Short bite of the apple
At my left, a 40-inch television with 600 cable channels. To my right, the cold remains of a deli sandwich. Outside in the heat, traffic snakes and shoots through walls of sunlight; horns in a constant state of beeping almost as if to shout out to the world: “I’m alive! I’m alive in New York!”
If Paris is a city for walking, then the Big Apple is one for skipping: mainly because you get around faster and at the same time, you can display an air of optimism (while hiding deep-seeded depression) that only the US can pull off.
Fortunately you don’t have to skip everywhere. Thanks to the subway and grid system of Manhattan streets, getting around New York is piece of a generous serving of your favourite cake (which, by the way, you probably get on every corner along with a bucket of watery coffee). The only hassle is trying to not get sidetracked by the mayhem. Smiling traffic conductors screaming at cars to move along; diners brandishing “All day burritos and jugs of beer”; flocks of garbage trucks; and of course, the thousands of people from everywhere and, judging by the mixture of fashion, everywhen.
New York could be described as London pushed into a tube and stood upright, sprayed with essence of extrovert. But it’s best not to make comparisons. This city is exciting in its own skin and I’m just about to walk out the door of my west mid-town apartment into the thick of it. More later.