Hollywood dictates that the only way to arrive in New York is via either the Brooklyn or Queensboro bridge in the back of a yellow taxi with your head hanging out of the window like an exuberant dog.
I didn’t do that. My means of transport was the ‘Fung Wah’, a bus service that travels between Chinatown in Boston to Chinatown in Manhattan. Its route doesn’t cross any bridges and none of the windows opened. However, the seat cost me $10 and for that price I was prepared to exchange my movie scene/carefree canine style entrance for a humbler arrival, whereby my nose was pressed against questionably sticky glass as I took in my first views of the Big Apple.
My travel companion and I were a month into our tour of America, and Boston’s old-world charm had made me feel homesick. As one of the original settlements, it has an historical Britishness to it that you can’t really find anywhere else in the States. It is also where the American War of Independence got underway against, you guessed it, the British. Nasty old coming together that one. America won it in the end, with a little leg up from the French, and the city is awash with smug monuments commemorating the famous victory.
Funny how reminders of the historical hatred of Britain can really make you miss the place.
The aforementioned olde worlde appearance of Boston was in stark contrast to that of our last stop Florida, where the oldest thing we happened upon was the world’s largest McDonald’s that started meeting to the Orlando public’s deep fried needs in 1976.
It is beautiful, interesting and educational. I would highly recommend it. (Boston, not McDonalds)
Our journey from ‘Beantown’ (baked beans are a regional dish) began early in the morning. We rolled our luggage from our hotel next to Fenway Park, home of the Boston Red Sox baseball team, along the snowy streets down to Chinatown. Upon reaching the Fung Wah, (This Cantonese name when translated means ‘magnificent wind’. This could be in reference to its speedy journey time or maybe a tenuous link to those Boston beans. Possibly both. Who knows?) our possessions were unceremoniously chucked into the storage compartment below the bus and our boarding wasn’t much better. The moment the door opened we were swept along in a tide of impatience, feet hardly touching the ground.
.
Finding two free, unappealingly stained seats toward the rear, we made ourselves comfortable as the driver concluded drop kicking the last duffle bag into the hold.
He positioned himself behind the wheel, and following an extended bronchial cough punctuated by some audible flatulence, started the engine and set off. To pass the time, I began reading a book I had purchased at Boston airport. A short while in, I noticed a movement in my peripheral. A young man sitting directly over the aisle from me (I guessed he was Chinese based on his features and the fact he was clutching a magazine written in mandarin) had begun to drop off and his head was nodding. The nodding ceased, and his upper body rested at an acute angle, as if his head had been tied to the head rest with a length of string.
(The driver) positioned himself behind the wheel, and following an extended bronchial cough punctuated by some audible flatulence, started the engine…
Up to this point I had attempted to be a subtle spectator, but this boy’s unconscious defiance of gravity was fascinating. There was no string. He was somehow able to hold himself up whilst being asleep. I know that staring at someone whilst they are sleeping is somewhat frowned upon, but I was now invested. How long could he continue this mentally torpid display of core strength?
Turned out, not that long.
He slowly began to drop lower and lower. The linear stance of his upper torso proceeded to decrease, and he began to bend, curling like an old lettuce leaf. I waited in anticipation for him to awaken with a start, whilst simultaneously planning my reactive move of returning to my book so as not to be identified as some creepy bus riding voyeur. The lowering of his position continued, as did his state of sleep. Eventually his shoulders rested on his legs, head slotted perfectly between his knees, curved in on himself like a threatened hedgehog. I felt my forehead crumple into a frown as he began to snore.
I looked around at the other passengers. I appeared to be the only one to take an interest in this unique position of slumber. My friend was asleep himself; all be it in the more conventional stance of upright, head leaning on the window, mouth slightly agape. Everybody else stared in the direction of travel or out of the window. I awkwardly turned away from the comatose contortionist and chose the window option.
The route that the bus took saw us go through the countryside of Massachusetts, Connecticut and then, naturally, New York. If I’m being kind, it may well be a prettier journey if taken during any season other than winter. As it was, the view was a continuous procession of bleak, flat fields that didn’t appear to be of any obvious purpose. Every now and then there would be a dreary lake or a clump of bare trees, long separated from their summer leaves.
The repetition of the scenery combined with the early start made me drowsy, and I went the way of my companion, ‘bendy boy’, and a large proportion of my fellow passengers.
I’m not sure how long I slept for, but it took up a pleasingly large portion of the journey. I woke, and through bleary eyes surveyed outside to ascertain our location. Yet more flat, non-identifiable fields rolled past my eyeline but this time with one notable difference. In the distance I could now see a charcoal grey outline of skyscrapers. Finally, the flat landscape proved useful, as it gave an uninterrupted view of the unmistakable Manhattan skyline.
I nudged my friend, and he awoke with a snort. I pointed excitedly toward the shadowy metropolis on the horizon. He raised his mouth in a half smile and proceeded to go back to sleep. He’s never been one to be woken up, and even if I had risen him to point out that we were surrounded by marauding circus folk atop galloping ostriches, throwing Boston baked beans at the coach demanding the return of their runaway Chinese contortionist, he’d still roll over with a dismissive nod.
I for one was thrilled to catch my first glimpse of ‘NYC’, and as we travelled closer and the winter sun continued to rise, its appearance transformed from grey silhouette to a majestic orange glow, the morning light reflecting off the countless mirrored glass windows. Featureless fields became suburban buildings and before long, we were surrounded by iconic New York traffic.
Yellow taxis. Exasperated sounding of car horns. Fellow busses. The chaos on the streets was mirrored on the sidewalks, with thousands of New Yorkers striding impatiently to their places of work. It was just as it had always been portrayed on the silver screen.
New York is a celebrity in its own right and I was positively star struck!
We turned into Chinatown and pulled up outside an enormous supermarket. The shopfront displayed a variety of goods, from fresh fish to exotic fruit, all labeled in Mandarin or Cantonese except for the price. If you didn’t read the language, you wouldn’t know exactly what you were buying, but you would certainly know what it was going to cost you.
As the bus ground to a halt, everybody aboard stood up immediately to disembark. I glanced at bendy boy. He uncurled and drew himself up to an upright position, as if somebody had flicked a switch to power him up. Without even stretching, he stood up eagerly with his fellow passengers. Anybody made up of bones and muscle would be in agony after being in that position for that period. That kid must have had the anatomical make up of a slug.
Making our way off and stepping on to the pavement, we saw our bags already unloaded and leaning against a lamppost. We collected them and watched as the people whom we had just spent the last 4 hours shoulder to shoulder disappeared into the New York throng.
Unfortunately, I’m unable to recommend the Fung Wah bus as it went out of business in 2015. Apparently, they had several unfortunate incidents that led to its downfall, ranging from being slapped with a lawsuit for refusing entry to a guide dog in 2004, to two wheels falling off the back of one of the busses in a place called Framingham in Massachusetts.
Still, it’s a shame. I mean, what do you want for 10 bucks?
Not wanting to hang around on the chilly street, we hailed a taxi and proceeded to our hotel.
The Wellington Hotel is situated on Seventh Avenue, just south of Central Park. A perfect base for us to head out from and be quintessential tourists.
Making our way down Broadway and not seeing a show. Standing in the glow of Times Square along with thousands of other people, waiting for something to happen. Following King Kong’s lead and making our way to the top of the Empire State Building, albeit via the less laborious means of taking the elevator. Catching a ferry to see the Statue of Liberty. She’s tall and quite aloof, but it was still a joy to see her in the metal-flesh. I thought she was wonderful in Planet of the Apes.
We left the most poignant location till last.
The World Trade Centre was a pair of enormous structures that overshadowed the whole of Manhattan Island. Their vastness gave them a perennial aura that would develop into them being taken for granted by both New Yorkers and arguably the world. You always believe something that size will be an ever present, just like you believe a loved one will always walk through the door after a day at work.
At the time of our visit, Ground Zero was still simply two large holes in the ground. The sun had gone down, and it was dark and very cold. The floodlit site was surrounded by tributes, memorials and people reflecting.
James Joyce once wrote that absence is the highest form of presence.
There should have been two enormous buildings in front of us all, but there was not.
I remember finding a pay phone that evening and spending $20 on a five-minute phone call to my mum in England, motivated by this sobering reminder that nothing should be taken for granted.
Be it fun or more somber, our tourist itch was well and truly scratched. The next day I had the urge to do something New Yorker like. I decided to start small and consumed a hotdog which cost me $1, (I’d question any food that cheap now, but when you’re young you have no fear.)
Ignoring the fact that my digestive system would most likely be fully focused on breaking down my low-budget supper, I then decided I wanted to wash it down with a beer in a New York City bar. We picked an establishment on West 44th Street that contained a healthy crowd and made ourselves comfortable.
One thing I will say for New Yorkers is that they are more friendly than their reputation gives them credit for. A large gentleman who overheard us talking was thrilled to hear our British accents and bought us both a drink. He enquired after the royal family and apologized for the beer being cold, laughing loudly as he did so. He introduced us to his friends, and we got chatting about the differences between the U.S. and the U.K.
During an extended conversation about which is the correct side of the road to drive on, my attention was drawn to an elevated tv screen in the corner of the room. It was showing a basketball game. Our new friend followed my gaze –
“The Knicks!? A bunch of chokers!”
He went on to break down the technical failings of the local basketball team in a language I had no hope of understanding. Apparently, they couldn’t shoot, they couldn’t defend, they made “dud picks at the draft!” (?) He slated everything about the New York Knicks basketball team, from the shade of blue in the uniform to the integrity of the nacho chips on offer at the games (soggy by all accounts). I asked which team he supported. He was somewhat taken aback.
“The Knicks of course.”
I guess loyalty comes in a variety of colours.
Despite the hail of criticism, I was intrigued. Growing up in Britain I loved basketball, and to see it on tv was rare. Anytime a highlights show would come on, I would be hypnotized by these superstars that appeared to defy gravity. Could this be an opportunity to see them in person?
“Is there a game on anytime soon?”
“Yeah, they’re playin’ the Heat tomorrow night at the Garden.”
I glanced at my friend who looked equally keen.
“You may struggle for tickets though; they aren’t having a bad season”
I frowned at this apparent contradiction.
“I thought you said they’re a ‘bunch of chokers’?”
“They are!” he confirmed, “It’s a LONG season.”
The next day we headed down to Madison Square Garden (MSG), the home of both the Knicks and the New York Rangers ice hockey team, to see if we could buy some tickets.
MSG is a large cylindrical building that stands above the subterranean Pennsylvania railway station, commonly referred to as Penn Station. The station used to include a large, grand, ornate building that sat above ground, but it was demolished for the purpose of building the arena. This left just the underwhelming underground section. The move was strongly protested.
A famous architectural historian Vincent Scully once wrote of the structural adjustment –
“One entered the city like a god, one scuttles in now like a rat.”
Arriving at the arena, we noticed multiple entrances to the station that do indeed perforate the building much like rat holes. We navigated our way through the shadowy columns that support the building, toward some steps leading to a sign that said, ‘Box Office’. The design of the outside area created a wind tunnel effect, and it was bitterly cold. We scurried up the steps.
“They’re sold out.”
The voice was a low one but was audible due to the echo off the columns. We turned to see a tall slim man in a long overcoat. He wore a small red woolen hat and circular thin rimmed glasses. An unlit rolled up cigarette hung from his lips.
“Beg your pardon?” my friend replied politely.
“Tonight’s Knicks game. It’s sold out. You wanna buy some tickets?”
We looked at each other. It was always a possibility that this would be the case, but we considered this a questionable source of information.
“Oh right, that’s a shame.” I stammered, “We may just go up and check, just in case.” We both turned back toward the direction of the steps.
“I’m telling you; they’re sold out!” He sounded slightly agitated, “You want tickets, I got ‘em.”
We stopped and turned back. Suddenly doubting this man’s word seemed slightly risky. One of the most densely populated cities in the world and we appeared to be the only people there. Two young naïve brits and a shady man in an overcoat.
“How much?” My friend asked. The man motioned his head and walked toward an even darker part of the colonnade. Against our better instincts, we followed.
He stopped and turned. Being closer to him, his features were more discernable. His face was long and drawn and one of his eyes went off to the side, as if on permanent look out. This was the sort of guy your mum warned you never to talk to growing up, and we had followed him into a dark alleyway. He slowly removed a hand from his pocket. Looking down, he was holding two tickets.
“100 bucks each,” his working eye twitched between both of us, “They’re good seats.”
I was about to ask where the seats were, when I felt my friend’s hand tap me on the arm. We were getting into bartering territory here and he was well aware that negotiating was not my strong point. The last time he’d left me in charge of getting a good deal, I managed to wangle a free roll of film with the purchase of a digital camera. It was only once I had left the shop that I realised digital cameras don’t need film.
“$100 the pair.” he said, rather bravely I thought.
“150.”
“120”
Our salesman’s good eye flicked down and up again like an ocular gabble.
“120” he repeated in confirmation.
We gave him the cash and he handed over the tickets. No sooner was the transaction complete when he scurried away down the steps of the nearest rat hole, disappearing into the busy station.
My friend looked at me with a wink. I gave an impressed nod. He had done well.
We made our way back to the hotel to get changed and have something to eat. A few hours later and we had returned, but now the area was completely different. The dark colonnade was lit up and the quiet steps were now being skipped upon by thousands of excited basketball fans. We joined them and made our way toward the entrance.
The crowd began to narrow as they approached the turnstiles. I reached for my ticket, ready for it to be checked and went on to wave the barcode under the scanner followed by a push of the gate.
It didn’t move.
I scanned it again. Gate wouldn’t budge. I looked back at my friend who had a crowd of people building up behind him. He looked at me as if to ask what was wrong.
“Hey buddy, you’re holding up the line!” a member of staff yelled over to me. Thank you for confirming that, sir, much appreciated.
“My ticket doesn’t appear to be working.” I explained. He motioned me over and took a glance at my ticket. Taking it out of my hand, he yelled over to a man in a blue blazer.
“Two more here!”
By now my friend was next to me having had the same issue. His ticket was also snatched from his grasp.
“Go talk to that guy over there!” the gateman ordered.
We obediently weaved our way through the crowd toward the blazer.
“Where you get those tickets?” he asked.
Replying with anything other than the truth seemed like a waste of time.
“We bought them from a guy outside.”
“He sold you fakes.”
We both stared at him in disbelief.
My friend was the first to muster up a question.
“So, what do we do now?”
Blue Blazer shrugged, “Go home?”
I blinked at him.
“Go home?”
“Yeah,” he said, dismissively. He was now distracted from us and was eyeing the crowd. As far as he was concerned, his business with us was done. Two dopey British guys had been ripped off and they had nobody to blame but themselves.
“But we’ve been robbed!” my friend protested, groping for the possibility of some justice.
Blazer turned his attention back to us and raised both his eyebrows.
“Welcome to New York.”
He then went back to directing the multitude of non-chumps who held authentic tickets.
With that, we left. As we made our way from the MSG, we passed under an enormous, animated sign, promoting the game. It beamed down on us to literally highlight what we were missing. Deciding against the suggestion of ‘going home’, we went to a nearby bar to try and cheer ourselves up and discuss what had happened.
During the short walk we reflected on our gullibility.
How could we have been so stupid!? The guy was the embodiment of ‘iffy’. His face was a 3D photofit. He was the bad guy they unmasked at the end of Scooby Doo! Why did we have ANYTHING to do with him!??
As the bartender edged our drinks toward us, he asked us about our evening. He was most likely being polite and had no genuine interest in receiving a comprehensive reply. Nonetheless, we regaled him with our unfortunate experience which was overheard by two girls sat at the other end of the bar. Soon, everybody in the place was listening to our sob story and offering suggestions of what to do if we saw the guy again.
“If it were me, he’d be choking on that cigarette I can tell you!” exclaimed a fierce older man, covered in tattoos.
“I’d knock his other eye outa whack!” declared a suited guy, tie undone.
As comforting as it was to hear people’s anger on our behalf, we explained the overriding feeling was disappointment that we couldn’t go to the game.
“Why dontcha jus go to the Bulls game on Friday night?” shrugged the bartender.
“They’re playing the Bulls this Friday!?” I asked.
It turns out that regular season games come thick and fast and having two take place within a few days of each other is a common occurrence. The added bonus was that they were playing the world-famous Chicago Bulls!
“Do you really think we could get tickets?”
“Sure, Bulls suck!”
Across the bar there was a synchronized nod.
“It aint the 90’s no more fellas,” explained the guy in the suit, “Jordan is long gone.”
This statement of fact that Michael Jordon, arguably the greatest player to have graced the sporting universe, had now moved on did little to dampen our enthusiasm. We had a second chance of going to a live basketball game!
The next day our sole aim was to purchase tickets, at the box office, with no interruption from any ratty fake ticket scammers. We made the now familiar journey with a committed sense of purpose, heads down and fingers in our ears. Employing Odyssean-like caution so as to avert any chance of us being lured by some siren song of a couple of courtside seats nestled between 50 Cent and Woody Allen with a free bucket of popcorn, or some other sweetly rendered false promise which we would fall hook, line and sinker for.
We made it to the ticket window with no interruption which is of no real surprise. No one of the right minded would want to approach two blokes shuffling in tandem, heads down and hands clamped to the sides of their heads. That sight would make even the most desperate drug devoted scammer moonwalk back into their crack den.
Requesting our tickets, the transaction was made, and we departed.
The night of the game arrived, and we were once again in the throng of a sport loving crowd. We chatted excitedly between ourselves whilst inadvertently overhearing the enthusiastic conversations of others. There was a lot of talk about a forward called Keith Van Horn. By all accounts this was his first season with the Kincks and he was doing well.
(Based on this word-of-mouth review, that night I bought a Van Horn jersey. He was top scorer for the team in the game and did ok during his time in New York, but eight weeks later he was traded to the Milwaukee Bucks. This, together with an episode where someone ‘hilariously’ shouted at me, “Van Horn! Honk Honk! Toot Toot!!”, whilst I was wearing said jersey, led to it being discarded.)
As we began the customary climb up the steps, something caught the corner of my eye. I looked to my right through a gap in the throng. Distance and bobbing heads required me to squint slightly but I recognized it straight away.
The small red woolen hat.
A sizeable break of the masses allowed a full view of everything that accompanied that knitted beacon of treachery. The circular glasses, the unlit cigarette, and the long overcoat. It was the Rat!
My eyes remained fixed on his shadowy frame as I frantically slapped my friend with the back of my hand.
“What’s up?” he asked, as he followed the direction of my wide-eyed stare.
As he perceived the grounds of my flapping and staring, there was a development. The Rat turned and began to walk away, closely followed by a young couple with innocence in their eyes and money in their pockets. He was at it again!
The vigilante inside me began to rise to the surface.
Not satisfied with scamming two gormless Brits of their hard-earned moolah, he was continuing his campaign of skullduggery by exploiting the young and in-love. They, possibly on honeymoon, wanting to spend a romantic evening together watching a group of seven foot plus men throw a ball about whilst sharing a large carbonated soft drink with two straws, were about to be conned and their night ruined. (Of course, they may have been brother and sister or maybe just mates. I was painting myself a picture to motivate my imminent action of rescue and revenge.)
I took a determined step forward, but as I did so, I felt my upper torso remaining in position and then being tugged back. My friend had me gripped firmly by the collar.
“What are you doing!?”
I twisted my neck to look at him and explain what I sensed to be obvious.
“He’s about to do it to them!” I declared loudly, people stepping around us with startling indifference.
I tugged toward the scene of the imminent crime. His grip tightened. Save me yelling “Let me at ‘em! Let me at ‘em!”, it was a perfect rendition of when Scooby Doo holds his nephew, Scrappy Doo, back from getting his head kicked in. (I realise this is my second Scooby Doo reference. Just go with it.)
“If you go over there, you’ll get killed!” He imparted this warning with such conviction that I momentarily stopped tugging.
“It was him! The guy that ripped us off!! We have to do something!!”
“We are talking about a seasoned New York criminal. If we go over there, who knows what he might do? He may not even be alone.”
I ceased my protest and scanned around. He had a point. He may be part of a gang, members of whom are currently eyeing up two blokes carrying out a Hannah-Barbera style skit whilst pointing at their mate about to carry out a hustle.
“But what can we do!?” I asked in despair.
“Nothing,” he released my collar and held his arms out to the side, “They are just going to have to learn the same way we did.”
His statement was both defeatist and sensible. I turned to look in the direction of the crime taking place out of view. We couldn’t call the police, by the time they would arrive it would be all over and he would be long gone. As far as my insatiable urge to intervene was concerned, he was right. There was every chance I could escalate the whole thing into something much worse. Still, it didn’t feel right.
We made our way into the arena.
The Bulls went on to beat the Knicks by a 104-99. When it comes to sports, Americans really know how to put on a show. Each break in play was punctuated by the enthusiastic hollering of a DJ, imploring the crowd to ‘Make some noise!’ as if his mortgage depended on it. Cheerleaders wielding bazookas that fired rolled up t-shirts into the crowd at a seemingly hazardous velocity. Spike Lee being requested for the umpteenth time to wave at the crowd from his permanent court side seat.
It was a fun evening.
Despite the result, I have followed the Knicks ever since, much to my despair. That season they scrapped into the playoffs but were eliminated in the first round by their rivals the New Jersey (now Brooklyn) Nets. It took them seven years to make the playoffs again, that time falling at the first hurdle to their other rivals the Boston Celtics, (No one can accuse me of glory hunting!) There hasn’t been much improvement up to this day, and the “Bunch of Chokers” label bestowed upon them by the gentleman in that bar all those years ago continues to hang around the neck of the franchise like a lead cow bell.
Still, when I reflect on this little escapade and our experience of being swindled by a rodent in an overcoat, as far as being a loser is concerned, it takes one to know one. Moreover, I often wonder what would have happened if I had intervened in his latest scam. I can fantasize that I would have come away a hero, maybe assisting in removing a criminal from the New York streets, just like in so many of the movies I had seen growing up with Manhattan as its setting.
Reality is two people lost some money and missed out on a game of basketball. People have lost a lot more on those city streets, and I’m still here to tell the story.
Contrary to what appears to be a pathos threaded experience of woe, we had an incredible time exploring the ‘Big Apple’. From the hipster haven of Greenwich Village to the musically blessed streets of Harlem and everything in-between, it’s an achingly fascinating city that scrambles your senses resulting in you realising the purpose of having those senses in the first place. Every sight, sound, smell, taste and touch convene to energize the soul.
As the saying goes, “New York is always a good idea!”
… just watch out for rats.
You Know It Makes Sense 