Meandering in Manhattan

Last evening I felt seriously ill, with what felt like a fever, the sore throat and cold, parched mouth, etc. Yet in the morning I woke up in a wonderful state of mind, and I’m not being sarcastic. I had folded the dirty blanket in half, so that the clean side covered me, and therefore slept warmly and well. The sun was shining, faintly because it's winter, but still, and I had forgotten all the terrible feelings.

But I urgently needed to change my euros into dollars. So I decided to try a bank in Manhattan, in the hopes that such institutions would be reputable. I consulted the internet, this time using the MTA trip planner (the Google Maps instructions are too vague for me) and then set off to the nearest subway station. The entrances of the stations are quite modest, here, by the way; narrow and surrounded by a small dark railing in the sidewalks at intersections, easy for the eye to miss. At the ticket machine I opened up my wallet to pay the $2.00 for a single ride ticket, to find to my horror that the idea that I had $12.42 left was totally wrong; I only had $2.42 left. So I paid for the ticket in fear and trembling, and then pictured myself stranded in Manhattan without money for food or the transit back to Brooklyn, staying overnight in a park or somewhere safer, trying to avoid being told to move on by policemen. There was no way I could afford to take the wrong trains or give up on finding a bank.

At any rate, I successfully took the G train to Hoyt-Schemerhorst Schermerhorn station, then transferred to an A train instead of the C train (different lines often share the same platforms, and sometimes you have to wait while the wrong train passes three times in a row before the right line comes, and you certainly shouldn't just jump into the first train you see). There was a blue-coated lady holding onto the same pole as mine, and I asked her whether I could get to the same stations on the A line. It turns out that the A train fortunately stops at the Canal St. station too (I chose Canal St. because I'd heard that there are shops along there, so I assumed there must be banks too). Someone else also helped me out, and even told me that the Canal St. station would come up four stations later (which information is useful, because it's often hard to see the names of stations). It turns out that there are subway maps in some train cars and stations, but they are far and few between. The platforms can also be incredibly long, about as long as a city block.

So I got out at Canal St., and walked around 6th Avenue (a.k.a. Avenue of the Americas) and West Broadway, looking for a bank. There I saw my first Manhattan buildings, and they looked rather nice and not as overpowering as I had feared, mostly older brick edifices. I found a Valley-something-or-other bank, where the teller directed me to a currency exchange at 400 West Broadway. There is no exchange there, but there is a tiny booth at 401 West Broadway. I couldn't open the door, but a sign said that there was another location at the Empire State Building. So I set off down Spring St. (as it turns out, in the wrong direction) hoping to hit 5th Ave. eventually. Instead I ended up in Hudson River Park, and then walked down and down toward Battery Park, hoping that it is frequented by tourists enough to contain a currency exchange booth or two (but I preferred a bank, because they seem less likely to cut a bad deal). Along the way I drank from water fountains, and rested now and then. Skyscrapers rose from across the Hudson River (which looked pale brown close up and tepidly blue from farther away, and was wavy but broken into countless tiny dips), in New Jersey; Ellis Liberty Island with the delightful Statue of Liberty and the low mass of leafless trees with its American flag was visible to the south.

At last I asked at a hotel lobby where a currency exchange was to be found, and the person in the lobby directed me to a Chase Bank some four blocks up on the same side of the street. At the "Business" counter there, I finally managed to exchange my Euros into dollars, after showing the clerk my passport. I thought that I only forked over 90 Euros, so I was astounded to receive over $170 in exchange (the fee for the exchange was $5), and asked if the number wasn't a bit too high. The clerk said no, but I went out unconvinced. I found a pharmacy and happily bought proper shampoo, and cough drops, and other things. (By the way, the cashier there put everything in a black bag, too, so it seems to be the norm here.) The cough drops are intended to be taken once every hour; I consumed at least six within an hour, not being sure when and if I would be getting something proper to eat. At the park I had a conflict of conscience about the presumptive error of the clerk, and at length made up my mind to return to the bank, when I consulted the receipt and realized that I had given the cashier 130 Euros, so everything was all right. More than all right!

Then I wandered around the streets, hoping to find a subway station, and a place to eat. I noticed that whenever young black men were coming from the opposite direction, they seemed to expect that I would put as much distance between us as I passed them as possible. Keeping at a distance felt like a dumb thing to do, because of course not every black person is a thief, so I didn't do it. But now I believe that there are lots of purse-snatchers around, so people tend not to go too close to possible thieves, which may be a behaviour that I should adopt, too. Still, I don't like the racist overtones of only avoiding black people, so I'll probably just walk reasonably far away from everybody. I also noticed that New Yorkers don't really care whether they are supposed to cross a street or not. They'll step off the curb into the road, crowding as far forward as they can, and as soon as no car is coming they'll cross, green light or no green light (well, to be literal, a white stick-man means that you may cross, as opposed to the orange hand). Sometimes a police officer or two helps conduct the traffic.

Along the way I passed through the City Hall Park, which is truly delightful. It has pine boughs entwined into the iron lantern-posts, and in the centre there is an arrangement of glowing dark green evergreens, red and yellow osiers, and greenish-golden cedars, that looked even lively, and myriad branches swept upward over the triste muddy lawns. What is also delightful are the chalky, grand, and peaked old skyscrapers in the distance. At the opposite end of the spectrum, there were modern ones at the World Financial Center that looked like well-maintained tombs, the windows annoyingly neither small nor generous, but boringly middling in size.

Then I saw a Dunkin' Donuts and went in, after resisting the temptation of three of the ubiquitous Starbucks outlets. Last evening I was fantasizing about what I'd like to eat, but felt horrified at the idea of greasy food, infinitely preferring a nice repast of white fish, rice, cranberry sauce, and rapunzel (i.e. lamb's lettuce) with a vinaigrette of olive oil and red wine vinegar and lemon juice and a little sugar. I pictured all this in my mind and it cheered me up considerably, like the amazingly vivid dream that I'd had, perhaps on the previous night, of eating apple sauce (I tasted it and felt the texture and everything). But my reluctance at the idea of donuts faded when I saw the store this morning, though I remembered just before entering to get something more nutritious. So I ordered an iced tea for its refreshing qualities, and a basil-chicken pizzetta: a crust topped with white cheese, diced chicken, chopped tomato, red onion, and mayonnaise with basil specks (I dislike mayonnaise, but didn't care at this point). It cost ca. $7.42, but I didn't care about that either. There was a room in the back, which had a nice ambience, where ten or so other people were eating, many of them police officers (one young white woman, who seemed more like a college girl than a policewoman, was insisting that she isn't being given special treatment, while her colleague was rather skeptical). I ate my pizza in little pieces in great contentment because this was precisely the food I needed, and because my toothache was so far improved (presumably due to my long walk) that it wasn't painful to eat anymore. The iced tea also actually tasted of tea.

After leaving, I passed the former site of the World Trade Center, which was surrounded by blue plastic and fencing, as machines were busy rebuilding inside it. I looked over twice or so, but didn't gawk, as this practice seems repellent to me. Behind it there is a truly charming old church, St. Paul's, which was built in the Georgian style in the 1760s, was attended at one point by George Washington, and is apparently the only colonial edifice remaining in Manhattan. It has a curly bronze spire, which is a little younger, and around it there is a graveyard full of gloomy, elderly, thin tombstones and cracked tombs and barren trees, that very much bring to mind the haunted New England of Washington Irving. There are intriguing inscriptions, still visible, too, and stars at the graves of Revolutionary War veterans. On two of the wooden benches, (presumably) native New Yorkers were quietly eating their lunches, as others were bustling around the doors. I loved it. What I loved less is the signs that wallowed in the proximity of the church to the World Trade Centre disaster with what seemed to me to be breathless excitement, and that pompously celebrated visits by former Archbishop George Carey, Pope John Paul II, etc.

At any rate, I went through Chinatown, which was really exciting, and passed a grinning individual who looked very much like Robert de Niro, and at last came across Canal St. There are countless stores offering scarves, cheaper jewellery, etc., and it is a cheerful place. But what pleased me most of all was discovering the subway station by which I had come, and then returning (with only one wrong train) to the hostel.

I had fully expected to find all my belongings filched, but they had not been, so that was already good. Then I went up to the kitchen to get tea. It turns out that one doesn't need a match or any other lighter for the stove; you turn it all the way up, the flames appear, and then you turn it down again to the proper setting. W*** helped me figure this out, and then she offered me some cupcakes or muffins or pastries, which was really nice of her. So I had a cup of tea and a cinnamon roll, and my faith in humanity (I am really wary of people now) was much restored. And that's it so far for the epic that has been my day.

My deduction from the whole is that I might like to live in Manhattan, though it would be best to figure out how to rent an apartment properly, etc., before going. Also, this trip is good for me because it is so much better solving concrete and surmountable problems than living a melancholy and introverted life without distractions. I have also realized that my attitude toward other people has been wrong, and that I should be open and considerate, and disregard others' opinions of me unless they are fair. Also, my present sense is that I can thrive in Berlin just as well as in New York. What matters is what I make out of it. So this trip may be like the Wizard of Oz film, in which I travel far only to recognize that I like home just as well.

P.S.: I've lost my voice and it hurts to swallow. My list of aches and pains continues!