Morenin y’all,
Well we are wrapping up the New York leg of our trip and this email has been primarily written while standing in a change-room line in H&M. Seriously, what do girls do in there? From the time it takes I can only assume they strain their necks over their shoulders and pivot endlessly in search of that ‘perfect angle’ that makes the sins of Christmas magically disappear. Obviously at this time of year that spinning can take a while……..
Anyway, New York has been eventful to say the least. But before even getting to New York we had the joy of the flight, which is always the most brutal part. It’s tough enough given I have become used to bigger seats that slide nice and flat. So trying to squeeze my post work Christmas parties a#se (no amount of change-room spinning can fix that) into a bolt upright seat that appeared designed for a slender 12yr old boy was not the most comfortable way to pass the next 20hrs. But the most utterly perplexing part of the trip were my new friends I’d like to call Mr and Mrs Biggens. This couple, which were on the large side, would fastidiously get up every couple of hrs and do their ‘prevent DVT exercises’ in the small aisle space beside me. Now normally I’d be all internal smiles for the Biggens finally finding the joys of exercise; but not when I’m woken up from what little sleep I could get by two large people swinging their legs like swollen elephants trunks about 1ft from my ears at 2am. Especially when the previous 30yrs for them had appeared to pass completely exercise free.
And then the final transport joy; the LA Airport arrival experience for the transfer to New York. This process is so brutal I think the US should use it as a last resort interrogation technique when waterboarding, pulling out fingernails and attaching genitalia to car batteries has failed. First you get subjected to an impossibly long immigration line, which is due to every traveler being required to submit to photographs, fingerprints and detailed questioning. I was waiting for the grisly man behind the counter to demand that I place my nuts in his hands, turn my head left and cough.
This is followed up by baggage carousels so loaded that you need to dig for your bag, customs lines that snake around the perimeter of the arrivals hall, then a walk to re-check in at another terminal that makes no sense at all. 2hrs between flights is barely enough to get through the ordeal. But Krys was comforted by the fact that I had talked up by extensive LA airport experience; I’ve done it many times before and if she just followed me everything would be fine. And where did this experience get us? Well by the time we were done, I had picked up the wrong bag, left another bag of ours behind on the carousel then managed to check in for our next flight at the wrong terminal. We were only alerted to the last one by a kindly lady at the lounge who said that we were welcome to come in, but given our flight was leaving from a completely different building including another security checkpoint in 30mins then maybe we should make our way back across……..
But we finally made it to New York, dropped our bags and went out for dinner. Krys had picked up an allergy (I think to me already) so we had to swing by a drug store to work through the wonders of US pharmaceuticals. It appears that US citizens have become immune to most known diseases, so now require ‘super, super strength’ everything. The Zyrtek that Krys ended up getting would have had drowsy side effects enough to drop a horse. I’m surprised on the usual long list of ‘don’t take with alcohol, and don’t operate heavy machinery’ there wasn’t a ‘may cause you to be rendered unconscious immediately and wet your pants’.
But somehow the combination of a long and uncomfortable overnight flight, US industrial strength pharmaceuticals and my less than scintillating company wasn’t enough to bring her down; she swallowed the Zyrtek with a bottle of wine over dinner then it was off to the Empire State building. Our first tourist visit gave us a deep insight into the US love affair with unnecessary complexity, overzealous security, and an ability to squeeze money from every step of a process only rivaled by the Italians. Who would have thought that catching an elevator up 86 floors would be so hard? But here you need to get in a line to get to a queue to get to a window to get to a line to get to a security screen to get to a lift to get to a line to get to a photo to get to a gift shop to get to a line to get to another lift to get to the top. And the security obsession was confirmed the next day with a machine gun boat escort for our ferry out to the Statue of Liberty. I guess the US can never can be too careful when faced with a ferry full of Japanese tourists sporting large Kodac cameras…….
One thing we wanted to do while in New York was go to a hockey game so we wandered down to Madison Square Garden to try and get tickets for that night. We like to play the ‘what is the highest you would pay’ game in the line to avoid those uncomfortable moments at the ticket window when the seller says a high price and the couple in front of him get that confused, almost constipated look on their face as they try and gauge how much the other person wants to go, and how happy they are with the taste of dog food for a week. It is even better when it involves a ‘dating couple’ as you watch a guy’s head almost explode as he tries to also work through the value of the relationship, the likelihood of the ticket leading to ‘happy time’ and the cost of this happy time vs alternatives. All the while aware they have 10seconds to make the call. But not us – by the time we had hit the window we had our maximum well and truly figured out. The ticket seller said a number for the only remaining seats – and it was huge. So huge I thought he was quoting in Balinese rupee. But before I could try and retrieve the Fruit Tingle I had involuntarily spat into the window Krys had said ‘we’ll take them’.
So off to the hockey it was; in floor seats right up near the glass. At least if I’m going to sell a kidney for a hockey game I want to be close enough to identify the blood type of a player when he is smeared across the glass. Our tickets also came with a lady providing in-seat alcohol service (which in hindsight was a mistake). Ice hockey really is an amazing game; like a barely controlled fight on ice skates with some small focus of trying to whack the little black disk into the net. The best bit being the ‘rules’ when it comes to fights. It seems you can ‘get it on’ whenever you feel a bit frustrated. And when it starts the referees just stand back and let it go until one person hits the ground. Krys was pretty quickly into the ice hockey rhythm, out of her chair and cheering when a fight started then giving out a large boo and some mocking whenever one fighter got knocked to the ground. I’m waiting for her to suggest back alley bare knuckle boxing or dogfighting as our next sporting adventure.
To round out our New York night it was off to a rooftop bar downtown. This is normally a beautiful place to be; sipping drinks on the back deck of a converted 50th floor penthouse with the New York skyline as a backdrop. But not so nice when it is -2 degrees and your lips want to freeze to the glass with each sip. Thankfully this place is ‘so cool’ that they hand out red Snuggies to wear outside. But even this novelty soon wore off as my attempted Rocky pose was mocked as looking more like an unshaven Little Red Riding Hood. So it was to the inside bar where it was so funky you had to buy a bottle of overpriced champagne just to sit down. After the shenanigans of the hockey, another bottle of champagne was the last thing we needed; but we did it anyway. This is where the night gets hazy.
What I do remember was half way through our bottle of champagne, our waitress had come over to refill our glasses; at the exact time that a stray Krys leg had knocked over the whole table. Our waitress was left standing, bottle in hand, with a sea of ice around her and a confused look on her face. She stood there frozen, I guess trying to work out how such drunken riff raff got into the bar, and also waiting for an apology. What she got was Krys, convinced by one too many glasses of wine that she could get away with it, putting on her own confused but innocent face and asking ‘what happened?…….
We finished our bottle of wine (as security cleaned up the ice) and decided we’d had enough. But on the way out I saw a black man doing what looked like the running man. He was good; actually very good. But I had seen better and for some reason just had to let him know. So I tapped him on the shoulder and said ‘hey man, you’re running man is good, but I bet my girlfriend could kick your a#se’. He was in equal parts annoyed but amused (thankfully or I’d be writing this from hospital) and said to bring it on. So Krys took off her coat like a fighter readying for a bout, and pulled out the best running man of her life; impressive for a girl who just moments ago was wobbling just standing on the spot. I gave Krys the victory on points.
The rest of New York has been eventful, but more on that later.
Seeya y’all.
Trent, Krystal and a crushed dancing black man
smallthoughts 