New york city (part four of four)

Halloween recovery

The morning after the Halloween party we spent appropriately in recovery, with an obligatory trip to the diner for some superlative hangover gorging. 

Hurricane sandy

That afternoon we'd planned to complete our souvenir shopping to get it out of the way, but it was right about then that the hurricane warnings started. All of a sudden they were talking about closing down the subway and telling people not to leave their homes, so we went hurricane shopping instead, down at, you guessed it, the Westside Market. And so, it turned out, did everyone else ... 

There was a huge line out the front of the store and they were only letting people in a couple at a time, and there was a news camera shooting footage as well. Everywhere was sold out of torches and rain ponchos, but we eventually hunted some down in case we lost power. 

Thankfully we didn't, but we did lose days and days of our trip to Hurricane Sandy. We missed out on going out to a bunch of cool bars; the Empire State building; China town; a play we were going to see, Tribes; a show by Amy Poelher's comedy club the Upright Citizens Brigade, and the Greenwich Village two-million person Halloween Parade. Not that we can complain. It was a thousand-mile wide frankenstorm that killed over 120 people in eight countries and shut down part or all of the subway for, at the time of writing, six days. At least we were safe. The worst we saw was a tree that came down right outside our hotel. 

But we were really lucky to have been in essentially the safest part of New York: the Upper West Side, on high ground, away from the water, and in a little room whose only window looked onto a sheltered alley (away from trees). This is what I continually told concerned friends and family who were seeing footage like this at home:

Basically we went into lockdown for the duration of the storm, watching the hotel's awful movie selection, actually being subjected to the Sex and the City movie and the scenes shot in the library I mentioned in part one. Apart from that it was pretty much 24-hour storm coverage, as you would expect, which actually was a nice reprieve from the constant news reports of stabbings and shootings and other grotesque murders. We actually did the (wildly estimated) maths at some point, and concluded that they actually must be more violent than us, as opposed to just more people equating to more deaths.

Watching so much TV we noticed a lot of differences between theirs and ours, many of which were to do with their ads. I like them! They've all got a gimmick, and usually it's pretty funny. They also say pretty much all their car brand names differently, and every second ad has a celebrity involved somehow, which actually lessens them in your eyes. It makes them seem cheap haha.

We emerged from the hotel on Tuesday, able to roam around safely but bound by the lack of a functioning subway system. We walked a couple of blocks uptown and, to my delight, stumbled upon Tom's Restaurant, of Seinfeld fame, but didn't eat there because only the exterior is from the show and Jill told us the food was awful. Instead we continued on our way and found yet another diner.

 I liked this. 'Let's endure Sandy together.' I wanted to oblige them, but they were really expensive!

Anniversary art and financial difficulties

Wednesday was mine and Til's four-year anniversary and, despite my wishes, we hadn't made a booking at any fancy restaurants, which actually turned out to be lucky for two reasons. One was that the entire island of Manhattan south of 40th street was without power, and that's where we almost definitely would've made any such booking, and the other was that for the past day my Commonwealth Bank Travel Money Card had not been working, so I wouldn't have been able to pay for the meal anyway. I called Commonwealth about it twice and they said the same thing: having technical issues with the network, working on it as a matter of urgency, no information on what the problem is or when it will be fixed. Frustration.

My present to Til, however, was two nights in a nice luxurious hotel suite at the Westin on Times Square. The only problem, with the subway system out, was getting there. Our only choice was a taxi, which was good because I suppose it was an experience, but bad because the roads were PACKED because there was no other way around the city (the next day they made temporary rules allowing you to hail limousines, encouraging people to share cabs, and only letting cars with three or more passengers into the city). So we ended up crawling the seventy or so blocks to Times Square, and paying a buttload.

That same day Til checked the Museum of Modern Art's website, and found that they were reopening. This had been on the top of her list since we arrived, and we feared it wouldn't reopen before we left, so we swooped on the opportunity to spend the day there.

Some performance art.

SO MANY BIG NAMES:

 Henri Rousseau's The Sleeping Gypsy.

All things come back to The Simpsons.

.

Edvard Munch's The Scream. 

See?

Pablo Picasso's The Young Ladies of Avignon.

'And Picasso started out painting realistically, then moved onto cubism. By the end of his life he was just painting crank letters to the editor. They call it his "angry jerk" period.'

Pablo Picasso's Three Musicians.

Salvador Dalí's The Persistence of Memory. 

 Vincent van Gogh's Starry Night.

Claude Monet's Water Lilies.

Joan Miró's The Birth of the World.

Joan Miró's Painting. 

René Magritte's  The Empire of Light, II.

 Vasily Kandinsky's Four Panels for Edwin R Campbell.

Marc Chagall's I and the Village.

Also, some bullshit:

 Til somewhat unimpressed with John McCracken's Think Pink. 

'You mean this hunk of junk? This isn't art. It's just a barbecue that pushed me over the edge. Didn't you? Didn't you, you stupid ...!? Yaaargh!'

It is literally just a plank leaning against a wall, but LISTEN to the ridiculous wank they have come up to justify it:

McCracken began producing his vibrant monochrome "planks" in 1966. While the polished resin surface captures the aesthetic of surfing and car culture unique to Southern California in the 1960s, the title was drawn from advertising slogans in fashion magazines. The work's interaction with both the floor and the wall is meant to call attention to the space occupied in the gallery by both viewer and object. "I see the plank as existing between two worlds," McCracken has said, "the floor representing the world of standing objects, trees, cars, buildings, human bodies, and everything, and the wall representing the world of the imagination, illusionistic painting space, human mental space, and all that."

...

I mean, I'm pretty tolerant of wank. I'm a Creative Writing, English Literatures major ... But this ... this is just ... I don't even ...

Naw, these guys are geniuses. I could never think of something like soup or a pencil.

That night we ended up having dinner in the hotel restaurant, which was nice enough, then going out for dessert and wine. Not the five-star, three-hat experience I had envisioned, but what's to be done? 

Souvenirring

The next day we didn't know what to do. We needed to finish our souvenir shopping which, despite our best efforts to get out of the way early, had still become a last-minute affair due to the combination of a hurricane and Commonwealth Bank's incompetence. I went to have a shower, and when I returned, I announced 'F#%k it. I have a $2,000 overdraft, let's go shopping.' 

So shopping we did, although it was still a nightmare. All Til's dad Ron wanted was a pair of classic Reeboks, which we searched for EVERYWHERE. It turned out the only place you could get them was the Reebok store which was south of 40th street and closed due to lack of power. Thankfully I think we managed to get something for everyone, even if some gifts are a little crappy. 

Proof that we went to the closed Reebok store.

It was weird going south of 40th Street. Post-apocalyptic, even. We were just walking, then all of a sudden we kind of realised there was no one around and no lights, and then buildings were boarded up.

The Extra Classic Bubblegum shelf cleaned out for Amy.

For my siblings I brought back some iconic American candy:

You may remember Junior Mints as the candy that saved the life of Elaine's 'triangle artist' boyfriend Roy when he accidentally dropped one into his open body during surgery. As Kramer says, 'Who's gonna turn down a Junior Mint? It's chocolate, it's peppermint – it's delicious!' 

While Jujyfruits got Elaine into trouble when she stopped to buy some on her way to see her boyfriend at the hospital after hearing he'd been in an accident.

For Mum and Ross I brought back ridiculous amounts of ridiculously cheap alcohol from American duty-free.

'I like to stop at the duty-free shop.'

Last night

That night for our last New York supper we went to Applebee's on Times Square (at 11:00pm; SO AWESOME), where Til had a MEAT FEAST while I cobbled together a pathetic excuse for a meal out of their meagre (incidental) vegetarian offerings, namely a bowl of deep-fried mozzarella sticks, a baked potato with cheese and (shudder) another French onion soup, exactly the same as the last one we had. It was cheese and carbo-lactastic. I think the US has been the biggest challenge I've faced as a vegetarian since I made the switch in April.

When we got back to our apartment, Til pretty much went to bed in order to get up in the morning in time to get ready, pack, and do the last of her souvenir shopping. I, on the other hand, stayed up ridiculously late packing, both to help acclimatise myself to Sydney time and to maximise sleeping-in time in the morning (the Westin has a generous check-out time of 12 noon). This did, however, result in a 3am panic attack when I couldn't find my passport and had to wake Til out of concern. I had just packed ALL my things into my bags, so I knew it wasn't hidden in any of those. I looked under the bed, in the lounge, then started pulling out my immaculately packed bag to look in the pockets of my jackets, jeans and shorts, to no avail. Then I went through the apartment and started looking absolutely everywhere, including places it shouldn't logically be able to be, like in my toiletries bag, behind the toilet, in the lamp, and so on. Thankfully this method proved sound, as I started going through a pile of neatly folded clothes which I thought belonged to Til because I hadn't folded any of my clothes, but it turned out she'd folded a pair of my pants and put them in the pile and it was in the pocket of those pants. SO BASICALLY IT WAS ALL HER FAULT. Haha.

Celebrity hunting

Which brings us our last day. The entire time we'd been waiting desperately to spot a celebrity. I think  that, on our last day, literally as we were on our way to the Port Authority bus terminal to go to our respective airports, I finally saw one. A small celebrity, yes, but I'm 84% sure I saw the black chick from The New Adventures of Old Christine. Wanda Sykes is her name, apparently. (When I got back to Australia I was in a customs queue with Bec and Lleyton Hewitt and their little ones, so I guess that kind of counts too).

A parting travel disaster

We got some breakfast and went to the bus terminal, where we could one of the bus shuttles that supposedly departed every fifteen minutes to Newark for me and JFK for Til. But the signs on the sides of the buses which proclaimed this fifteen-minute waiting time weren't written with Hurricane Sandy conditions in mind. We parted ways at around 1pm and I lined up in a huge line. At around 2:30pm I was starting to get worried, but then I worked out that I'd already checked in and only really needed to be at the airport 45 minutes before my flight at 5:09 for bag check, and it looked like I'd get on the next bus. But I didn't. 

But it was okay, I thought. Now I'd DEFINITELY get on the next bus. I was the tenth person in the queue. Nope. The next bus arrived practically full, and the line stopped just in front of me. I was enraged even more when the dude let these two women cut in front of us for some reason. Probably would've got on if it wasn't for them. But it was okay. Now I really had to get on the next bus; it wouldn't be a problem if it came in the next fifteen minutes as it advertised, and I heard the guy say it would be about 15 minutes. The whole time the queue had been winnowed by attrition to taxis, with people periodically calling out, 'Anyone wanna get a cab?' Every time I wondered if I should or not, but I never did. When 15 minutes elapsed without a bus arriving I definitely thought I should've. Now I went over and asked how long. 'About 10 to 15 minutes', was the infuriating reply. 

The queue.

I had started talking to the girl next to me, a pre-med student at Columbia flying back home to Ohio. She counselled me, 'If the bus doesn't arrive by 3:30, you should get a cab.' I did the maths. 45 minutes before 5:09pm is 4:24pm and it takes 40 minutes to get from the bus station to the airport, so I needed to leave by 3:44pm. It checked out. Thankfully the bus left at 3:35pm, but I don't think I even realised that I was so stressed that I'd miss the plane. 

I realised when we arrived at the airport that I'd probably be okay, but was still concerned about how long it would take to check my bag and get through security, so I was still in a huge rush. When I weighed my bag the woman told me I'd have to lose 3 kg or it'd cost me $200. TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS ARE YOU EFFING KIDDING ME!? But I was too stressed and I had no alternative. If I had've arrived earlier I could've bought some carry-on luggage for $40 and shifted stuff out of my main bag into there, but I didn't have the luxury of time. Hell, I could've bought a carry-on bag for $140 and still come out better off. It's so f#!%ing ridiculous that they would charge you that much. It's still the same amount of weight going onto the plane whether it's all in one bag or distributed into two bags, what the hell is the difference, you bastards!? 

And just in case you're wondering what put me three kilos over, it was my souvenirs. So if you get a souvenir from me, count yourself lucky I didn't just pull it all out of my bag and start distributing it to random strangers to avoid the $200 fee. You can probably add about twenty dollars to the value of whatever I got you, too. 

And you know what? I blame the stupid American imperial system, the only stupid country in the world besides like, Myanmar that doesn't use the metric system. I'm pretty sure the Aussie woman who checked me in on the way over let me on three kilos over (I had all those Aussie books I was giving to my English friends with me) because she was probably like, 'Meh, it's only three kilos.' But in POUNDS that's like SIX POUNDS. Oh, sir, I'm afraid you're SIX POUNDS OVER. SIIIIIIX so you must payyyyyy!' 

Thank god in the end I got to the airport terminal about ten minutes before boarding and could finally go to the toilet and expel the urine I had been holding onto in line for FOUR HOURS. 

I had a pleasant flight from New York to San Francisco 'cause I made sure to get myself a seat right at the back of the plane by the window in an empty row. There was no free TV on the plane, but I was writing this blog the whole time and reading Cloud Atlas during take-off and landing, so I didn't mind. But my luck did not continue. I was supposed to board my flight from San Francisco to Sydney at 9:50pm West Coast time. It ended up being more around 12:30am. Apparently there was some issue with temperature control on the plane so they had to get us another one. I also strategically selected my seat in a row with two spare seats in it for this flight but, alas, they were filled.

It had been a fantastic trip, first reuniting with friends in England, then breaking new ground in New York. What an amazing city. There really is nothing else like it. We can't wait to go back and do what we missed out on 'cause of Sandy.

Thanks for reading!

New york city (part two of four)

Cycling central park

The next morning, a sunny Sunday, we went out and hired a pair of bikes to ride around in Central Park, one of the activities that had been on the top of my list ever since Amy told me she did it back home. 

Making strides

This Sunday happened to be the day of the massive 'Making Strides' charity walk in aid of breast cancer, with thousands of people marching through the park bedecked in pink. It was sort of annoying because they took up so much of the roads to which we were supposed to be confined, and I have complex feelings about breast cancer charities and events as it is, and they were also so obnoxiously American, cheering themselves on and being cheered on by volunteers chanting, 'Go walkers, go walkers!' 

Charity walkers in the distance.

But it was also a spectacle, and it was really heartwarming to see some of the women with 'Breast Cancer Survivor – eleven years' being cheered and having a moment of recognition and solidarity. 

Art and entertainment in the park

For breakfast we went to a kiosk in the middle of the park on the water, eating on some benches, too anxious to go into the restaurant area with or without our bikes. We then went down the 'literary walk', watched over by statues of literary luminaries from throughout history. I love this. Further to what I was saying in my last post about a culture that values literature, I was struck by literature's place in the park. It seems to have been given an uncommon significance. On top of the literary walk, there's a Shakespeare garden where different flowers are accompanied by quotes about those flowers from different Shakespeare plays and sonnets, as well as a number of other statues of famous children's writers. 

The Alice's Adventures in Wonderland sculpture, always too covered in children to get a clear photo.

Hans Christian Andersen memorial.

Shakespeare garden.

And further to what I was saying about walking around and seeing places you've heard about or seen in media, this effect was especially pronounced in Central Park, where I caught glimpses of places I'd seen in heaps of movies like Balto and The Time Machine. 

Balto.

At the end of the Literary Walk we found a crowd gathered around a troupe of black guys chanting hypnotially, led by one guy whose proclamations would be met by rehearsed responses from the rest. This was the first of many such performances we would see, all the same and all culminating in a group of three or four onlookers being leapt over by one of the performers. 

One of the performers mid-leap.

Bike repairs

Most of the time during the day for some reason, I would be some way ahead of Til on the bike, then stop and wait for her to catch up. At one point I crested a hill and rode down the other side, then stopped to wait there and she didn't come. I waited for ages until I started to worry she'd had a crash, then went back the other way to find she was walking her bike on the side of the road. The chain had come off. 

I set to getting it back on, but it was jammed and I was a little hesitant to pull too hard and wreck it. Next thing a woman in full pro cyclist regalia rode past and offered assistance, which Til accepted. She eventually managed to yank it out and place it back on the gears before setting off, but as soon as I got on to test it the chain slipped off again and got even more jammed. It was really, really stuck, but I eventually managed it, after casting my man-bracelets off in frustration and resigning myself to grease-blackened hands. 

This is after I cleaned them.

Park memorials

At this point we were looping back over territory we'd already covered on the way to breakfast, but we'd missed some things in our haste to eat, like the John F Kennedy and Jackie Onassis Memorial Reservoir and the John Lennon memorial in Strawberry fields: 

Memorial resevoir.

Squirrel on the way to Strawberry Fields.

Lennon memorial.

And after all that we were about ready for lunch, so we completed the same circuit and came back to the kiosk for soup and fries. 

The lost bracelets and ev'rythin' after

It was after lunch when Til was content to laze in the sun and digest for a time that I remembered my man-bracelets! I'd forgotten to pick them up after I threw them on the ground while fixing Til's bike. It didn't really matter, I supposed. I'm not that attached to them, although it's nice having one from Australia before I left for exchange (the lone survivor of many I set out with), and one from one of those 'string men' in Paris, who just start tying it to you without your consent, telling you it will make you a 'segs masheen' and then ask you to pay them ten euro for the service. But they would just be sitting there, I knew whereabouts, and I didn't want to rest, so I thought I'd just do that same circuit once again to retrieve them and duck straight back. 

How wrong I was. 

Somehow, although this was the third or fourth time I'd done the circuit, I missed the turn-off. It was okay, because it was just a wider loop than I needed to do, but it was a MUCH wider loop, and HALF of it was ENTIRELY UPHILL, and I'd already been riding ALL DAY. So I was not happy. But I was successful in retrieving the bracelets after a few go-overs of the approximate vicinity I dropped them in – they're mostly brown, green, red and yellow, which do not make for easy finding against all the 'byootiful fawl culler' (an expression Til and I have taken to repeating in exaggerated American accents). 

But this was only the beginning of my trials. Having retrieved what I sought, I thought it would probably be easier/quicker to go back in the direction I came rather than completing the full circuit again to get back to where Tilly was. It had taken me AGES to get there, but I thought that was only because I'd missed the turnoff and gone the wrong way. Surely it'd be quicker if I took the right turnoff. 

Well, no. It turns out my anticipation of distance was way the hell off, I think because the previous times we'd done the loop we hadn't really been trying to get anywhere, so it hadn't felt as long as it was. It turned out it would take me AGES to get back and I would've been MUCH better off seeing out the full circuit which would've been mostly downhill. 

But off I set, unaware of this fact. There seemed to be an inordinate amount of bike traffic coming towards me, and it was hard to carve out a lane where I wouldn't collide with anyone. I tried to stick to the right but people weren't getting out of the way, so at one point I had to veer out into the middle where there was a gap. The gap, however, was soon to be filled by a very aggressive and obsessive-looking cyclist, who yelled 'What the fuck are you doing!?' at me as he turned sharply to avoid me. 

'Ask all these people on the wrong side of the road!' I felt like shooting back over my shoulder. But lucky I didn't, because it was then that I started to wonder if this might be a one-way road. Surely not! I thought. Surely I would've noticed by now, the third time I had ridden it, if no one was ever coming in the opposite direction. Surely they wouldn't designate a road big enough for two car lanes as well as two bike lanes a one-way road! What would be the point? 

No, and stop calling me Shirley. 

But then I saw a one-way sign and my worst fears were confirmed. Til was probably already wondering what the hell was taking me so long; I was too far gone to turn back and do the whole circuit the other way, so I had to endure dirty looks the entire way back to where I left her. Oh, the shame. 

Leaving the park

Next we sat by the boatpond (from Stuart Little, might I add) and I consoled myself while Til lined up in an absurd bathroom queue. It was nearly time to leave, and in my determination not to do that god damned circuit AGAIN I led us to some obscure corner of the park miles from where we needed to be, and we ended up having to anyway. But it was still a beautiful day. One of the best things we did. 

Liberty and ellis islands

We had saved Liberty and Ellis Islands for Monday in the hopes of avoiding ridiculous queues, to no avail, although it was probably still better than if we had've gone on the weekend.

Enjoying some of the local cuisine for breakfast while in the queue.

A very small part of the gargantuan queue. And a guy in the foreground wondering why I'm taking his picture.

Korean war memorial near the queue on which our flag is displayed prominently ... 

An evocative monument to dock workers.

Photographic tactics

On the ferry, we rushed up to the exposed top deck hoping to get a good spot from which to photograph Lady Liberty (along with everybody else). Up top, everyone was filling the seats on the port side of the boat which was facing the statue. However, using only the powers of observation and deduction, I was able to conclude that in the act of turning towards the statue, it would be starboard that would afford us the best view! And afford us it did – we went a bit crazy getting pictures from every angle and distance possible, and now we could make quite a good little flipbook of the whole approach. 

The fools on port as viewed from our superior position on starboard.

Lady Liberty.

Out of a bad sitcom/movie: Luke and Tilly in the Big City!

There wasn't much to see or do on Liberty Island apart from take photos with the statue. We also got some snaps of the cool statues that commemorate the donors who funded the Statue of Liberty project, which is actually a really interesting story, full of interesting historical figures. We had lunch with a beautiful view of the bay, though, and I had my first bad American soup experience (all of which were all the more traumatic for having just come from the delicious soups of England). It was basically just a bowl of cheese sauce. Yugh. 

From sea to shining sea.

Statues.

Lunch.

A short dialogue between norway and america

Oh, and of course we mustn't forget the most exciting part of all, the chunk of copper from the mine where the material for the statue was quarried, given as a gift from Norway to the USA and plonked unceremoniously in a random corner of the island.

You can really imagine the scene: 

NORWAY: Here you go, America, I got you this! 

AMERICA: Oh gee thanks, Norway. You shouldn't have … Uhhh. What is it? 

NORWAY: It's a chunk of copper from the mine where the material comprising the Statue of Liberty was mined! 

AMERICA: Ohhhh … Wow, it's what I always wanted. I'll just stick this ... Here. 

More like meh-llis island

Next up was the utterly pointless Ellis Island, the site of a former immigration centre which now calls itself a museum, although they have no artifacts or items of interest … It's basically just a bunch of large panels with information about American immigration history on them which you walk around reading. Interesting, but you might as well be reading a history textbook. And yet Tilly insisted upon reading them all and then got cranky at me 'cause I rushed her through. 

The best part of Ellis Island: leaving.

Election fever

That night we went to dinner at Michelin-star vegetarian restaurant Dovetail and had an incredible four-course meal, then headed to the Library Bar in the Hudson Hotel to watch the third and final presidential debate while sipping appropriately themed cocktails – the 'Donkey' and the 'Mint Romney'. 

It was cool to be in New York in the lead-up to the election. There was constant, no, incessant discussion about it in the news and on TV, and people selling Obama 'merchandise' out on the street (we both bought an Obama badge as a souvenir and to show our support for the only sensible option).

From an outside perspective and even in America before the campaign commenced, it always seemed obvious that Obama would win again. There was a sense that Mitt Romney wasn't enough of a challenger to oust him. But being there for the run-up to the election it became clear how the media machine makes it a contest. From a distance it is clear, but when you get up close, you're constantly being presented with two options which are offered as equally valid or possible. The media has a spot to spare for a credible challenger, and whether the nominee is credible or not, their occupation of that spot eventually makes them one. 

Thank god Obama won, though.

Til looking stunning on the way back from the bar.

The Met

The next day was poor weather again, so it was off to another museum, this time the colossal Metropolitan Museum of Art, where I was blown away by the Egyptian wing. In all the major world museums I've been to so far in London and Paris and so on, I'd been sniffing about desperately for a skerrick about the eighteenth dynasty ancient Egyptian pharaoh queen Hatshepsut, who was one of my favourite topics in year twelve Ancient History. Well it turned out the Metropolitan Museum of Art had been the museum that carried out the excavations at Hatshepshut's mortuary temple Deir el Bahari, where the 'Hatshepshut hole' full of her defaced statuary was discovered. Consequently, they had an entire ROOM of Hatshepsut statues, as well as extensive collections from the reign of Hatshepsut's co-ruler Thutmosis III and the infamous iconoclast Akhenaten. Here I got my retribution on Til for reading all the immigration museum panels by reading every single panel in these rooms, and by taking a hundred thousand photos.

On the way to the museum: catchy street name.

With Hatshepsut.

My favourite statue of her, striking a balance between feminine features and standard pharaonic regalia and physiognomy.

But apart from having a lot of space dedicated to all my favourite pharaohs, the Met was just generally a really good museum (the ethics of plundering the historical artifacts of other nations aside). They had about three entire actual Egyptian tombs you could walk through, one of them situated in a massive chamber, surrounded by a moat and various Egyptian statues. 

A remarkibly expressive Egyptian statue. Almost looks like an emoticon.

A sign in the sculpture section explained that it had just undergone a reorganisation to appeal to the interest of modern audiences, and I think they really succeeded. It was like walking through the stone garden in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe: it really evoked a sense of wonder and allowed you to appreciate each sculpture individually as you made your way through. 

Randolph Rogers' Nydia, the Blind Flower Girl of Pompeii

We also spent a lot of time admiring the swords, armor and weaponry 'cause that shit is cool, and the Met has an unrivalled selection. 

We got to see loads of paintings and sculptures, both famous and beautiful, as well as a really cool Andy Warhol exhibit comparing his works to those of other artists to accentuate his seminal influence on later artists. 

Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres's Princess de Broglie. I can't believe the dress! 

 Comte Prosper d'Épinay's Sappho.

Jules Bastien-Lepage's Joan of Arc.

Auguste Rodin's The Thinker.

Claude Monet's The Houses of Parliament (Effect of Fog). We also saw another one of these in the Musee D'Orsay in Paris.

Henry Lerolle's The Organ Rehearsal

Jules Joseph Lefebvre's Graziella.

Warhol's silver balloons and cow wallpaper.

Outside the Met once it had closed, we were sitting on the steps resting our feet before the trek back to our hostel through Central Park when a saxophonist began playing energetically in front of the crowd of people also on the steps, running up and down the pavement while playing. At first I groaned to Til because he was demanding our attention and we'd have to clap when he finished songs or it'd be awkward, but he soon won me over with his rendition of the Chinese national anthem (on request by a bunch of patriotic Chinese tourists) and of Beyonce's 'Single Ladies', replete with a parody of that stupid hand movement that all girls were obsessed with for a while after the song came out ('It's so cool, I love that hand thing she does!' *Fails at replicating said hand movement*). So long story short, I gave him all my change. All my infuriating American change. They don't have big numbers on them like ours, so you have to search for ages for the value, and once you find it its not a number value – it's a stupid word like 'nickel' or 'dime' or 'quarter', so the actual value of the money is at one further remove, AND of course they still make ridiculous one and two cent pieces. 

9/11 memorial

On Wednesday we went to the very emotional Ground Zero memorial, which is still under construction. It's a really good memorial, I think, aptly (if unsubtly) named 'Reflecting Absence'. It's essentially two giant holes in the ground over the foundations of the former World Trade Center, into which rushes water, which then disappears into a central void. The use of negative space rather than a penetrative, upward-oriented monument is always good for loss, and the use of water of course evokes both tears and healing. Ringing each of the pools are metallic boards featuring the names of those who died in the September 11 and 1993 attacks, thankfully devoid of defacement or graffiti, and touchingly arranged in 'meaningful adjacencies' in response to requests from family and friends. The victims of each crashed flight and each building are displayed together, but each name is also placed near the names of close colleagues and friends, which I find really touching. Each name is also given a great deal of space, emphasising the humanity of each of them, and consequently the scale of the tragedy as you circumnavigate each pool and the list of names continues relentlessly on. Nothing like the war memorials with hundreds of names listed so closely together you can't even read them in depersonalised alphabetical order.

One WTC disappearing into the clouds.

The survivor tree. 

One thing that made us cringe was people getting photos in front of the pools and smiling, turning it into just one more tourist attraction to be ticked off the list. Of course, that's what it is in some ways, but I think you really need to go there to pay your respects and be solemn and reflect …  

After that we went for a walk down Wall Street feeling a bit depressed, then stopped in a diner for lunch, where we had our second soup fail. We both ordered French onion soup and were disappointed to be served tiny little bowls, only half full of watery, tasteless soup hidden beneath a thoroughly sodden chunk of bread (perhaps Tilly's greatest food phobia) and a congealed mass of mozzarella cheese. It was pretty foul. 

American mexican

'Oh, this shall keep me safe from the hot Mexican sun.'

Luckily that night we were in for finer fare, when we met up with our friend Jill, a New Jersey–born New Yorker who we met on a tour and went for lunch with when we were in Berlin last year. She'd seen we were headed for New York on Facebook and suggested we meet up, so we met her and her boyfriend Ben near their very impressive campus at Columbia university where they study Law, and went for dinner at their hidden-gem, authentic Mexican restaurant, the location or name of which I cannot divulge on pain of death. 

We spent a lot of time discussing the things people from different countries discuss; you know, American politics, accents, languages, travel stories, etc guacamole they make right in front of you and incredible quesadillas. And on top of that, Jill offered to take us to a bona fide American Halloween Party that Saturday, which we were stoked for. It'd been long enough since we'd been to a house party, aside from the fact that it was an actual US Halloween Party! 

The west village

The next day we didn't leave the hotel until night-time, 'cause we needed time to plan the rest of our trip. Up until then we'd been leaving the hotel every morning and not returning until the night, too exhausted to accomplish anything. Once everything was sorted we went to dinner at a legendary falafel place across town and ended up going on an epic wander through the trendy West Village. Here we saw the apartment block they used for the external shots in Friends, to Til's delight, as well as a monument to gay and lesbian rights in a tiny triangular park. 

Before                                                After

An amusing ad.

Friends!

We kept wandering until we came to a bigger park full of people where the energy was almost frenetic. I loved this about New York – there are always people around, even in a random park late at night. We just hung out on the rim of this dry fountain talking, people-watching and eavesdropping on people's conversations. 

On the way back to the subway station Tilly was desperately craving gelato, and it seemed all hope was lost because we were upon the station, but then we miraculously spotted one and went in.

A comedy of salads

Very late that night once we were back at home and Til was already asleep, I was overtaken by ravenous hunger, having a craving myself for a salad sandwich, possibly because they form a staple of my diet back home and my diet had comprised exceptionally few vegetables since leaving Australia. So off I went once again to the wondrously 24-hour Westside Market, where I hoped to procure such a delight. 

I hovered past the in-store deli a few times, trying to decide whether it closed after a certain time or not, when I finally worked up the courage to interrupt the guys talking behind the counter and ask. 

'Nah sorry, it's closed', he said. 

'Closed, okay that's cool', I said, going to leave. 

'Just kidding', he said, and asked me what I was after. 

'I just want a sandwich with like, salad and cheese', I answered. 

'Salad and cheese? Okay, we can do that', he chirped. 'You vegetarian?' he asked. I told him I was and he said he tried it, but he went cold turkey instead of phasing it out like you're s'posed to and couldn’t stick to it. 

'You saw what they did to the animals, right?'

'Yeah'. 

'Yeah, it's no good', he said. 

I watched as he started to pile on lettuce leaf after lettuce leaf. And then slice after slice of cheese. Slice after slice after slice. 

As he kept layering he said, 'So you really enjoy just salad and cheese?' 

'Yeah!' I said, 'If it’s done right! We’ll wait and see when you’re done.' 

We laughed and he put the lid of the roll on and went to cut it when I realised there may have been a bit of cultural misunderstanding. 

'Wait', I said. 'When I say "salad", does that mean …? In Australia that would mean like, all vegetables, not just lettuce.' 

He laughed again and assured me I could have all the vegetables I liked. Now I saw why he was so incredulous that I just wanted 'salad' and cheese. 

Just look at the motherflipping stratigraphy on this bad boy. That's like, NINE layers of cheese!

(To be continued).