkway has some stunning views over the city, but it's also been really carefully planned with places to sit, paddle, look at art work, eat, play, meet people and contemplate. The trees they planted when they landscaped the walk are now looking established. I remember coming here some years ago and thinking how lovely it would all be when the trees were tall. I had no idea that this moment would arrive so speedily. The place keeps developing. There's always something exciting and new to look at. My favourite spot has always been the giant glass window from where you can look all the way up Tenth Avenue.
From the end of the High Line, we walked through that uniquely treacle-like New York Village light to Christoper Street, which is, of course, home to the infamous Stonewall Bar where, 49 years ago, rioting helped to put gay rights firmly on the agenda. The riots kicked off the day that Judy Garland died when police raided the bar and made a number of totally spurious arrests. I'm not sure there's any real connection with Judy Garland's death, beyond coincidence, but perhaps the people in the bar were in a state of shock after the death of their icon, and the raids simply tipped them over the edge. The romantic in me likes to think that this was the case.
The bars in the West Village were displaying a riot of different flags including the flag for men who like leather, the trans flag and the bear flag. Yes, there is a flag for hairy gay men! They've also started resurrecting the eight-colour rainbow flag in honour of Gilbert Baker, who died earlier this year. Baker designed the rainbow flag initially with extra turquoise and pink stripes, but this proved to be too expensive. From that point onwards, the pride flag was six-coloured. It was really rather lovely to see it as Baker originally desired. Around the village we saw a number of pictures of Donald Trump which had had their faces scratched out! Trump might love New York, but the feeling is certainly not mutual.
We dropped Sam and Matt off at Washington Square Gardens. It was boiling hot, so Nathan stuck his head in the fountain and got soaking wet. We then took the subway up to Midtown to discover that the whole of Eighth Avenue had been pedestrianised and turned into a giant street market as far as Central Park. We ate arepas. We'd never had them before. They're little sweetcorn fritters with mozzarella inside. The people selling them are all Latino. The women I bought mine from only spoke Spanish.
We went to see a matinee of Groundhog Day this afternoon, which was a show we both missed during its all-too-short run in London. It's playing here at the August Wilson theatre. Broadway theatres change their names so regularly that I have no idea if I've seen something in that particular theatre before. I've seen a lot of Broadway shows, so it's a strong possibility. We went with our friend Cindy and all three of us enjoyed the show immensely. The second half, in particular, really touched me, and got right under my skin. I guess I've felt rather trapped in my own life of late: slogging away at my career with absolutely zero financial reward and, as such, felt like I've been going round in ever decreasing circles. A piece about a day which repeats and repeats was always going to hit me hard.
I think the show must be appealing to men. I have never in my life seen such a queue for the gents loo during an interval. I think there were more than 100 men in a line which stretched up two flights of stairs. A bemused front of house staff member was standing at the top of the steps barking, "this is the end of the line for the men's bathroom."
After the show we went to a dive on Nine where we ate salad and I had a Gin and Tonic which made me a little squidgy. I've had two more since! Jem and Ian joined us between shows, and it was like old times again. God I've missed those two.
This evening we headed back down to the West Village. First stop was Duplex, a piano bar, two doors along from Stonewall, but it was incredibly loud to the extent that I had to put tissue paper in my ears! After a quick drink, we crossed the road to Monster Bar and propped up the piano in the corner, where a delightful pianist (an entertainment lawyer by day) was playing songs from the shows. We covered pretty much every major show in about two hours. I led the group in a rendition of Don't Cry For Me Argentina. Funny what you end up singing. The pianist explained to me that cabaret and open mic pianists used to refuse to play music by Lloyd-Webber because they didn't consider it to be proper musical theatre. I don't know whether that was more an anti British thing, or a stance against the perceived simplicity of his music. Anyway, apparently things changed when Sunset Boulevard came out. Pianists considered this show to be more worthy of their fingers!
The last time I propped up the piano in this bar was probably in about 2007. I was with Nathan and Matt Lucas and we were singing the whole of Little Shop Of Horrors. As we indulged our musical theatre whims, we became aware of quite a major commotion, and realised one of the queens in the bar had glassed another. There was blood literally everywhere. It looked like someone had dipped the poor bloke in red paint. After a while we continued to sing... the show must go on!
I was very moved when the whole bar broke into Somewhere Over the Rainbow. When you're sitting opposite Stonewall, that song has a deeper significance. We left the bar and sang a glorious rendition of Sweet Dreams on the street outside with a beautiful black drag queen.
We had breakfast in a little diner on 9th Avenue this morning. It was the usual fodder. Pancakes. Waffles. Omelettes. Sam tried grits, an anaemic looking, corn-based mush, which look like porridge and are apparently fairly tasteless. I don't actually know whether to talk about grits as a plural or a singular.
The diner had English football matches playing on its television screens. Newcastle were playing West Ham at one point. English soccer is massive news over here, as it is all over the world. I am eternally astonished that we can't seem to put together a decent national team. Not that I remotely care about football. I find the game faffy and feminine and the fans are crude and aggressive.
We walked the length of the incomparable High Line this morning, which follows the length of a raised railway track, which fell into disrepair in the second half of the 20th Century. It reopened as a walk in 2009, and every time I come here, they've extended it a little bit further. It now stretches all the way from 34th Street down to Gansevoort Street in the Meat Packing District, which is over 20 blocks away. It's a very special resource. The raised walkway has some stunning views over the city, but it's also been really carefully planned with places to sit, paddle, look at art work, eat, play, meet people and contemplate. The trees they planted when they landscaped the walk are now looking established. I remember coming here some years ago and thinking how lovely it would all be when the trees were tall. I had no idea that this moment would arrive so speedily. The place keeps developing. There's always something exciting and new to look at. My favourite spot has always been the giant glass window from where you can look all the way up Tenth Avenue.
From the end of the High Line, we walked through that uniquely treacle-like New York Village light to Christoper Street, which is, of course, home to the infamous Stonewall Bar where, 49 years ago, rioting helped to put gay rights firmly on the agenda. The riots kicked off the day that Judy Garland died when police raided the bar and made a number of totally spurious arrests. I'm not sure there's any real connection with Judy Garland's death, beyond coincidence, but perhaps the people in the bar were in a state of shock after the death of their icon, and the raids simply tipped them over the edge. The romantic in me likes to think that this was the case.
The bars in the West Village were displaying a riot of different flags including the flag for men who like leather, the trans flag and the bear flag. Yes, there is a flag for hairy gay men! They've also started resurrecting the eight-colour rainbow flag in honour of Gilbert Baker, who died earlier this year. Baker designed the rainbow flag initially with extra turquoise and pink stripes, but this proved to be too expensive. From that point onwards, the pride flag was six-coloured. It was really rather lovely to see it as Baker originally desired. Around the village we saw a number of pictures of Donald Trump which had had their faces scratched out! Trump might love New York, but the feeling is certainly not mutual.
We dropped Sam and Matt off at Washington Square Gardens. It was boiling hot, so Nathan stuck his head in the fountain and got soaking wet. We then took the subway up to Midtown to discover that the whole of Eighth Avenue had been pedestrianised and turned into a giant street market as far as Central Park. We ate arepas. We'd never had them before. They're little sweetcorn fritters with mozzarella inside. The people selling them are all Latino. The women I bought mine from only spoke Spanish.
We went to see a matinee of Groundhog Day this afternoon, which was a show we both missed during its all-too-short run in London. It's playing here at the August Wilson theatre. Broadway theatres change their names so regularly that I have no idea if I've seen something in that particular theatre before. I've seen a lot of Broadway shows, so it's a strong possibility. We went with our friend Cindy and all three of us enjoyed the show immensely. The second half, in particular, really touched me, and got right under my skin. I guess I've felt rather trapped in my own life of late: slogging away at my career with absolutely zero financial reward and, as such, felt like I've been going round in ever decreasing circles. A piece about a day which repeats and repeats was always going to hit me hard.
I think the show must be appealing to men. I have never in my life seen such a queue for the gents loo during an interval. I think there were more than 100 men in a line which stretched up two flights of stairs. A bemused front of house staff member was standing at the top of the steps barking, "this is the end of the line for the men's bathroom."
After the show we went to a dive on Nine where we ate salad and I had a Gin and Tonic which made me a little squidgy. I've had two more since! Jem and Ian joined us between shows, and it was like old times again. God I've missed those two.
This evening we headed back down to the West Village. First stop was Duplex, a piano bar, two doors along from Stonewall, but it was incredibly loud to the extent that I had to put tissue paper in my ears! After a quick drink, we crossed the road to Monster Bar and propped up the piano in the corner, where a delightful pianist (an entertainment lawyer by day) was playing songs from the shows. We covered pretty much every major show in about two hours. I led the group in a rendition of Don't Cry For Me Argentina. Funny what you end up singing. The pianist explained to me that cabaret and open mic pianists used to refuse to play music by Lloyd-Webber because they didn't consider it to be proper musical theatre. I don't know whether that was more an anti British thing, or a stance against the perceived simplicity of his music. Anyway, apparently things changed when Sunset Boulevard came out. Pianists considered this show to be more worthy of their fingers!
The last time I propped up the piano in this bar was probably in about 2007. I was with Nathan and Matt Lucas and we were singing the whole of Little Shop Of Horrors. As we indulged our musical theatre whims, we became aware of quite a major commotion, and realised one of the queens in the bar had glassed another. There was blood literally everywhere. It looked like someone had dipped the poor bloke in red paint. After a while we continued to sing... the show must go on!
I was very moved when the whole bar broke into Somewhere Over the Rainbow. When you're sitting opposite Stonewall, that song has a deeper significance. We left the bar and sang a glorious rendition of Sweet Dreams on the street outside with a beautiful black drag queen.
Saturday, 26 August 2017
Concrete jungle where dreams are made of [sic]
Road Trip: Day Thirteen. Miles travelled: 3984. States visited: 17
(Plus Washington DC). Time zones covered: 4
It seems rather strange to think we woke up in Washington DC this morning and that we're now in New York.
The last leg of our epic car journey took us from DC to Philadelphia and through another four states. States come at you thick and fast on the Eastern side of the US. Delaware, it turns out, is tiny!
There's not much to write about this particular car journey. The Interstate took us through the middle of Baltimore, which seems to be a large, brutal and highly industrial city full of bridges. It's in Maryland, and Maryland, it turns out, likes to make a bit of money by charging people to drive on its motorways. In over three thousand miles of driving, we'd only come across one other toll road, and were fairly amused when we were only charged something ludicrous like 75 cents to drive on it!
Maryland knows it's the gateway to New York and Philly and seems to have no compunction whatsoever about fleecing its drivers. The tolls kept coming. The first was for $4. The next cost us $8. Minutes later we paid another $4. It all felt a little unfair.
Delaware doesn't have much going for it, or certainly not the bit we passed through. I'm told it's so small that it would fit into the Grand Canyon. It does, however, have a giant silver Jesus statue which stares over the motorway like an over-sized, foil-coated Christmas tree decoration. When on earth did religion get so tacky?
A lot of the States are delineated by rivers in these parts, and going over a bridge often means you're crossing a state line. The impressive Delaware Memorial Bridge takes you into New Jersey, and the Benjamin Franklin Bridge takes you into
Pennsylvania. Philadelphia is literally just over the border and the views of the city's skyscrapers from said bridge are magnificent. I rather enjoyed visiting Pennsylvania because the state was named after William Penn, son of Sir William Penn, who was one of the two Sir Williams who were Samuel Pepys' bosses at the Navy Office in the mid 1660s. Pepys didn't have much time for either, but he does mention William Penn Junior in his diaries. I think he's suitably dismissive!
There are a fair number of beggars in Philly. The city of Brotherly Love plainly doesn't have quite enough love to go around. Many of the beggars stand in the middle of the busy roads at junctions where they know the cars are going to stop. Some of them are really laissez faire about what they're doing, almost as though they're willing the cars to hit them. I can't imagine life can be much fun in their situation.
An elderly black woman in a leopard print trouser suit, floppy straw hat and ruby slippers, smoking a cigar, was talking obsessively to herself on the corner of Market Street and Sixteenth. She looked incredibly glamorous but I fear her ranting was largely falling on the collective deaf ears of people passing by.
We weren't in Philly for long enough to get the slightest sense of the place. My instinct tells me it's New York lite. Noisy, crowded, a bit touristy, but ultimately the city is not as exciting or interesting as its bigger brother. There are lots of fat people on the streets, many of whom wear trousers with elasticated waists, and, in the area where we were, an abnormally high number of people were wandering about in hospital scrubs. There were also a lot of men wearing somewhat boxy, rather ill-fitting 1990s-style business suits. That seems to be the way that Americans like to have their suits tailored. It looks old-fashioned to my eyes. They're a bit more European in their tastes in New York.
There was a huge mural on the side of one building, which closer inspection revealed to be a mosaic. That was kind of cool. Underneath it, a young girl sat on a wall with a pout which said "look-at-me, how-dare-you-look-at-me!"
We wanted to see the Liberty Bell. Nathan was determined to lick it like Barney does in How I Met Your Mother. The queues were insane, so we had to make do with looking at it through a bullet-proof window. Nathan had to imagine licking it.
And then, almost as though the road trip had never happened, we dropped the car off at the car hire place next to the train station. Nathan had single-handedly driven 3894 miles, which, to my mind, is an astonishingly feat.
The last ninety miles of our journey happened by train. At Philadelphia train station you're offered something of a Sophie's Choice: Take the fast, expensive Amtrak train to New York, or the slow, cheap Septa one. Neither company talks to the other, or seems aware of the costs associated with travelling with the opposition. Ask at the "neutral" customer help counters in the middle of the train station and you're told they don't know the costs for either company.
It turns out that Amtrak are the ones taking the mic. It may only be an hour into
New York on their trains, but for $162 dollars - one way, per person - they're instantly in the world of "fuck right off." To put things in perspective, an Uber from Philly to NYC is $120, so getting a taxi door to door for the four of us would have cost us five times less than Amtrak! We ended up taking the slower Septa service for $26 dollars each. It chugs along somewhat, and the total journey is 2 1/2 hours, but it's comfortable and relaxing.
A lot of the train station names in these parts seem to be Welsh. Bryn Mawr. Cynwyd. How on earth would the locals tackle these pronunciations?
We arrived at Penn Station in New York and wheeled our suitcases fifteen blocks up Eighth Avenue to our hotel. The Amsterdam is fine. The rooms are as small as you'd expect in New York. I was slightly perturbed, however, to find we had to pay for wifi. It's the first time wifi hasn't been free for our entire trip across America, and it feels a bit naff to be charged $10 a night for the privilege, particularly as wifi is now free on most of the streets in this city.
We went to the Top of the Rock, a viewing platform at the top of the Rockefeller Building. It's the best place to see New York from. Sam and Matt have never been here before and it's a fabulous place to find ones bearings. It's like looking at a three dimensional map. You can point to the left of Central Park and say, "there's the upper West Side..." The other joy about the Rockefeller is that it gives you a perfect view of the Empire State Building. If you're up the Empire State, you can't actually see it! I think it's Central Park, however, which has the greatest impact because you realise quite how large it is. A massive expanse of green stretching into the distance.
It's so peaceful up there. You're so far above the city that the sound of sirens and the general Mid-Town hustle and bustle merely vanish into the gentle breeze.
We watched the sun setting. It was a little crowded up there, but the sun went a joyous red-orange and literally melted into New Jersey, morphing into a most peculiar shape as it sank. Its disappearance prompted a big cheer from the crowd. You can't beat the drama of the natural world.
That said, when the myriad lights of New York come out to play and start twinkling magically, nature gets quite a good run for its money. It's like looking at a galaxy of colourful stars.
The building itself is Deco heaven with great blocks of glass like giant ice cubes on many of the internal walls.
We met our dear friend Jem at an Italian on about 50th called Maria Pia. We had a delicious meal, which was made all the more delicious by his delightful company. We caught up on several months' worth of gossip and, for some reason, spent about half an hour discussing death. I was rather grateful when Jem very deliberately changed the subject. We talked about musical theatre instead.
We decided to take Sam and Matt to Times Square, which, for people who have never seen the place at night, needs to be seen to be believed. Every time I visit, it seems to be slightly more over the top. More and more of the buildings are sporting giant video walls, and the place is so full of light that it feels permanently like day. As Nathan said earlier, "the eclipse meant that we saw midnight during daylight, and Times' Square means we're seeing daylight at midnight!"
Jem's partner, our other dear friend, Ian, is currently in the Broadway show, Anastasia, so we met him afterwards and were delighted when he suggested he give us a backstage tour of the theatre. It was utterly fascinating to be shown the revolves (which they call turntables here), the flying bits of set and the places where the cast do their quick changes. It was also quite a treat to stand on the stage and look out at the empty auditorium.
Anastasia is running in a theatre opposite the one showing Kinky Boots, a musical set in Earls Barton, a little Northamptonshire town which is no more than ten miles from where Sam and I grew up. The show has a huge billboard outside which announces that it's been on Broadway for five years and is now running in the U.K., Canada, Australia, Japan, Korea and Germany. All that for a story about a shoe factory back home!
The night ended at Roxy Diner where we were seated on a huge upstairs table in front of a massive window overlooking Eighth Avenue. The yellow cabs and the odd horse-drawn carriage heading up to Central Park streamed and clip-clopped past. That's the genuine New York experience if you ask me!
(Plus Washington DC). Time zones covered: 4
It seems rather strange to think we woke up in Washington DC this morning and that we're now in New York.
The last leg of our epic car journey took us from DC to Philadelphia and through another four states. States come at you thick and fast on the Eastern side of the US. Delaware, it turns out, is tiny!
There's not much to write about this particular car journey. The Interstate took us through the middle of Baltimore, which seems to be a large, brutal and highly industrial city full of bridges. It's in Maryland, and Maryland, it turns out, likes to make a bit of money by charging people to drive on its motorways. In over three thousand miles of driving, we'd only come across one other toll road, and were fairly amused when we were only charged something ludicrous like 75 cents to drive on it!
Maryland knows it's the gateway to New York and Philly and seems to have no compunction whatsoever about fleecing its drivers. The tolls kept coming. The first was for $4. The next cost us $8. Minutes later we paid another $4. It all felt a little unfair.
Delaware doesn't have much going for it, or certainly not the bit we passed through. I'm told it's so small that it would fit into the Grand Canyon. It does, however, have a giant silver Jesus statue which stares over the motorway like an over-sized, foil-coated Christmas tree decoration. When on earth did religion get so tacky?
A lot of the States are delineated by rivers in these parts, and going over a bridge often means you're crossing a state line. The impressive Delaware Memorial Bridge takes you into New Jersey, and the Benjamin Franklin Bridge takes you into
Pennsylvania. Philadelphia is literally just over the border and the views of the city's skyscrapers from said bridge are magnificent. I rather enjoyed visiting Pennsylvania because the state was named after William Penn, son of Sir William Penn, who was one of the two Sir Williams who were Samuel Pepys' bosses at the Navy Office in the mid 1660s. Pepys didn't have much time for either, but he does mention William Penn Junior in his diaries. I think he's suitably dismissive!
There are a fair number of beggars in Philly. The city of Brotherly Love plainly doesn't have quite enough love to go around. Many of the beggars stand in the middle of the busy roads at junctions where they know the cars are going to stop. Some of them are really laissez faire about what they're doing, almost as though they're willing the cars to hit them. I can't imagine life can be much fun in their situation.
An elderly black woman in a leopard print trouser suit, floppy straw hat and ruby slippers, smoking a cigar, was talking obsessively to herself on the corner of Market Street and Sixteenth. She looked incredibly glamorous but I fear her ranting was largely falling on the collective deaf ears of people passing by.
We weren't in Philly for long enough to get the slightest sense of the place. My instinct tells me it's New York lite. Noisy, crowded, a bit touristy, but ultimately the city is not as exciting or interesting as its bigger brother. There are lots of fat people on the streets, many of whom wear trousers with elasticated waists, and, in the area where we were, an abnormally high number of people were wandering about in hospital scrubs. There were also a lot of men wearing somewhat boxy, rather ill-fitting 1990s-style business suits. That seems to be the way that Americans like to have their suits tailored. It looks old-fashioned to my eyes. They're a bit more European in their tastes in New York.
There was a huge mural on the side of one building, which closer inspection revealed to be a mosaic. That was kind of cool. Underneath it, a young girl sat on a wall with a pout which said "look-at-me, how-dare-you-look-at-me!"
We wanted to see the Liberty Bell. Nathan was determined to lick it like Barney does in How I Met Your Mother. The queues were insane, so we had to make do with looking at it through a bullet-proof window. Nathan had to imagine licking it.
And then, almost as though the road trip had never happened, we dropped the car off at the car hire place next to the train station. Nathan had single-handedly driven 3894 miles, which, to my mind, is an astonishingly feat.
The last ninety miles of our journey happened by train. At Philadelphia train station you're offered something of a Sophie's Choice: Take the fast, expensive Amtrak train to New York, or the slow, cheap Septa one. Neither company talks to the other, or seems aware of the costs associated with travelling with the opposition. Ask at the "neutral" customer help counters in the middle of the train station and you're told they don't know the costs for either company.
It turns out that Amtrak are the ones taking the mic. It may only be an hour into
New York on their trains, but for $162 dollars - one way, per person - they're instantly in the world of "fuck right off." To put things in perspective, an Uber from Philly to NYC is $120, so getting a taxi door to door for the four of us would have cost us five times less than Amtrak! We ended up taking the slower Septa service for $26 dollars each. It chugs along somewhat, and the total journey is 2 1/2 hours, but it's comfortable and relaxing.
A lot of the train station names in these parts seem to be Welsh. Bryn Mawr. Cynwyd. How on earth would the locals tackle these pronunciations?
We arrived at Penn Station in New York and wheeled our suitcases fifteen blocks up Eighth Avenue to our hotel. The Amsterdam is fine. The rooms are as small as you'd expect in New York. I was slightly perturbed, however, to find we had to pay for wifi. It's the first time wifi hasn't been free for our entire trip across America, and it feels a bit naff to be charged $10 a night for the privilege, particularly as wifi is now free on most of the streets in this city.
We went to the Top of the Rock, a viewing platform at the top of the Rockefeller Building. It's the best place to see New York from. Sam and Matt have never been here before and it's a fabulous place to find ones bearings. It's like looking at a three dimensional map. You can point to the left of Central Park and say, "there's the upper West Side..." The other joy about the Rockefeller is that it gives you a perfect view of the Empire State Building. If you're up the Empire State, you can't actually see it! I think it's Central Park, however, which has the greatest impact because you realise quite how large it is. A massive expanse of green stretching into the distance.
It's so peaceful up there. You're so far above the city that the sound of sirens and the general Mid-Town hustle and bustle merely vanish into the gentle breeze.
We watched the sun setting. It was a little crowded up there, but the sun went a joyous red-orange and literally melted into New Jersey, morphing into a most peculiar shape as it sank. Its disappearance prompted a big cheer from the crowd. You can't beat the drama of the natural world.
That said, when the myriad lights of New York come out to play and start twinkling magically, nature gets quite a good run for its money. It's like looking at a galaxy of colourful stars.
The building itself is Deco heaven with great blocks of glass like giant ice cubes on many of the internal walls.
We met our dear friend Jem at an Italian on about 50th called Maria Pia. We had a delicious meal, which was made all the more delicious by his delightful company. We caught up on several months' worth of gossip and, for some reason, spent about half an hour discussing death. I was rather grateful when Jem very deliberately changed the subject. We talked about musical theatre instead.
We decided to take Sam and Matt to Times Square, which, for people who have never seen the place at night, needs to be seen to be believed. Every time I visit, it seems to be slightly more over the top. More and more of the buildings are sporting giant video walls, and the place is so full of light that it feels permanently like day. As Nathan said earlier, "the eclipse meant that we saw midnight during daylight, and Times' Square means we're seeing daylight at midnight!"
Jem's partner, our other dear friend, Ian, is currently in the Broadway show, Anastasia, so we met him afterwards and were delighted when he suggested he give us a backstage tour of the theatre. It was utterly fascinating to be shown the revolves (which they call turntables here), the flying bits of set and the places where the cast do their quick changes. It was also quite a treat to stand on the stage and look out at the empty auditorium.
Anastasia is running in a theatre opposite the one showing Kinky Boots, a musical set in Earls Barton, a little Northamptonshire town which is no more than ten miles from where Sam and I grew up. The show has a huge billboard outside which announces that it's been on Broadway for five years and is now running in the U.K., Canada, Australia, Japan, Korea and Germany. All that for a story about a shoe factory back home!
The night ended at Roxy Diner where we were seated on a huge upstairs table in front of a massive window overlooking Eighth Avenue. The yellow cabs and the odd horse-drawn carriage heading up to Central Park streamed and clip-clopped past. That's the genuine New York experience if you ask me!
Friday, 25 August 2017
George Town
DuPont Circle is the home of countless embassies, all of which have been attracted by the huge Victorian properties around here. It always feels a little peculiar to call American architecture "Victorian," although I'm pretty sure I've heard San Franciscans describing buildings in those terms. They probably think it sounds older or quainter.
DuPont Circle itself is a large roundabout surrounding a park about the size of Soho Square - except round. I'm pretty sure the Americans describe the few roundabouts they have as "circles". There's a gleaming white fountain in the middle of DuPont decorated with carved, somewhat Grecian imagery. It's a charming place to sit and think. I believe DuPont was a naval something or other.
We followed P Street from DuPont Circle into the ancient George Town district this morning. It seems a little brutal to name roads alphabetically, but I guess it's no different from using numbers. Because I've never considered letters before, I made Nathan cackle by mistakenly referring to P St as P Saint! It reminded me of my sat nav when it referred to St Paul's Street at "Street Paul's Street."
We passed a church on our way which was flying a massive "black lives matter" banner and a huge rainbow flag which said "all are welcome." It strikes me that if more churches were like this, religion would be a great deal more popular, and the world would be a far more tolerant and happy place.
George Town is my kind of town. It's full of tree-lined streets and stunning architecture; a blend of brick built Victorian buildings and delightful New England-style clapboard houses. It is incredibly charming. The people there seemed very friendly as well. A sign in someone's front garden read, "no matter where you are from, we're glad you're our neighbour." It was written in English, Spanish and Arabic. I got a sudden and overwhelming sense of familiarity which made me feel somewhat ashamed. I've travelled the length and breadth of this country and it was only in a deeply middle-class, bohemian neighbourhood that I felt I'd come home to roost!
The further into the area we got, the older the houses seemed. I'm not great at dating American houses, but I assume they were from the 1820s. In some places there were old tram lines on the road.
Wisconsin Avenue bustles with cafes, boutiques and art galleries and is remarkably similar to Hampstead. There's a very charming stretch down by the Potomac River, where people are encouraged to sit, eat, feed ducks and watch the world go by.
We visited the Old Stone House, which, built in 1766, is the oldest house in Washington DC. These days it's a museum and a bookshop. The museum is pretty bog standard, with a few rooms set up to look as they might have looked when the house was built. I didn't learn much from my whistle stop tour of the place, but did learn that 18th Century Americans used to sleep in two four-hour blocks. 8-12pm and 3-7am. Roughly. The time in the middle was known as "wakefulness", and was used for chatting, praying, reading and romance! The more I think about this, the more it makes sense. 8 hours' sleep has always been the recommendation, and we know we sleep in 4 hour cycles...
We were fighting the urge to do any more touristy stuff today, but decided a trip to DC wouldn't be complete without a jaunt to the Library of Congress. We took an Uber up there and were relieved to discover that it's not just all Uber drivers in London who are called Mo.
The Library of Congress is a masterful building with the most extraordinary entrance hall which is lined, floor to ceiling, with murals. The reading room is spectacular. I understand it's the largest library in the world. Visitors can stand on a gallery, behind glass, and look down on the scene of academic tranquility below. As a card-carrying member of the British Library, it felt a little odd to be an outsider looking in. When I'm researching my projects, those studious people sitting at the long benches are people like me!
We took an underground tunnel (slightly more romantic-sounding than it actually is) to the Capitol Building, which is one of the finest pieces of architecture I've ever seen. It is built out of shimmering white stone and is like a cross between St Paul's Cathedral and the Greenwich Maritime Museum. A pair of freaks were sitting outside with a full-sized mannequin of Jesus, complete with gowns rustling in the wind. All around Jesus were badly-written, anti-abortion signs: "Faroh [sic] kill the babies. Herod said kill the babies. Hitler said kill the babies..." A little doll was sitting on the signs in case anyone was wondering what a baby looked like. One assumes they couldn't find a foetus doll!
I deposited Nathan at a yarn shop this afternoon, which I was surprised to learn is the only yarn shop in Washington DC. Nathan had let his knitter fans know last night that he'd be there between 3 and 5pm and when we arrived, a small gaggle of women were waiting to meet him. I was the first to enter the room and a woman threw her arms around me, saying "Benjamin Till." It's amazing how much they've learned about me as a result of Nathan's regular podcasts!
I left him to it for a while, and by the time I'd returned, he'd attached himself to some sort of knit night. The yarn shop was full of very interesting looking people knitting - a surprisingly large number of whom were men. They were, of course, eating out of Nathan's hands. He was measuring a half-knitted jumper and liberally offering pearls of wisdom.
As I walked back to the knit shop, I had to think very hard about which city I was in. When you're in a different place every day, it can get somewhat confusing. Now I know how people feel when they're on tour, and they pull out of a town and can't remember where they've been. Backstage at the Sage in Gateshead and a sign reads, "you are at the Sage Venue in Gateshead." I guess it means bands don't rush onto the stage and shout "good evening... um..."
We ate our tea at Zorbas', a delightfully shambolic restaurant where I ate my second Greek Salad of the day. It's blissful to be able to eat salad vegetables again.
The night ended at Kramer Books, just up from DuPont Circle. I'm told it was the first bookshop in Washington to have a cafe and bar attached. It's got a really lovely vibe, and it stays open til 1am, which should appeal to the insomniac book lovers in the city. The back bar is full of cool, young, multi-racial Washington DC types. The cafe is called "Afterwords." Perfect.
DuPont Circle itself is a large roundabout surrounding a park about the size of Soho Square - except round. I'm pretty sure the Americans describe the few roundabouts they have as "circles". There's a gleaming white fountain in the middle of DuPont decorated with carved, somewhat Grecian imagery. It's a charming place to sit and think. I believe DuPont was a naval something or other.
We followed P Street from DuPont Circle into the ancient George Town district this morning. It seems a little brutal to name roads alphabetically, but I guess it's no different from using numbers. Because I've never considered letters before, I made Nathan cackle by mistakenly referring to P St as P Saint! It reminded me of my sat nav when it referred to St Paul's Street at "Street Paul's Street."
We passed a church on our way which was flying a massive "black lives matter" banner and a huge rainbow flag which said "all are welcome." It strikes me that if more churches were like this, religion would be a great deal more popular, and the world would be a far more tolerant and happy place.
George Town is my kind of town. It's full of tree-lined streets and stunning architecture; a blend of brick built Victorian buildings and delightful New England-style clapboard houses. It is incredibly charming. The people there seemed very friendly as well. A sign in someone's front garden read, "no matter where you are from, we're glad you're our neighbour." It was written in English, Spanish and Arabic. I got a sudden and overwhelming sense of familiarity which made me feel somewhat ashamed. I've travelled the length and breadth of this country and it was only in a deeply middle-class, bohemian neighbourhood that I felt I'd come home to roost!
The further into the area we got, the older the houses seemed. I'm not great at dating American houses, but I assume they were from the 1820s. In some places there were old tram lines on the road.
Wisconsin Avenue bustles with cafes, boutiques and art galleries and is remarkably similar to Hampstead. There's a very charming stretch down by the Potomac River, where people are encouraged to sit, eat, feed ducks and watch the world go by.
We visited the Old Stone House, which, built in 1766, is the oldest house in Washington DC. These days it's a museum and a bookshop. The museum is pretty bog standard, with a few rooms set up to look as they might have looked when the house was built. I didn't learn much from my whistle stop tour of the place, but did learn that 18th Century Americans used to sleep in two four-hour blocks. 8-12pm and 3-7am. Roughly. The time in the middle was known as "wakefulness", and was used for chatting, praying, reading and romance! The more I think about this, the more it makes sense. 8 hours' sleep has always been the recommendation, and we know we sleep in 4 hour cycles...
We were fighting the urge to do any more touristy stuff today, but decided a trip to DC wouldn't be complete without a jaunt to the Library of Congress. We took an Uber up there and were relieved to discover that it's not just all Uber drivers in London who are called Mo.
The Library of Congress is a masterful building with the most extraordinary entrance hall which is lined, floor to ceiling, with murals. The reading room is spectacular. I understand it's the largest library in the world. Visitors can stand on a gallery, behind glass, and look down on the scene of academic tranquility below. As a card-carrying member of the British Library, it felt a little odd to be an outsider looking in. When I'm researching my projects, those studious people sitting at the long benches are people like me!
We took an underground tunnel (slightly more romantic-sounding than it actually is) to the Capitol Building, which is one of the finest pieces of architecture I've ever seen. It is built out of shimmering white stone and is like a cross between St Paul's Cathedral and the Greenwich Maritime Museum. A pair of freaks were sitting outside with a full-sized mannequin of Jesus, complete with gowns rustling in the wind. All around Jesus were badly-written, anti-abortion signs: "Faroh [sic] kill the babies. Herod said kill the babies. Hitler said kill the babies..." A little doll was sitting on the signs in case anyone was wondering what a baby looked like. One assumes they couldn't find a foetus doll!
I deposited Nathan at a yarn shop this afternoon, which I was surprised to learn is the only yarn shop in Washington DC. Nathan had let his knitter fans know last night that he'd be there between 3 and 5pm and when we arrived, a small gaggle of women were waiting to meet him. I was the first to enter the room and a woman threw her arms around me, saying "Benjamin Till." It's amazing how much they've learned about me as a result of Nathan's regular podcasts!
I left him to it for a while, and by the time I'd returned, he'd attached himself to some sort of knit night. The yarn shop was full of very interesting looking people knitting - a surprisingly large number of whom were men. They were, of course, eating out of Nathan's hands. He was measuring a half-knitted jumper and liberally offering pearls of wisdom.
As I walked back to the knit shop, I had to think very hard about which city I was in. When you're in a different place every day, it can get somewhat confusing. Now I know how people feel when they're on tour, and they pull out of a town and can't remember where they've been. Backstage at the Sage in Gateshead and a sign reads, "you are at the Sage Venue in Gateshead." I guess it means bands don't rush onto the stage and shout "good evening... um..."
We ate our tea at Zorbas', a delightfully shambolic restaurant where I ate my second Greek Salad of the day. It's blissful to be able to eat salad vegetables again.
The night ended at Kramer Books, just up from DuPont Circle. I'm told it was the first bookshop in Washington to have a cafe and bar attached. It's got a really lovely vibe, and it stays open til 1am, which should appeal to the insomniac book lovers in the city. The back bar is full of cool, young, multi-racial Washington DC types. The cafe is called "Afterwords." Perfect.
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