A blog from a plane 40,000 feet above Kansas.
New York. Quite simply, I love it. I love that I have to crane my neck to see the tops of skyscrapers, and the incessant, dull roar of millions of people just going about their existence, a sound that you can only escape in the forest in Central Park, or at the top of the Empire State building.
Central Park is so cool. It’s enormous, much bigger than I imagined, and so varied, with rambling paths and small lakes and literally a whole forest, and a zoo, and a carousel and volleyball courts. In parts of it you can’t even see the city, as if Manhattan has just melted away. My favourite part was the forest, which I wandered through yesterday on my way to the Met (which was closed). The Empire State Building is also incredible. I couldn’t even fathom before I went up just how high the 86th floor is. You walk out and you can no longer hear the city; cars and people look like toy figurines, and all around you the cityscape fans out until it reaches the azure sea. You get a much better sense of New York from up there, Downtown, Midtown, Uptown, Brooklyn across the way. You can even see the statue of liberty, a lonely speck out to sea.
When it wasn’t too cold, I tried to walk as much as possible so that I could see the city, even though the subway is efficient and spiders its way everywhere. This was an excellent decision. The city is so colourful, and loud, and diverse. I think one of the best things I did was to go to Chelsea Market in West Village, which is the lower west side – have you heard of Greenwich Village? Anyway, there’s a restaurant deli in the market called the Lobster Place, and Catarina told me that I HAD to get the crab cake sandwich, which I did, and I took it up onto the High Line to eat and bask in the sun. The High Line used to be an elevated train line that ran up the west side of Manhattan. It’s been converted into a sort of walking bridge and you can stroll along over the streets, and look down the avenues from above. It’s incredibly cool, lots of wood and steel and urban renewal vibes, with trees planted between the old train tracks, and plenty of benches upon which to sit and muse.
(View from the High Line)
Mm, what else? Oh, I walked across Brooklyn Bridge and looked back at the Manhattan skyline’s disorderly, jumbled interruptions to the horizon, and the sun was shining that day so the horizon was profoundly blue. I went to the American Natural History Museum and stood in front of a complete fossil skeleton of a triceratops, and a T-Rex, and some kind of sauropod. It was phenomenal and mindblowing that these enormouse lizards actually existed! And were then complete wiped out! I also visited MoMA and the Guggenheim to look at some of my favourite paintings. It’s absurd how happy Picasso and Van Gogh make me. And Pollock. And Cezanne. The list goes on. They’re like old friends. I can sit in a room with just those paintings in transports of delight for hours. I just feel so greedy when I look at them, like I want my eyes to gobble them all up ferociously, and my mind never, ever to forget. Seeing them is, like everything else about travel, bittersweet. I’m so happy to be there observing, but sad too because soon I must leave and I know my brain won’t remember them clearly for very long.
I had this troubling thought though, which I didn’t like but I think is important. Our perceptions of ‘good’ or ‘classic’ art, like literature, are so westernized. I’m not a big fan of African art, the South African art I do like is usually, but not always, strongly influenced by European Art, but is that just because of the way I’ve been brought up? Where I’ve been brought up? What I’ve been exposed to? Taste is subjective of course, but it’s so easily influenced by frequent exposure and being told that X is good and Y is irrelevant. And then I thought about how impressionable people are in general. At the start of a season, gladiator sandals are in fashion, and I hate them, and by the end of the summer, after an unceasing barrage of media, I think they’re excellent and must have them. We’re being brainwashed, and the indoctrination is constant, ongoing, evil, really. The same thing applies to perceptions of beauty, of women in relation to men, of women in relation to women, of race, whiteness, blackness, the ideal lifestyle, the perfect romance, the manic pixie dream girl, the stud, and on and on and on. (As an aside, I thought this when I was watching Cinderella too, because they spend the whole movie telling us that if you’re courageous and kind, everything will work out. Not that I disagree with the need to be courageous and kind, but I realized again how our morals, our ideas of justice, are susceptible to Hollywood’s machinations. What if Hollywood decided that kindness and courage weren’t cool anymore and started telling children that backstabbing and meanness of spirit are the new black?)
We just crossed into Colorado. Hurtling along at 1000 km per hour.
One of the things that I liked and disliked (see how I’m overriding the need to operate in binary) was my solitude. I stayed with Kate (big shout out to KATE by the way for being an excellent host), but she was working and so I ended up exploring entirely by myself during the day. I would speak only to order a coffee or a sandwich or to buy a subway ticket or to say thank you. I had nobody to discuss my thoughts with, to joke with, to plan my day with, to sound off to, to take my picture. In the beginning it was difficult, because I like to share, but it grew easier, and then I started to like it, a lot, in spite of the loneliness at times. I’ve been working so hard to cultivate my independence, self-sufficiency, the feeling that I can do things on my own without worrying about what strangers will think of my solitary self. The best travellers advise that you travel alone, not that they ever listened to that advice, most of them, Freya Stark, Thoreau, Rousseau, Burton, all had companions. But I get it. You’re walking, which is in itself an exercise in meditation, and there are so many thoughts, and you’re forced to be alone with yourself, to listen to the white noise in your head, and to start discerning the patterns amongst all of those knots. I didn’t listen to music, I thought it would be a distraction (also I needed to preserve my phone battery), so I just sauntered through New York listening to the hustle and thinking, thinking, thinking. And I feel different, better, stronger for it. I don’t know why we think we can’t do things by ourselves, but I was reminded that ultimately, we are alone, even when surrounded by people. We can share and joke, but really, it’s just us. I am capable. Even if something goes wrong, I have the requisite savvy to stop, think, respond, and generally to fix it. And I like traveling alone. I’ve been on trips with people, and I resent feeling as though I’m obliged to speak, to convey my feelings, to consult. Of course, I’ve also really enjoyed traveling with people, and this time I missed the companionship and the safety net, but there’s much to be said for immersion in solitude. I’m getting to know/accept myself more, and I feel so powerful in that knowledge. I suspect this year abroad is turning me into an introvert, albeit an outgoing one (I didn’t realise that it was possible to be an outgoing introvert, but if you see an introvert merely as someone who prefers their own company, it doesn’t need to exclude the possibility that the introvert might be friendly and outgoing).
Other things I did / that happened: It snowed, soft flurries all day on Saturday. I went to a comedy stand up show in Brooklyn, followed but a karaoke bar. I mastered the subway system. I got the BEST chocolate and walnut cookie from a bakery on the upper west side. I walked and walked and walked until my feet ached - never underestimate the importance of comfortable shoes. I crashed a house party in Brooklyn (again). I saw Albert, Tierney, Frank, Rob and Hershey. I took pictures and videos. I miss you all.
Much love.
