Manhattan Dreaming, page 10
I couldn’t believe how friendly people were. I didn’t know what Dad was worried about really. I already felt comfortable.
I crossed the road from the station and went into Duane Reade; it was a pharmacy the size of a small department store. I strolled aisle after aisle, upstairs and downstairs, and was fascinated by the range of hair products for African-American women. There was a whole section of ‘relaxers’ and straighteners. I’d never seen anything like it back home. Like the over-abundance of cream cheese on my bagel, everything in Duane Reade was also en masse; there were so many varieties of Tylenol it took me almost ten minutes to find the one I was looking for.
On the way back to the hotel I found a phone store and secured a cheap plan that would allow me to call the girls and family often and not break the bank. I was getting myself organised for life in New York.
I was hallucinating by the time I got back to the hotel. I finally understood what jet lag meant. I made it to my room just in time to get out of my clothes and collapse on the bed. When I woke up it was night, and the lights of the city were beaming into my room. I stood at the full-length window in awe of the colours. I could see the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building – the whole scene was beautiful.
I turned on the telly and switched from station to station, amazed at the number of channels and shows. I stopped on The Daily Show; I liked the look of the host, handsome in a comic way, and funny too. I ordered room service – a green salad and piece of New York Cheesecake.
I watched TV with my laptop resting on the bed and finally logged on to Adam’s MySpace to catch up on his movements. He had some new action shots on there from his most recent game. They’d lost 24–12 to the Parramatta Pythons. I knew Adam would be furious about that and decided to send an email of support. It was something I could do once a week, just to keep reminding him of how I was always there for him, and so he could remember what he was missing. As soon as I sent the email, though, including my details in New York, I knew I’d emailed myself into my own pathetic corner – the one where I’d wait for him to respond.
And so I did, for three hours. I checked and rechecked but no messages from Adam at all. I received emails from the girls:
From Libby:
I think you should change your profile song to New York, New York L
From Denise:
I’ve got a new flatmate, but she’s nowhere near as cool or as much fun as you. Miss you heaps, Denise.
From Max:
Mum said to say hello and she misses you. Dad too. I’m okay and the car’s great! M
A couple of local artists who knew I was coming to New York had dropped me a welcoming line as well. Following Libby’s suggestion I changed my profile song and so I had Frank Sinatra belting out the tune as I read comments on my page. I started doing high kicks around my hotel room and then wondered if anyone could see me from across the city. A naked Koori girl ‘spreading the news’ that she had landed in the city that never sleeps would have been an interesting sight for any voyeur. I finally logged off at midnight, annoyed with myself. Expecting anything from Adam only led to disappointment, again.
I woke up groggy at about 10 am, disturbed by the sound of housekeeping knocking on the door. I opened it, sticking only my head around, as I was naked.
‘Sorry,’ I said through half-closed eyes, ‘I’m a bit jet-lagged. Can you come back in about an hour?’
‘Of course,’ the staffer said.
I quickly checked my emails but there was nothing from Adam. I checked my Australian and my American phones – also nothing. I needed to get energised so I went to the hotel gym and ran for thirty minutes. It was all I could manage, even though I was sure the cream cheese bagel and the New York cheesecake for dinner were already making a home for themselves on my thighs.
Downstairs I said hello to Bob the concierge and showed him my ‘Lauren’s New York To Do List – Day 2’:
Museum of the City of New York
Slice of pizza and / or pretzel
Evening walk in Times Square
‘Okay, Lauren, take the 4, 5 or 6 train from Grand Central uptown to 103rd Street and then walk to 5th Avenue near the park and you’re there.’
‘Thanks, mate,’ I said.
‘No worries, mate.’ And he gave me the thumbs up.
I said hello and goodbye to Barney the valet and Joe the doorman and strolled up the street feeling good about the warm weather. I ducked into the shop on the corner to grab a Red Bull, as it was too hot for coffee.
I already felt confident walking to Grand Central Terminal and couldn’t believe I had been so nervous before leaving Canberra. Everything was a street or an avenue and they all ran in numerical order so it wasn’t that hard to follow. Even for someone like me, the country bumpkin.
Not wanting to act over-confident I double-checked at the information booth for the line I needed to get to 5th Avenue and the museum. The information officer politely confirmed Bob’s directions and handed me yet another map. I was becoming the ‘map lady’.
I headed to the platform, following the crowds and the signs, and was anxious as I took an escalator down. I breathed deeply and I didn’t stand too close to the tracks, in fact a metre back from the painted yellow line. I started to feel claustrophobic being underground, and among so many people. How would we get out if there were an emergency? Like flying in the sky, it really wasn’t normal to be travelling under the city. It was stifling hot, like there was no air. What if there was an accident or a terrorist attack? We’d all be stuck under the ground with no easy escape. I’d never even been in the Sydney Harbour tunnel or the M5 tunnel, even though the M5 tunnel knocks about twenty minutes off the Canberra to Sydney drive. Mum and Dad just laughed when I made them drive the long way up to the airport. ‘It’s not normal to be driving under the sea or the earth,’ I tried to tell them. And it was exactly what I was thinking as I boarded the train.
I sat nervously, unsure of train etiquette and concerned about getting off at the right stop. I tried not to look too much like a tourist and hid my many maps in my bag. I glanced around the train for anything or anyone that looked suspicious and laughed to myself, knowing Dad would have thought it was all suspicious. I read and re-read the ‘Emergency Evacuation Information’ in the carriage. The sign was near a young man’s head. I think he thought I was staring at him as he smiled big and gave a nod of acknowledgement.
But then I did stare – at a middle-aged woman who kept sniffing her hands and her fingers. She was strange. Actually, lots of people looked strange in New York, but I liked the strangeness. It made Canberra seem even blander by comparison. Everything about New York was antithetical to Canberra. People looked busy in New York. They moved faster down the street. They smiled more. They talked to strangers as friends, they talked to themselves. Men smiled at you in the street. If this happened back home it would be thought odd. If you were alone and mumbling and didn’t have a bluetooth gadget attached to your ear, then you’d be crazy. Not in New York. People were just people.
The carriage wasn’t full. There was no-one standing and there were free seats, but I still felt closed in. Sweat started forming on my upper lip and I was hot and wheezy. I almost lost my breath when I saw someone familiar-looking opposite me. He caught my eye and smiled. It was a smile I recognised. And a neck too. I couldn’t help but stare at him.
We finally reached my stop and I got off the train, fought my way through the turnstiles and found myself up on the street again. I breathed in lungfuls of relief.
I walked three blocks to 5th Avenue and then up the stairs to the Museum of the City of New York. Libby and Denise thought it would be the best place to get some background about the city before I hit the galleries and other museums. I smiled as I was greeted by volunteers just inside the huge doors, and went to check out the Greening New York exhibit, which outlined the city’s plan for making life in New York sustainable even if the population grew by a million more people by 2030. The exhibit went through a day in the life of a New Yorker, and the environmental impact each person in the city has. I was amazed to learn that one billion gallons of water were pumped throughout NYC’s five boroughs every day. I hadn’t even known what a borough was before then.
Moving to the next exhibit on the relationship between Paris and New York, I enjoyed the showcase on two international expositions – one in Paris in 1925 and one in New York in 1939/40 – and the evolution of the skyscraper. I had already been excited about going to the Rockefeller Center and ice-skating when winter came. I had seen some pictures on tour brochures at the hotel and in my Lonely Planet and it looked romantic lit up of a night. But I didn’t know that the French also loved the building because it was designed by a confirmed Francophile, John D. Rockefeller Sr.
A guy in a black fitted tee and jeans walked passed me as I left the exhibit. From behind he was the image of Adam. The same height, the same thick brown hair, the same broad shoulders and grabbable arse in jeans. His biceps looked massive like Adam’s did in a T-shirt as well. I followed him into a new exhibit – something about theatre in New York – without even thinking, just trying to see his face.
I stopped and glanced at him as we both paused to read about African–American theatre at the same time. He caught my eye and I swung immediately to the text, focusing hard on the words. It said that A Trip to Coontown, a show put on in 1898, was the first full-length musical written, performed and produced by African Americans – Bob Cole of Georgia and Billy Johnson.
‘Interesting, isn’t it,’ Black Tee guy said, with a huge white smile. I’d noticed many Americans had really good teeth and wondered if it was a symbol of the wealthy and healthy in society.
‘Yes, it reminds me of some Black theatre we have back home.’
‘Are you South African?’
‘No, Australian, Aboriginal Australian. We refer to ourselves as Black, with a capital B.’
‘Ah, the Aborigines. I’ve seen Crocodile Dundee. Can you tell time by the sun too?’
‘No, I rely on Dolce & Gabbana for the time.’ And I held up my watch.
‘You’re funny. That’s sexy.’
I immediately felt uncomfortable.
‘Have you checked out the Ray Mortenson exhibition Broken Glass?’ he asked me. ‘It’s got photographs of the South Bronx.’
‘Thanks, I will.’ I walked off, but I couldn’t help looking behind me and found Black Tee was looking back at me too. I was distracted to the point of walking into a group of schoolkids and near knocked one over.
I was so worried about giving off the wrong impression that I didn’t even know how to talk to straight men any more. I didn’t flirt back in Canberra because I had always considered myself in a relationship with Adam, and most of the guys I worked with in the arts were gay, so there wasn’t even any fun flirting at work. I just didn’t know how to react to the rush of male attention that I’d already experienced on my second day in New York.
My feet were killing me by the time I left the museum, and jet lag had kicked in. I couldn’t face the underground so I got in a cab; they were so much cheaper than back home. The driver didn’t speak to me at all, but he talked the whole way back to the hotel, on his mobile. I watched the small television screen in the back of his seat, fascinated by the technology available in New York cabs.
Back at the hotel I logged in and checked Adam’s page because I felt guilty about flirting with the Black Tee guy, but I needn’t have. Adam had a whole new swag of busty women posting half-naked shots on his page. Why was I even worried about a few words with a stranger, when we were both fully clothed? Nothing had changed at Adam’s end and I owed him nothing. I took a nap and woke up at 8 pm. Times Square was the next thing on my list, so I got dressed and went downstairs.
I introduced myself to another guy at the concierge desk.
‘It’s safe to get the underground at this time, Lauren, and you can get it back too. People are riding them late into the night,’ Raph said from behind the desk.
‘I’ll see how I feel. I’m still a bit knocked around with the time difference, and boy, the heat is exhausting, isn’t it.’
I felt flustered on the train but didn’t have to go that far. I walked around Times Square and the lights were breathtaking. There were so many lights and billboards and neon signs: Planet Hollywood, Kodak, LG, The Lion King. I took my camera out and photographed all the signs and couldn’t stop smiling, but it would have been so much better to have someone to share it with.
I was hungry and kept walking, trying to find the right place to stop. I had to have a slice of pizza as per Libby’s list, but walking along 7th Avenue I was confused. Every cafe claimed to serve ‘the best coffee in NYC’ and similarly, every pizza and bagel house sold ‘World Famous Pizza / Bagels’. I didn’t know where to stop for my slice.
Finally I stopped at John’s Pizzeria on 44th Street, which was in a deconsecrated church. They didn’t serve pizza by the slice and I had to buy a whole one for myself, but I somehow managed to eat it, and wash it down with a beer. I made sure the beer was Bud Light, because it was low calorie.
Back at the hotel I emailed Libby and Denise to fill them in on the day’s events and thank them for my lists.
You guys were right when you said men were more assertive and interested in women in New York than in Australia. They are and they’re hot. There was one on the train today, let’s call him ‘Train Guy’.
He had gorgeous bone structure, a very square face. He’d be the perfect model for a portrait sitting. He caught me staring at him. I looked away embarrassed and found a small child to watch instead. He got off and walked away with a sashay that may well have worked well in Sydney.
Anyway, I went to the Museum of the City of New York as you ordered and there was another guy, let’s call him ‘Black Tee Guy’ – they had a fabulous 20th century in Times Square exhibit and a Eudora Welty photographic exhibition with photographs of and about Mississippi. I stood and pondered a photo of two black girls carrying white dolls, others of men and women strolling, laughing, posing, dressed for pageants, hanging out, living in poverty, ‘making chitlins’, packing tomatoes. They were taken in the 1930s and it made me think of the photographic exhibition we were planning for 2012. There’s inspiration everywhere here. Anyway, it’s really late and I’m really really tired but will write again when I have time. There’s just so much to do here …
Miss you, love, Lauren. xxx
Libby emailed back:
I was laughing when you wrote about the sashay guy – Denise can have him. I’m so glad you’re having a great time and I can’t wait to get there too, yay! It’s flat out here, talk soon. Miss you. Xx
There was still no email from Adam.
My day three list included the Metropolitan Museum of Art, otherwise known as the Met. The place was so huge I kept getting lost and winding up back where I started. It didn’t seem to matter which way I looked at the floor map, I never really knew where I was, and so I just walked around aimlessly.
There were a lot of marble statues and busts and torsos – Roman and Greek – which made me think of Adam and his rippling six-pack. I started to feel sad, and then angry with myself for wasting my time on a man who hadn’t contacted me since I left his house weeks ago in the middle of the night.
I headed towards the Oceanic art section, but was sidetracked by an exhibition titled ‘Art and Love in Renaissance Italy’. As soon as I read the sign at the exhibit entrance – ‘Amore vole fe / Love needs faith’ – I just knew that it was a sign meant for me, to give me faith in the notion of love – real love, ideal love, romantic love. The love I had not had with Adam but that I still wanted. I was in New York to work but perhaps my time here would renew my belief in relationships. ‘Love needs faith’ would be my motto from now on.
The exhibit included lavish gifts like rings, vases and bowls, given as part of courtship, and I wondered when both those traditions had stopped – courting and the associated gift giving. I didn’t know anyone back home who had been courted. Most of the younger girls at work told stories about how everyone just went out these days and hooked up in bars and pubs. Adam never courted me, and rarely gave me gifts other than cakes – though I guess that was better than nothing.
Near the end of the exhibit I couldn’t help but laugh out loud at ‘Te do la mone / Dame lae fede’, translated on the wall as: ‘I give you my hand / Give me the ring’. That summed it up for so many women, and I wondered if Adam thought I was the same. Surely he knew it wasn’t about the ring or material things. I really wanted his heart and that didn’t cost anything but trust and time.
There was a huge gift store at the Met and smaller gift outlets on each floor. Libby and I had a tradition where we would buy something at every gallery we visited – whether we were there for work or pleasure. We knew that if artists had licensed their works to be turned into gift cards and the like, then it was another way to support them. It was generally a gift for ourselves, but Libby had stipulated on my list for today that I should get her something too. ‘Don’t forget a gift for me!’ she’d written.
I found a heart-shaped pendant with the phrase ‘Amore vole fe / Love needs faith’ on it. I put it on immediately and wore it as my love talisman from then on. It took me only minutes to find the perfect gift for Libby – a Greek palmette velvet scarf that she would look deadly in back in frosty Canberra. I could just hear her explaining to admirers that the palmette was one of the most frequently used motifs in classical art in every medium and in all periods. I was looking forward to giving it to her at Christmas time.
