nyc2001

The New York Journal

Friday: Turbulence

Air travel isn't as exciting for me as it used to be. Although I still get a thrill from take-off (once we're in the air I discover I'm wearing a wide smile from the enjoyment of the sensation), other than that it's becoming something I take as a normal part of life; even though it's four years since I last flew, on my last trip to America. I discover that turbulence strong enough for the captain to light the seatbelt sign doesn't prevent me from dozing off. Being in the airport was boring and I wasn't even anxious about the taxi turning up on time at 7.15 this morning because I'd allowed a suitable safety margin.

I've been looking forward to returning to New York for years, though naturally my excitement was tempered a month ago by the attack on the World Trade Center. The five thousand dead and disfigured skyline must make the atmosphere in the city rather sombre at the moment. I find myself unworried by the warnings of further attacks. I'd like to think I'm being brave in the face of terrorism but really it's more because statistics must be on my side, plus I've really never feared death. I'm going to die. The only thing that makes me fearful is the effect my death would have on those I love.

The only afterlife I believe in is that of dependent origination, the ripples spreading out from a stone dropped into a pond, the effects on those I've met or communicated with. I'm reminded of the ripples in a cup of coffee caused by turbulence in the plane on our flight back from the US last time, the turbulence which so scared Steve. After the flight, on the train journey home, I pointed out that the train vibrates more than the plane did. He has no sense of proportion, though I can see why he's concerned about my safety in New York.

The food on Air India is as good as I'd heard, though the attendants aren't particularly attentive given that the plane is only a third full, I can't hear the announcements, and the lights for my seat and the two empty ones beside me don't work. So not full marks overall. Amazingly, there's no queue at all for immigration and within 20 minutes of landing I'm walking out of JFK International Arrivals with my luggage, sniffling from the effect of spending 8 hours in the dry atmosphere of a plane then walking out into 20 degrees and high humidity.

I get to Phil's apartment without trouble and discover there are already three messages for me on the answerphone. I bathe first (Phil has my favourite Badedas bath gel - he has such good taste), then stroll to the Associated grocery store round the corner for breakfast essentials. I notice that they give you plastic bags now, not paper like last time, a touchingly american detail, I felt. Truly the world is homogenising. I chat to the concierge about how to make international phone calls, but he doesn't know, and the security guard only knows how to call Jamaica.

I manage to stay awake for a little while - it's supposed to be the best way to get over the time difference - then crash out by 9pm.

Saturday: Chilling Out

I wake to find my body insisting it's mid-morning and definitely can't sleep any more, but the luminous orange glow of the venetian blind tells me it's actually dawn. This turns out to be the case, just after 7am, but perversely nearly lunchtime in the UK. I start the day feeling irriated with my body clock but feel better once I get coffee (I forgot to buy any last night, but luckily Phil has some).

I put the air conditioning on (at breakfast!) and feel I'm beginning to adapt. Phil phones to say he's coming over to pick me up in 20 minutes. I wait outside for an hour in the cool autumn sunshine. When he eventually arrives it turns out that the whole of Brooklyn Heights is gridlocked due to the bridges being closed (they fear terrorists bombing them).

We drop by Phil's parents' house in Flushing and he shows me the house next door (where he grew up) which they're renovating. We take his father to the dentist, and on the way he tells me about his time in England in 1943-50 or so. He arrived on a convoy into Liverpool then went to study engineering at Imperial College. He speaks slowly and haltingly, but it's well worth the effort of listening. Phil and I walk around the area (everything closed for the Jewish sabbath), then we take his father to the bank. I buy a Coke while I wait.

We return Phil's father and go for dim sum, at a completely vegetarian chinese restaurant in Flushing. We have lots of nice dishes but both like the faux beef rib meat best.

Next we drive over to the apartment of Phil's partner Jonathan, and relax with a coffee. We talk about terrorism and the euro. When I'm feeling rested we drive out towards Long Beach for shopping. I pick up a PCMCIA modem for much less than it would be in the UK, plus some other bits and pieces from Century 21.

We eat at a vegetarian restaurant in Jonathan's neigbourhood, then go back to Brooklyn for cheesecake (very nice) at a restaurant which is apparently famous, but I'm too tired by this point to take much in including the name. I pay and get confused between quarters and dollar coins.

They drop me off opposite the apartment. Despite being so tired I install the PCMCIA modem and make sure linux can talk to it before crashing out well after midnight.

Sunday: Meet The Folks Day

I wake after 8 this time. The sky is a dull grey. I'm feeling tired and plan a long bath, but only get 5 minutes before Phil phones. I grab another 5 minutes before going out to meet him. I also call Adam to arrange to meet later.

We drive through Brooklyn in the crazy traffic for a while, then go back to Phil's parents' house. This time we stay for several hours while Phil dashes around doing administrative and household jobs including fixing his dad's laser printer and mowing the grass. I chat to his mother, who was a medic for 50 years, but who is terribly fearful about the Anthrax attacks (several people have been sent spores in the post, and one or two have confirmed cases). She even refused to go to her hairdresser's yesterday because of it. It's rather sad. When I'm doing something else with Phil I overhear his parents talking to each other. They both switch from Chinese to English and back every few sentences.

We all (including the housekeeper) have a good meal from the local takeaway then almost immediately Phil and I leave, as Phil has to get back home to Wilmington urgently. But first he drops me off at Adam's over in Howard Beach.

Adam is looking very different to 4 years ago, his back problem and circulation problem complicated by serious water retention, which he's about to start treatment for. Nevertheless there's still a sparkle in his eye and his long hair has been blond, which is now growing out and showing outrageous amounts of dark roots. We catch up a bit and his mother asks me to remember her to Kay. Then I push Adam in his wheelchair round to a new local patisserie and we chat for a long time over a good columbian coffee. I push him round what passes for a park, and his old elementary school, then back home. He shows me his new computer (well over twice as powerful as my home PC) and we talk more and smooch a little. He's still very much the same Adam as I've known for 9 years or so.

I take my leave and get into the minicab as dusk falls, to go to Rockaway Boulevard train station. The A train whisks me back to Jay Street and I look around for somewhere to eat on the way back to the flat, but nowhere grabs me.

I have a proper, long bath and after some indecision decide I'm not hungry enough to eat out anyway. I have some cereal and spend several hours trying to make ppp work over my new modem, without success. The documentation is out of date compared to the kernel, and perhaps so is pppd. I give up and turn in soon after 11.

Monday: Shopping Overload

I wake early again, with the dawn shining through the almost-closed venetian blind, making vivid orange stripes on the wall at the head of the Murphy bed. Over the space of a few minutes, the stripes widen and turn from orange to sunny yellow, and the noise of traffic, horns and sirens seems to double, as though someone was turning the city's volume control up. I notice my stubbly chin silhouetted in the exactly horizontal light, and throwing off the sheet see the banana-like shape of my morning erection similarly silhouetted. I indulge in some shadow play before getting up.

I shower and drink several cups of coffee from a Diagnostic Imaging Associated mug over breakfast, watching a mile-long tailback crawling towards Manhattan Bridge. I'm feeling more cheerful today. Amazing what difference some sunshine can make. I decide the best way to enjoy New York is to walk over to Manhattan, get some culture this morning and some shopping in this afternoon.

I walk across Brooklyn Bridge and discover it's a rather breezy day. Last time I took this walk, four years ago, I turned right and wandered up through chinatown, but today I bear left to the financial district. A strange smell pervades the area, sour and dusty. From time to time tiny pieces of grit get into my eyes. Morbidly, I consider that there could be human ashes amongst the dust of the World Trade Center. There are tourists visiting 'Ground Zero' as the americans call it (pretty ironic, it seems to me, coming from the only nation ever to actually drop atomic bombs on people), taking pictures of each other in front of the ruins. Part of the outer wall of one of the towers is still stubbornly standing, a few tens of metres high. Shocking to think of it once being a small, unnoticed piece of a tower block over a hundred stories high, with tens of thousands of people inside. I hope they leave it as a monument, though I bet they won't.

I want to sit and rest in Battery Park for a while, to take stock of what I've seen, but I discover it's been requisitioned by the army. Instead I go and sit in Au Bon Pain and have a very good croissant (but not hot - you're not allowed to have a plain croissant hot apparently) and excellent french roast coffee. I'm reminded how much I like New York.

I try to take the 5 train to 51st Street to go to the Museum of Modern Art, but it turns out not to stop there and goes on to 59th. Consequently I walk around a lot window-shopping (resisting temptation in Bloomingdale's, in particular) and end up needing lunch urgently by the time I get there. I therefore start off in the 'Sette MoMA', the museum's restaurant with strong Italian pretensions.

Sitting on the terrace, I have an excellent lunch of lettuce hearts in gorgonzola dressing, followed by tuna steaks rolled in sesame seeds with just a hint of ginger, lightly fried and amazingly tender. They are doing some construction work down in the sculpture garden, and construction noises echo loudly around amongst the buildings as though at the bottom of a deep valley. Sipping my espresso, I look across West 54th Street at an old brick building - the sort that had to get narrower as they get taller - between two much taller skyscrapers. I'm not sure there is anything good to be said for the tower block style made possible by reinforced concrete.

I wander through the MoMA, and am delighted with a four-panel Kandinsky that I hadn't seen before. The permanent collection is much scaled down during the building work, but there is a large and impressive exhibition of Alberto Giacometti's work, just the kind of thing that the MoMA does so well.

I spend too much in the bookshop, then wander off up Madision and Lexington avenues looking in the posh shops. I buy very reasonably priced 501s in the Levi's shop. Then I take the S train down to Herald Square. I look in Macey's and am irritated with how poorly signed it is. You'd think the world's largest department store would have proper store guides. I leave without buying anything. I wander round the area until after dark, looking in at least a dozen shoe shops without finding what I want. I buy a few other things but no shoes. Finally I head back home on the A train to High Street Brooklyn Bridge. My back hurts from carrying shopping around all afternoon and my feet are understandably sore. A bath helps.

I decide, finally, not to make the trip up to Boston I've been dithering about for nearly a week. I brought warm clothes and everything, but ultimately if I tried to do that, I'd end up with not enough time in Boston and not enough in New York either.

Tuesday: Observing

I sleep later. Steve calls before my shower. After breakfast, I decide to go to the NY Transport Museum, which is not far away in Brooklyn. Walking around, I discover there's a lively plaza close by. Beyond Borough Hall, I find Brooklyn very reminiscent of most of London: drab shops, cracked pavements, gutters overflowing with Litter. When I eventually find the Transport Museum, it turns out to be closed for renovation.

I spend a long time browsing in a Barnes and Noble, buy one book then go back to the apartment for a rest and lunch. I take it easy for a while before heading back to the subway. The A train takes me quickly uptown, then I transfer to the local C to take me up to Cathedral Parkway. I'm intrigued that there's a cathedral dedicated to St. John; I've never heard of one anywhere else. Inside, there is pretty much no reference to his Revelation. As one would expect, I suppose. The stained glass is pretty stunning, though. All the side chapels are open, which never seems to be the case in European cathedrals. There is a National AIDS Memorial, and a thirtyish chap marches up to it in front of me, kneels at the prayer rail and starts praying, almost audibly. Afterwards, I sit in an adjacent sculpture park and try to photograph the squirrels.

To save walking, I get the subway half-way back down Central Park, then head into the park. I stroll through an area called The Ramble, and sit for a while on the edge of a lake in the warm sunshine. Other men sit here and there nearby. As I leave, I notice a latino-looking guy with glossy long curly hair stripping off his shirt to sunbathe on a rock. I'm reminded that there is a gay New York that I haven't even dipped my toe in yet this trip.

Wandering further down the park, I see three japanese wedding parties in quick succession (complete with cameramen), all the brides and all the grooms dressed identically. Where does this strong drive for total conformity come from? Near the Bethesda Bridge I see a group of under-10s being taught to rollerblade by an adult. He rollerblades backwards while tutoring them. Then I find an open space, the Sheep Field, and lie down in it for a rest. I lie and watch the people around me until the long shadow of a tower block moves round, sundial-like, and threatens to put me in the shade. I get up and head for the south-west corner of the park.

There I find Columbus Circle, a plaza with a fountain which seems to me to have a somewhat European air. There are pigeons and people selling pictures of NYC (most featuring the World Trade Center). I sit on the edge of the fountain, a good place to peoplewatch, like under the display board in a station, because people tend to stand facing towards you. Then I have a mocha, and head down the subway to get the A train back to Brooklyn.

There are three trends I've noticed so far about NYC as compared to the UK: 1. Far fewer mobile phone users, at least in public. 2. Poor signage (on the roads, on the subways, in shops, in parks, everywhere). 3. Most dogs seem to have longer, narrower heads here.

I have a bath and relax for a couple of hours before going out again. I take the A train to West 4th and wander through the edges of Greenwich Village, amongst the bright lights and crowds of 6th Avenue, looking for somewhere to eat. I feel slightly sad and lonely. I realise it's a long time since the days of singledom when I used to eat out alone all the time, and learned to like it. Now I feel out of place and conscious of how old my greying hair makes me look.

I pick a cafe-bar and start to feel better at the prospect of some good food. The starter is good, a salad with sundried tomatoes and big slices of smoked cheese, though the vinaigrette is perhaps a little too sharp, and the glass of sauvignon blanc I have with it very over-chilled. Since I'm here to watch the world go by as much as eat, I take my time, but the kitchen isn't having it and sends out my main course before I've finished my salad. This is crab meat in large black pasta parcels, with whole shrimps in an marseillaise sauce - very nice. I skip dessert and leave once I've finished off my second glass of wine.

I had been planning a stroll through the Village after my meal, but it has started to rain and the crowds have vanished. I decide to leave it for another night and go home to bed.

Wednesday: Indulgence

I wake later than ever and take a long time over breakfast and deciding what to do today. It's late morning by the time I take to the subway. I ride the A train almost the whole length of Manhattan island, up to 190th Street. A lift (complete with a person whose job it appears to be to press the up and down buttons) takes you up to the surface, and a signpost for the Cloisters points in to Fort Tryon Park. Here you are confronted with a maze of twisty paths, all alike. With patience you can find your way through to a maze of twisty paths, all different. There are no further signs to the Cloisters of course.

The building itself, if you can find it, is pleasantly proportioned, high above the Hudson River. The way in isn't signed either, you just enter by whichever of two doors you find first. The first part of the museum is perhaps the oddest I've ever seen. Pieces of European monasteries, mostly early mediaeval, such as doorways have been grafted onto a neutral modern building. The effect is weird, at least if you have visited real, whole European monasteries. Still, it's well done and I enjoy the rest of the collection. There is fine stained glass and I particularly like the unicorn tapestries.

As I leave, it's well after 1pm and I'm hungry so I don't linger in Fort Tryon Park, though it would bear some lingering, perhaps more so in summer (today is windier and colder than recently). I hurry back to the subway and ride downtown to West 4th.

Lunch is a lovely veggie wrap called "The Chauncy Gardner" and orange juice. I spend the rest of the afternoon shopping amongst the cut-price CD shops and gift shops of the East Village centred around Stonewall Place. I buy Steve a T-shirt with rainbow dogs on it and am sorely tempted to buy one for myself that says:

JESUS IS COMING

look busy

I buy little else but enjoy lots and lots of browsing. At the end of the afternoon I return to the flat thinking of having a quiet evening in. I relax, chat to Adam on the phone and have a bath, but end up thinking why waste valuable time in New York? Get out there and live it up! So I dress smartly and go out on the subway again.

I ride to 14th Street, then walk to 13th where I find Cafe Loup, which is mentioned in my guide book. Unlike last night, I feel immediately at home. The ambience is great, nearly full of people and with unobtrusive background music. It helps that I get the gay waiter. I have escargots and gateaux de crabe with homemade chips, both very good, and an interesting blend of French and American cuisine - the flavours are as subtle and interesting as in France, but the snails come with cheese and the crab cake is enormous. Nevertheless I eat the lot, as much for something to do as anything. I accompany it with a pichet of sauvignon blanc, which unlike last night's is beautifully crisp and perfectly cool, and as good quality as I'd buy at home. This too is huge - I was expecting a half litre but it appears to be a whole bottle's worth. I drink most of it. I have a plate of mixed cookies for dessert, with the intention of doggie-bagging them. As I'm sitting nibbling them, I have a conversation with a gay couple who're on their way out: "All those cookies, just for you?" "I think I'll be taking some of them home." "Are you splurging?" "I guess so." "Oh well, I'm sure you're worth it." There's no getting away from it, eating out alone is unusual. But tonight I'm back in the mindset for enjoying it and having it highlighted doesn't bother me.

I travel back to the flat feeling surprisingly alert after so much wine, watch a naughty DVD as I sober up, and crash out around 01.30.

Thursday: Sightseeing

I sleep badly, and the morning traffic noise doesn't help, but I manage to sleep until 10.45, so a full night's sleep. I'm still feeling bloated after last night so I don't eat breakfast, just drink coffee. I shower, pop out to the corner shop, and wonder what to do today.

Eventually I settle on 42nd Street and take the subway. I walk east from 8th Avenue, first coming to Times Square - which isn't, it's just a kind of slightly wide street. I browse shops and buy a CD. Then I go sit in Bryant Park and have a late lunch of a mozzarella and pesto panini and a latte, which Starbucks call "Tall", meaning small. Coincidentally I see a happy-looking blonde in the park who looks a lot like Lizzie Bryant.

Next I come to NY City Library, and take a look round it, spending half an hour on the web in their internet access hall. After this I look in the main concourse of Grand Central Station, and then in the wonderful lobby of the wonderful Chrysler Building - the ultimate in art deco. Then I reach First Avenue and UN Plaza, which is closed off with the city's big salt trucks, like the ones surrounding the court building in Brooklyn.

The park in front of the UN is closed too, and a dozen or so squirrels bound around the lawn undisturbed. I turn south down First Avenue, and work my way over to Second, looking for a location to use in my novel. This done, I jump on a crowded M15 bus downtown. Alighting near the Brooklyn Bridge, I walk back to Brooklyn, which turns out to be a good move because the sun has moved round and is bathing Brooklyn in a warm evening glow. Foot-weary I make it back to the flat and have my customary foot-resting bath.

I call Steve to discuss an idea for getting my new modem working that I had in the middle of the night last night. I thought of using kermit, but it turns out I don't have kermit and I don't have a text-only dialup I can use. But Steve sets up our server at home to answer incoming calls, and I can call it and download the new version of pppd (using uuencode and text-capture!). After some fiddling, this works and I'm back on the net. I spend the rest of the evening replying to email and catching up on newsgroups.

Friday: Hanging Out

I sleep late, and read mail/news over breakfast, sitting naked in the warm morning sunlight. After showering I walk over to Borough Hall and take the 4 train up to 86th Street, and walk over to the Guggenheim Museum.

Inside, they've covered up the dome and painted all the walls black, so it's near pitch black with spotlights picking out exhibits. Irritatingly, they've close the normal ticket desk and are using one right by the entrance so that people going in and out have to squeeze through the lines of people queuing for tickets. They also refuse to let me pay by credit card so I have to pay cash and am down to my last $3.

The exhibition all the way up the ramp is called "Brazil: Body and Soul" and is very good. There's a lot of catholic art but the best area is the modern art up at the top of the ramp. I also wander through the permanent collection galleries and buy a couple of postcards in the shop (resisting temptation to buy a Kandinsky tie for $48).

I take the 4 train back down to Union Square and go to Piglet's place. Piglet isn't in sight when I arrive but I recognise Ann, deduce who Jason is, and am introduced to Ned, Stuart and Jody, and Simon, Piglet's SO. Piglet and her sister Charlotte also emerge.

It's Charlotte's 30th birthday and we have a tea party in her honour. She unwraps 30 small presents (many on a Hello Kitty theme) to much amusement. Then most of the gang (including Susan Davis, who had just arrived) go off sightseeing, but as I've been on my feet all week I opt to stay put and hang out with Piglet. I also get to hang out with Nuala, who's next to arrive, and Adam. Later, when Piglet and Nuala are out doing the shopping, another gang arrives: Bitty and Arthur, Kay, Cappy and Jerome. Kay shows everyone his ass. It's a soft toy he bought at Boston Zoo.

I take my leave and walk over to 1st Avenue and 10th, to meet Phil at Papporo East, his favourite Japanese restaurant. It's busy (queuing out onto the pavement). We share a mixed sushi/sashimi platter, which is very good indeed. It's nice to get some time alone with Phil. We talk about where we ate out the first time we met, nearly 7 years ago.

We walk all the way over to the West Village, and visit four gay bars which used to be regular haunts of Phil's in his younger days (10ish years ago). He comments on the changes (mostly in the clientelle - much older and fatter than he remembers them, apparently). In one, we meet a friend of his, Patrick, who is rather drunk (Coventry is his "favourite city in the world", and Steve is "a beautiful name"). He says he's waiting for a date but I suspect he's been waiting too long. I'm reminded how much being single sucks. All the bars are a bit more cruisy, less oriented towards socialising with friends, than British bars. We don't particularly have fun in any of the bars, but still, it's a sightseeing experience.

We walk back to the East Village where Phil parked, and he gives me a lift back to the apartment. Tired, I go straight to bed.

Saturday: Piglet's Party

I have a long bath, during which I accidentally start thinking about work and get depressed. Because I won't be back in the apartment until after the party, I put on my purple silk shirt and leather jeans - party gear - and head uptown.

It turns out to be a blazing hot day, the hottest all week, and I'm soon regretting my leather jacket, though it's neccessary to carry my camera, sunglasses etc. in. I reach Piglet's loft late in the morning, and after a little lounging the assembled company of 10 (Piglet, me, Sue, Kay, Jed, Ned, Stuart and Jody, Ann and Jason) go up to Central Park and wander through its southern reaches in the sunshine. Sue works at Kodak and has issued people with cameras and unlimited film for Kodak to test their processes on, so huge numbers of pictures are taken throughout the day and evening. In Central Park we meet up with Mara and Martin who join up with us for a while and return in the evening.

We begin to head towards the restaurant, but it soon becomes apparent that at the pace of the slowest of us it will take much too long. So Piglet decides we should take taxis. However, as there are enough of us for three or four taxis, and Manhattan is in traffic chaos, clearly this will take some time. Sue announces that she'll walk anyway, so I volunteer to accompany her. I like to walk places. Nobody else joins us, so we set off east. We chat pleasantly when the crowds allow.

We reach the restaurant, Serendipity, 10 minutes before the taxi-ing crowd, and meet up with Cappy and Jerome. When the rest catch up, we take our table amidst all the Tiffany glass (I sit between Sue and Cappy) and most of us order their special frozen hot chocolates, which are frozen chocolate ices topped with lots of cream. Food comes soon; I have a pretty good black-bean burger.

After Serendipity, most of the group go to buy candy; I chat to Kay outside. Then, going via Bloomingdale's on an errand of Piglet's, we collect again back at the loft.

We sit round the table and chat and drink the potent punch, while more and more people arrive. Sue tells me about her interesting work in digital photography; while talking to her I find myself struck unusually shy by her rather dazzling personality. Later, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the number of people I browse the bookshelves for a while instead. I enjoy Ned's holiday slideshow on his iBook, and play very competitive Scrabble (I'm ahead until I unwisely try "exs" as the plural of ex and am succesfully challenged). Then I mingle some more, saying very little (as usual) in the presence of so many interesting people to listen to. I barely say more than hi to people I know (in some sense) from years of soc.bi, like Skyler and Julie (who has fabulous hair) and many more. Kay's ass (now called Donkey Hotay) is cast in a furry toy porn movie, filmed in stop-motion and enjoyed by all.

Later in the night, the remaining guests chill out in a circle of assorted chairs, nibbling candy and sipping soft drinks for the most part, and listening to random music. Eventually, dead tired but at least a lot more sober than I was a few hours earlier, I drag myself off to the subway (the usual A train) and take myself back to the flat, and fall into bed without even noticing the time.

Sunday: Winding Down

I sleep until mid-morning, and just after I get up Phil phones. He arrives an hour later, after I've breakfasted and bathed, and we pass each other in the lifts, him going up as I go down. But I spot his car outside and go back up again. It's another hot day as we drive over the Brooklyn Bridge with the windows down.

We park on 15th near Union Square, and first look in various shops - chinese imported furniture, electronics, carpets, crockery. Then we walk west until we reach the Hudson, and walk south in the strong sunshine down a cyclepath by the river. Turning east again at Christopher Street, we work our way back through the Village until we reach Tiffany's restaurant, a kind of upmarket diner. It's a pleasant, light space with a good atmosphere, though more than half-empty now (2pm). I have a bagel with lox and cream cheese, and a mimosa which is what americans call bucks fizz. It's very good.

We walk back over to 14th, but nobody is in at Piglet's and I try without success to call the various cellphone numbers I took down last night. Phil gives me a lift over to the Strand bookshop which Piglet said they'd be visiting, and takes his leave, as he has to go back to Wilmington. We kiss on the lips when parting. The only other friend I do this with is Jon. I find it touching to know that it's not just me for whom friendships with ex-lovers is an extra level of intimacy.

I browse the bookshop at length, and buy a book for Mum. Failing to reach any cellphones again, the only thing I can do is go back to Piglet's place, but luckily this time some people are in - Piglet, Ned, Kay and Darren who has arrived today. I'm disappointed to hear that Sue has already departed. We sit around and chat, and in due course Stuart, Jody and Jed arrive having been to see "Rent".

All 8 of us take the subway down to Bowling Green station, and find the Staten Island Ferry terminal. We had planned to do this at sunset, but things slipped and it's already dark. However, the view of Brooklyn's tower blocks as the ferry leaves is good in itself. We all stand at the rail and chat as the bright lights are left behind, and gradually the Verrazzano Narrows suspension bridge, outlined in green lights, comes into view.

Stuart, Jody, Ned and I (the others have disappeared) disembark onto Staten Island for a few seconds before reboarding the ferry, just to have been there. Back in the ferry, the others go upstairs but I go straight on to the front of the ferry, where I get a good position at the front rail. On the return journey, I stand there by myself watching the Statue of Liberty glide past, and the thousand lights of downtown Manhattan loom up ahead. Bright floodlights and cranes can be seen at the site of the former World Trade Center. It's a wonderful view. Tempering the beauty, though, I'm feeling sad about leaving New York. It's not that I want to stay - part of me feels that I *should* go home, that I belong there - more to do with feeling sorry for myself because I have to return to the familiar world of all my work, relationship and house problems.

I find the others again and we disembark. After some discussion, we take the subway back to Piglet's, then immediately go out again to eat. We go to the vegetarian diner just along the street, which is strongly in the american diner style, but all the dishes are meat/fish free. I have a burger and a blackberry smoothie, which are pretty good. Kay disparages the overt virtuousness of the place's menu, but I guess they know their market and it isn't really him. We all (except Jed) admire a waiter in a tight green T shirt.

Joined by Simon, we return to the loft and sit around and talk late into the night. I still don't say much, but I enjoy it more than yesterday. I prefer smaller, quieter groups like this.

I try to leave around 1.45, but Kay and Stuart are blocking the stairs so I stay and talk to them for another half an hour. Stuart shows us the pendant he's wearing, which he made himself, and which is really superb. He obviously has both imagination and skill. He's also full of interesting stories, but eventually (knowing I have a half hour walk and subway ride to get home) I tear myself away. The subway is quiet and prompt and I finally get to bed just before 3.30.

Monday: Departing

Steve wakes me, phoning at 8.30, but I get back to sleep for another hour and a half. I check email and have a bath, and don't quite make it back to Piglet's for noon, but I'm less than half an hour late. Only Kay, Stuart and Jody are left staying at Piglet's, but Nuala is here again today.

We head up to the Empire State building, but they're demanding picture ID to enter, and Kay and Piglet didn't bring any, so the plan to go up it is aborted. In any case it's not so clear today, beginning to cloud over. Stuart and Jody leave to do their own thing, and Piglet, Kay, Nuala and I walk over to 7th Avenue for food. We eat at a noodle restaurant and end up with a huge amount of food between us, which is all very good. I have noodles with shrimps (which would be called king prawns in the UK), stir fried vegetables, and spicy broccoli.

Nuala goes off shopping, but I return with Piglet and Kay to the loft, where I have a quick cup of coffee before leaving, not without sadness, because Piglet's loft has been the scene of so much fun in the last three days.

In many ways, my holiday is over at this point, and as I walked down the long, narrow flight of stairs from the loft, I turned into a traveller again. I catch the A train to Brooklyn, pack, clean up Phil's apartment, and leave. I get back on the A train out to Howard Beach, where a free shuttle bus takes me to JFK terminal 4. There are several flights of stairs to negotiate with my suitcases at each subway station, and I think how frustrating it must be for Adam in his wheelchair - the subway must be just impossible for him.

I check in, and write on Buffy, my laptop, in the departure hall. For boarding, security is strict and Buffy is checked for traces of explosives. The rest of the flight is blurred in my memory; it's called the red-eye for good reason. I use Buffy a little more till the battery runs out, I finish my Paul Auster novel and I sleep a bit; unfortunately, the plane is twice as full as on the way out so there's no chance of a row to myself. I'm bored enough to try and watch the bland middle-of-the-road movie, but it turns out the headphone socket doesn't work, and neither does that of the empty seat beside me, and (as on the way over) neither does my reading light.

The hour and a half coach journey back to Coventry turns into a waking nightmare, as the coach arrives several hours late and immediately runs into a traffic jam, which National Express fail to provide a replacement or any information about what's going on. By now (only 2 hours' sleep in the last 30 and almost all the rest spent on the move) I just sit and experience it in exhausted resignation. Eventually, it's announced that the coach won't call at Coventry at all, and we're dumped at a service station. A taxi takes me and a fellow passenger to Coventry, but refuses to take us to Pool Meadow bus station, instead dropping us in a coach park half a mile from the nearest taxi rank over four hours late. National Express - never again. A final taxi ride and I'm home. It sure is quiet here.