Independence Day
So back in New York at last, and this time it’s legal. After 2 weeks of waiting in London for the US Embassy to put a sticker in my passport (and of growing a beard again – clearly I never learn. Style tip: if you have ginger hair you should keep it to a bare minimum out of respect for those who have to look at it without the aid of sunglasses) it is all on. Odd that I can miss old London town so much, though…
Nothing smooth about the preparations, though. Monday morning and time to pack, but obviously the extra clothes I’ve bought (I’m convinced now that London is actually cheaper than NYC for clothes) make that a chore. Manage to squeeze the case shut and figure I’ll pop down to WH Smiths for some bubble rap and tape to protect the new paintings I’ve bought from the artists in residence in Tooting. No problem there until I realise I need more tape, and must make another quick dash to the shops after putting the NY keys in my pocket when I found them in my bag. The problem, of course, is that I took the Putney keys out to do this, and don’t realise my stupidity until I get back to the flat. This is not a feeling you want to experience: standing outside an apartment block at 10.00 in the morning when everyone has gone to work, a transatlantic flight in a few hours, and no way to break in (that I’m aware of – professional crooks would probably disagree with me there). Fuck fuck fuck. And then it dawns on me – the spare keys down the road!! No wait, I had those. But I gave them back when I got Jerry’s spares!! But maybe he didn’t take them back down the road. But maybe he did!! But there’ll be no one there. But maybe the old neighbours will be in – they’ve got the keys to that flat!! Nothing for it but to find out – the alternatives are … grim.
So, swearing all the way, I storm down the road to see how my day is going to pan out. This is going to be embarrassing – how do I tell my boss that I missed a flight because I locked myself out of the flat? This wouldn’t have happened if only they’d arranged a bloody hotel room for me. And then I look up and I’m there, and the neighbours are in!! And, going one better, so is Belinda!! Sorry to wake you Bins, but I need the key – do you think they’ve got some? I have some comes the reply, and I briefly wonder just how many keys for this flat are in circulation – no wonder there was always someone new in the lounge room when I lived there. And on the walk back the sunny day, one of those ones that only seem to happen in London (warm and glarey and oddly cool all at once) is reflected in my mood.
So I finish packing and get in the cab and off to Heathrow for the final curtain call from my home of the last 3 years. Virgin give me no problems with the paintings, despite the size (as, generally, they give me no problems about anything), and I have hours to kill while I wait for the flight. Duty free, natch, but that’s never particularly exciting – Dunhill after shave and Davidoff cigars in case you were wondering – and a roam around the retail opportunities (pick up a second copy of a book I bought 2 weeks ago which someone has ‘borrowed’), then sit down for a read. And after being called to the flight (and a slightly disturbing discussion with a security guy about my luggage – they weren’t sure if it should go on the plane or not – my vote was yes) I get a mystery upgrade to Upper Class and I think ‘I could get used to this’ as I peruse the anything anytime menu in my armchair onboard.
We roll down the runway and up yep I think so a little bit more okay we’re there and I look out the window as the green jigsaw puzzle of England falls away behind me. I’ll miss this place, I think to myself; this was home. Odd the things you can get used to. My mates, for one thing – how the hell did I get used to them? And then the usual English cloud comes and blankets the past like a fresh new duvet on a large bed on a Sunday morning. Shame they get upset about the walkman thing on planes – I could have used some music there.
And later I’m at JFK and into a cab, and it’s hot and overcast and sticky, and when I’m caught in the middle of a massive storm somewhere in Brooklyn, a storm so heavy I can’t see the car in front of me and I’m in the front seat, a storm that causes a flash flood warning to be passed on over the radio I wonder about being there. And I miss the lovely lack of extreme weather in London, the how about the weather eh? attitude we all develop there, the attitude that says we’re upset by it when in reality it matters not a jot because London is a nice warm cocoon in which to hibernate through the pubs and football and shopping and all of the little routines we get into there. And I look out at the biblical storm here and now and wonder what I’m in for.
But I get home to my new flat and I remember a little bit about this place again, and when I go up the road to get a few groceries I remember a little more. And I have some dinner and unpack (well, open my case anyway) and watch some stupid TV movie and try and fail to stay awake through the jetlag, the jetlag which had made me feel as though I could float down Montague St like a ghost, and I realise that it’s truly time for bed, my bed at last rather than that bloody lounge which has caused my back to be in the shape it is today. And it’s nice to be home.
And the next day is the 4th of July, and it’s my first day as a legal alien in New York. So I do the domestics early and just walk around in the sunshine, watching all the people come and go as they head over to the promenade to look at the tall ships and all of the other things that Americans do on their big day. Obviously I listen to Australian music on my walkman while I do this – one has standards – and it just seems … good. And I think about calling people overseas to share this joy I’m feeling, but it’s the wrong time to call people, so I just keep on. And, later, when the fireworks start I head down the block to the promenade, but there are way too many people there, and the view is better from my bedroom window, so back up and then I think if I don’t go up onto the roof right now I’ll regret it forever. So, beer in pocket, I force the window open and climb up the ladder on the side of the building (don’t look down) and onto the roof, six storeys in the air, and when I’m there I crack the beer and feel the explosions and hear the car alarms set off by the noise and vibrations and smell a familiar smell and look over to see 4 girls sitting on the garden furniture at the other end of the roof. They see me standing there and wave me over, telling me that no one should be alone on 4th of July, and they introduce themselves and say oh you’re Australian, you must be cool then, here have a drag on this, I’ll hold it for you. And the fireworks get bigger and louder all the time, and we swap stories while we stare into the sky.
And, eventually, it’s over, and I smile as I look around at everything and think well bugger me – this is New York. And I watch the smoke rings in the sky waft around like a trick in a bar that doesn’t know it’s over, and I hear the noise from below, that constant New York noise of people and cars and sirens, as they all try to get past everyone else to get to some place else. And the girls talk about whether they should get into the car now or maybe we should just head out to a bar and I smile – as a metaphor for my life right now it seems pretty apt.
(July 2000)
Nothing smooth about the preparations, though. Monday morning and time to pack, but obviously the extra clothes I’ve bought (I’m convinced now that London is actually cheaper than NYC for clothes) make that a chore. Manage to squeeze the case shut and figure I’ll pop down to WH Smiths for some bubble rap and tape to protect the new paintings I’ve bought from the artists in residence in Tooting. No problem there until I realise I need more tape, and must make another quick dash to the shops after putting the NY keys in my pocket when I found them in my bag. The problem, of course, is that I took the Putney keys out to do this, and don’t realise my stupidity until I get back to the flat. This is not a feeling you want to experience: standing outside an apartment block at 10.00 in the morning when everyone has gone to work, a transatlantic flight in a few hours, and no way to break in (that I’m aware of – professional crooks would probably disagree with me there). Fuck fuck fuck. And then it dawns on me – the spare keys down the road!! No wait, I had those. But I gave them back when I got Jerry’s spares!! But maybe he didn’t take them back down the road. But maybe he did!! But there’ll be no one there. But maybe the old neighbours will be in – they’ve got the keys to that flat!! Nothing for it but to find out – the alternatives are … grim.
So, swearing all the way, I storm down the road to see how my day is going to pan out. This is going to be embarrassing – how do I tell my boss that I missed a flight because I locked myself out of the flat? This wouldn’t have happened if only they’d arranged a bloody hotel room for me. And then I look up and I’m there, and the neighbours are in!! And, going one better, so is Belinda!! Sorry to wake you Bins, but I need the key – do you think they’ve got some? I have some comes the reply, and I briefly wonder just how many keys for this flat are in circulation – no wonder there was always someone new in the lounge room when I lived there. And on the walk back the sunny day, one of those ones that only seem to happen in London (warm and glarey and oddly cool all at once) is reflected in my mood.
So I finish packing and get in the cab and off to Heathrow for the final curtain call from my home of the last 3 years. Virgin give me no problems with the paintings, despite the size (as, generally, they give me no problems about anything), and I have hours to kill while I wait for the flight. Duty free, natch, but that’s never particularly exciting – Dunhill after shave and Davidoff cigars in case you were wondering – and a roam around the retail opportunities (pick up a second copy of a book I bought 2 weeks ago which someone has ‘borrowed’), then sit down for a read. And after being called to the flight (and a slightly disturbing discussion with a security guy about my luggage – they weren’t sure if it should go on the plane or not – my vote was yes) I get a mystery upgrade to Upper Class and I think ‘I could get used to this’ as I peruse the anything anytime menu in my armchair onboard.
We roll down the runway and up yep I think so a little bit more okay we’re there and I look out the window as the green jigsaw puzzle of England falls away behind me. I’ll miss this place, I think to myself; this was home. Odd the things you can get used to. My mates, for one thing – how the hell did I get used to them? And then the usual English cloud comes and blankets the past like a fresh new duvet on a large bed on a Sunday morning. Shame they get upset about the walkman thing on planes – I could have used some music there.
And later I’m at JFK and into a cab, and it’s hot and overcast and sticky, and when I’m caught in the middle of a massive storm somewhere in Brooklyn, a storm so heavy I can’t see the car in front of me and I’m in the front seat, a storm that causes a flash flood warning to be passed on over the radio I wonder about being there. And I miss the lovely lack of extreme weather in London, the how about the weather eh? attitude we all develop there, the attitude that says we’re upset by it when in reality it matters not a jot because London is a nice warm cocoon in which to hibernate through the pubs and football and shopping and all of the little routines we get into there. And I look out at the biblical storm here and now and wonder what I’m in for.
But I get home to my new flat and I remember a little bit about this place again, and when I go up the road to get a few groceries I remember a little more. And I have some dinner and unpack (well, open my case anyway) and watch some stupid TV movie and try and fail to stay awake through the jetlag, the jetlag which had made me feel as though I could float down Montague St like a ghost, and I realise that it’s truly time for bed, my bed at last rather than that bloody lounge which has caused my back to be in the shape it is today. And it’s nice to be home.
And the next day is the 4th of July, and it’s my first day as a legal alien in New York. So I do the domestics early and just walk around in the sunshine, watching all the people come and go as they head over to the promenade to look at the tall ships and all of the other things that Americans do on their big day. Obviously I listen to Australian music on my walkman while I do this – one has standards – and it just seems … good. And I think about calling people overseas to share this joy I’m feeling, but it’s the wrong time to call people, so I just keep on. And, later, when the fireworks start I head down the block to the promenade, but there are way too many people there, and the view is better from my bedroom window, so back up and then I think if I don’t go up onto the roof right now I’ll regret it forever. So, beer in pocket, I force the window open and climb up the ladder on the side of the building (don’t look down) and onto the roof, six storeys in the air, and when I’m there I crack the beer and feel the explosions and hear the car alarms set off by the noise and vibrations and smell a familiar smell and look over to see 4 girls sitting on the garden furniture at the other end of the roof. They see me standing there and wave me over, telling me that no one should be alone on 4th of July, and they introduce themselves and say oh you’re Australian, you must be cool then, here have a drag on this, I’ll hold it for you. And the fireworks get bigger and louder all the time, and we swap stories while we stare into the sky.
And, eventually, it’s over, and I smile as I look around at everything and think well bugger me – this is New York. And I watch the smoke rings in the sky waft around like a trick in a bar that doesn’t know it’s over, and I hear the noise from below, that constant New York noise of people and cars and sirens, as they all try to get past everyone else to get to some place else. And the girls talk about whether they should get into the car now or maybe we should just head out to a bar and I smile – as a metaphor for my life right now it seems pretty apt.
(July 2000)