I'm sure many of you have been to New York City, and know at least a little bit about the place. Even so, I'd like to take down my first impression of the Big Apple.
The flight was quiet, unnaturally quiet for a five hour ride on Delta hell across the country. I've been back and forth over the states countless times, and this topped the list as the calmest and most relaxing. There were four to five kids sitting around me, but I swear I thought they were dead, none of them made a sound.
Fast forward past 2500 miles of terrain, two Great Lakes, and a Pierce Brosnan movie to the tarmac. There was a huge double-decker Emirates plane at one of the gates, which I later found was the first A380 ever to land in the U.S., and it had arrived 2 hours before us. Kinda cool. John F. Kennedy International airport is a fun little hairball. This particular terminal reminded me of the salt mines they have in Switzerland: hot, tiny, winding passages with low ceilings. The only difference was the addition of some marble flooring and mirrored pillars, and some really nasty looking security personnel. But seriously, for a city of this size, the place is like a municipal airport. We managed to escape the JFK labyrinth, and got in line for a taxi.
This is where it really starts getting interesting. A brand new Ford Edge taxi pulled up and the trunk popped. I was a little confused, because I had to work my bag into the trunk, wedged next to the subwoofer. This is a taxi, remember, not a limo. Out gets Rodney, he was the driver, in black 87 jeans, white Nikes glossed with at least three full bottles of polish, and a New Era Yankees hat, Navy with white pinstripes. He opened the door for us, and after hopping onto immaculate white leather seats I noticed the polished wood paneling on the doors…and the blue neons under the seats. I did all I could to keep from laughing…this thing was like a pimp taxi…Seriously, it had more neons in it than I have in my tuner, TV screens in the headrests, and Usher playing through that woofer in the back. This is a New York Yellow Cab, or at least from the outside.
But that was nothing, the fun started when Rodney turned this thing on. You know, they say New York City hardens you after a while, but let me tell you I was hardened before I got off of Long Island. Between JFK International and the Mariott on 53rd and Second, I nearly died on several occasions.
He began the ride by laying rubber for about 30 yards and burning out of the JFK arrivals taxi lane like a dragster off the line, and then proceeded to swerve between shuttle buses like a slalom skier. At the same speed, too. I think he had just finished a game of GTA IV and was continuing it in his head.
Before I continue, I need to explain New York drivers. New York drivers are not idiots, like Bay Area drivers, and they aren't maniacs like they are in Boston. New York Drivers are just assholes. If they want to be in that lane now, dammit, that's where they're going to go. But the thing is, unlike in the Bay Area, EVERYBODY is an asshole. This is good, though, because it puts everybody on even ground, so even though everybody is an asshole, nobody notices. To be considered an asshole driver in New York, you need to be like asshole squared in Bay Area terms.
But, back to my story. So, we're cruising along…by which I mean screaming through stopped traffic…and my dad decides to strike up a conversation with Mr. Perrie, that was his last name according to the taxi registration.
"So, what kind of things are there to do in this town?"
Mad dad figured he'd just rattle off the usual list of sightseeing activities that every tourist does. He has been here numerous times, he was just trying to talk to the guy.
"Uhhhh…aw…well…hmm"
He acted like he didn't know what there was to do in New York, one of the most active places on the planet. I almost reached up front and backhanded him. Go to Pleasanton, you bitch, and then you'll know what it's like to have nothing to do.
"Uhhh…well there's some nice clubs in Mid-Manhattan…"
My lungs collapsed. I could feel my ribs cracking as I tried to keep from laughing. I'd been in New York for less than an hour, and there I was, sitting in a neon-filled taxi, and the pimp driver is suggesting that the two very white tourists in the back seat go clubbin'. Keep in mind here that my dad is still in his business suit, and I look like I'm fifteen. I almost died from asphyxiation, trying not to laugh.
Now I will give the dude credit, New York has a highly energetic nightlife and club scene. There are nearly as many clubs in this city as there are Starbucks in Seattle. I actually would not have minded going to one of them, either…but it really isn't something you expect to hear suggested by a taxi driver. At least not where I'm from.
Continuing on the trip to the hotel, at least a third of which was spent with Rodney's hand planted firmly on the horn, we had some very close calls to catastrophic collisions. I got used to it quickly…I think being here for a while is going to give me nerves of steel…California is going like cake compared to driving the streets of New York. We were hurtling through lights and suddenly Rodney mashes the brakes, not like he wanted to shed a little speed, but like he was hell bent on coming to a standstill. Halfway through the 50 foot long skid (no way that thing had ABS,) I looked up and there was another taxi turning through the intersection in front of us, completely blocking our green light. We stopped, I swear to God, three feet from him as he completed his turn through the red light. That was as close as I've ever gotten to getting destroyed in an auto collision. What an asshole. Squared. And Rodney let him know, too.
Driving into Manhattan from Long Island, it feels like you're entering the guts of a machine. The buildings pack up against the waterline like they are held back by some invisible barrier, a black wall against the river. The glittering lights of the towers pierce the densely bundled mass of concrete, glass, and steel, and as you enter, you can hear the hum of this urban machine. The low churn of car engines echo through the city's canyons as the river of yellow taxis flows over the grid of pavement. The various pitches of horns pierce the monotonous drone. Major kudos to New York drivers for using their horns.
They are very stilled at honking, indeed. They have some sort of Morse Code of horns; alerting other drivers that they are moving in and cutting off with a series of short beeps (in addition to blinkers, which they actually USE.) Longer honks mean "what the hell," or "you are a tool, GTFO." It's an interesting contrast to California drivers, who only see a honk as a rude gesture, like a finger and a dirty look. Here, it's more of a form of communication.
Anyway, after crossing the river, we tailgated a cop for a few blocks, and then after running over 20-30 pedestrians, he dropped us off at the hotel. I gave him a decent tip, and told him to get some more shoe polish, and maybe a turbo for his taxi-ricer. It was the best taxi ride, ever…like one of those IMAX things where you're in like a crazy mine ride that makes you feel like you're going to DIE. Epic.
We dropped the stuff off at the hotel, and then went out to walk around. Out in the glamour and the grit. That's all New York is, glamour and grit. It's pretty and it's dirty. And it's pretty dirty. New York is like the Terminator with eyeliner, very stylish, sexy, and hardcore. Mmm actually, that's kind of gay, San Francisco is the Terminator with eyeliner, New York is more like…the Terminator…in Calvin Klein. There.
Well we start walking and we got, oh, fifty yards maybe before I caught the scent of pot smoke. Funny, I thought that was more of a West Coast thing.
Walking down Second, we went to Subway to get a sandwich. I sat out on a bench next to the entrance to the 33rd Street station, on the very subway system that inspired the sandwich chain where I had just purchased my dinner.
As I ate I watched the city breathe. And the city had bad breath. It was trash night in Mid-Town when we got here, and it had just rained. New York isn't the prettiest scented metropolis, and the wet trash sitting out by the ton on the curbs did not help. There were some nice cars that passed by, though. New York has some damn nice cars. A black Rolls Phantom, a yellow Lambo Murcielago, red F139, Aston Martin DB9, and Jeep. What the hell, a Jeep? Fire engine red, four inch lift, 35 inch MUD terrains, with the top down and a massive winch on the front. I guess so he could offroad on the sidewalk and winch a fire hydrant out of the ground, or pull himself up the Chrysler building like a Spider-Jeep. A Jeep in New York…yeah it's a Jeep thing, blah blah, no I don't understand, shutup. Jeeps do not belong in New York Fuckin City.
I took out my iPod Touch to see if I could get a WiFi connection to check my e-mail. I found forty-seven different networks. Yes, that's 47 networks in an eighty foot radius. Hey, it's the city.
So there I was on a bench, soaking in the city. Soaking in the smell. The reason it's not a clean city is because it's so large and uncontrolled. People here do what they damn please. If that cigarette is running low, it's going to drop to the ground right where they're standing. If the light says "Don't Walk," well that's only a suggestion. If there aren't any cars in the immediate area, they're going to cross the damn street. No mater that there are three cops there watching…they don't care either, they have much more important things to do, like tell each other dirty jokes with New York cheesecake-thick accents.
It's fun to watch people. There are some relatively interesting people in New York. In San Francisco they're just flat out weird, but here they're interesting, diverse. This is by far the most diverse place I've ever been, at least half of the people here speak a different language (granted, it is a weekend in the Summer, peak tourist season.) You can distinguish the locals from the tourists. The women from out of town, for example, are easy to spot because they have trouble with heels on uneven pavement. They aren't as aware of the numerous subway ventilation grates, either, and those are especially nasty when combined with spike heels. The tourists, in general, are always looking up at the buildings, have shit hanging around their necks, like a camera or ten, and are entirely draped in New York apparel. They wear cute little shirts that say "I Heart New York," among other things. You know you've got a local when their shirt is solid black, and has in white, bold letters: "NEW YORK FUCKIN CITY." Other than that, the furthest New Yorkers ever go is a Yankees hat.
I was eating a sandwich a while back…about finished with it now, so we walked a few blocks to the first building I wanted to see here. Located at Fifth Avenue and 58th Street, the famous Plaza Hotel is an architectural work of art that was been featured in dozens of movies and TV shows, from Home Alone to the Sopranos. But what I was really looking for was across the street: the Fifth Avenue Apple store. A striking, illuminated, glass box that rises from the plaza between the CBS studio and the hotel. Two Apple bouncers in black suits with white ties and secret service-style earpieces guarded the door, like it was some kind of exclusive club. Entering through the glass doors, and descending in an entirely glass elevator, you find yourself in what resembles every other Apple store. Light birch tables, white walls, associates in brightly colored shirts with white, rectangular nametags. The only difference is that this one happened to be beneath the streets of New York, and it was ten times bigger.
I browsed around for a while, though I'd already seen everything in there a million times. As you may know, I'm pretty good with Macs, and everything related to them. I know Apple stores like the back of my hand. It's actually kind of sad.
After sending out a bulletin to y'all from a very sexy 3G iPhone I was playing with, I left the glass box through the glass elevator, glass walkway, and glass door. Jesus Christ, who cleans all of that glass, I hope they're well-paid.
I was getting tired so I went back to the room to catch some shuteye on a very puffy Mariott bed with 200 pillows.
And that was my first few hours in New York City.
Current Mood: Accomplished
Listening To: "New York" by Richard Ashcroft
No comments:
Post a Comment