The bill for our first night having vastly exceeded our budget, Heather opened our $15/Day book for the first time — I think it was Frommer — and discovered the Hotel Seton on 40th Street, west of Lexington.
Midtown, right where we wanted to go.
We checked out of the Travelodge and caught the bus and subway into Manhattan, nearly overshooting Lexington Avenue. By the time you emerge from an unfamiliar subway entrance it’s hard to know which way is up, let along which way is west, especially if it’s your first ever subway. But a middle-aged lady at the subway entrance pointed us in the right direction and we headed straight for the Seton.
Two more women helped us along the way. There’s nothing like the sight of two out of town ingenues to bring out the generosity in an American. These two women were very cheerful. We were near the entertainment precinct and they were out to see a show. They told us where to buy half price tickets and what to see.
The guy at reception asked whether we wanted the room for an hour or the night. Startled by the unexpected question we said for the night. Perhaps he was impressed by our commitment. Our room was up a few flights at the end of a long shabby corridor. The sheets, as you’d expect, were clean. I can’t remember the bathroom, if there was one, but Heather will never forget the toilet, which was way back down that corridor. You had to enter in the dark to switch the automatic light on, and hold one foot against the door so no one could come in after you.
We watched another night of the Democratic Convention, heard Ted Kennedy’s concession speech promising to get behind Jimmy Carter — two tourists lying in bed watching history of a sort being made — and when that was over channel surfed. The other channels turned out to be primarily porn, which seemed quite appropriate given the rooms by the hour deal and the dirty book shops on 40th, just round the corner. The porno plot seemed to involve a ring turning up in some pretty surprising places.
1980 was pretty much New York City’s nadir, crime-ridden, more or less bankrupt and a long way from recovery. It’s good to see the Seton Hotel is still there at Lexington and East 40th Street. Google Maps says it offers “chic 1930s-style lodging and free Wi-Fi”. So maybe it hasn’t changed much. But maybe the guests stay longer.
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We were only in the States for a week, so maybe it’s no wonder it’s a blur. We wandered down the spiral galleries of the Guggenheim Museum and walked with the crowds along South Central Park. Checked out Times Square of course, only a twenty minute walk away. We must have gone to a show because we remember the half-price ticket place, although neither of us can remember what we saw. There was a brilliant Black guy outside the theatre playing percussion on pots and pans. Come to think of it we enjoyed the busking in the subway too.
Honestly, what I remember is being there rather that what we went to see. The strange familiarity of it, and the generosity of the locals — punctuated with their eye-rolling impatience towards us out of towners.
Like what “Up or Over?” means when you order fried eggs. C’mon, people are waiting!
Like why “coffee” is unintelligible but “cahfee” rings a bell.
Like how my glasses, short hair and buttoned down shirt make me look like an out of town Baptist preacher. Which meant we got lots of sidewalk advice from people about how to navigate the mean streets — what to avoid and where to keep our wallets.
Which reminds me that Heather wanted to visit the National Museum of the American Indian in Harlem, mainly because of our fondness for Buffy Sainte-Marie. We got off the subway or bus — I can’t remember which — and walked through the Black neighbourhood feeling a lot more uneasy than we ever would in Honiara. I asked Heather what she remembers of the place. She said mainly that she was glad to get inside. In the 1980s there was a long debate about relocating it because “its distance from other cultural institutions in Manhattan curtailed attendance.” Well, OK. In 1994 it reopened downtown.
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And so it went. A man at a ticket booth said he could tell I was an honest man because he could read my signature on the credit card chit — but I remember that rather than what the tickets were for.
I think it might have been him I asked to recommend somewhere nice to eat. He suggested an Italian place where a friend worked, so we had lunch there. It was commendably authentic, I thought just what you’d expect of New York Italian. Our waiter was a middle-aged man with a white napkin whom I called over in the middle of the meal to ask if I could show him something.
Of course I could.
I lifted up a lettuce leaf with my fork to show him a fly underneath. “Don’t say anything,” he said, “or everyone will want one.”
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Next stop was the train to Boston. We took the subway, and a bunch of commuters helped get us and all our luggage into the crowded, graffiti-plastered car.
We heart New Yawk.
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The thing about going to the States is that so little of it is a surprise. We’ve seen it all before on TV and in the movies.
We’d spent six months living in the Solomons with our Californian Peace Corps friends and learned that the way to understand them was to picture them in their own Californian soap opera.
New Yorkers were different — like us. Hard up, making a living, not unused to standing in line. Just living their real lives in a very different environment. But again, they weren’t a surprise. We’d watched their movies too — everything from Grease to The Godfather and Taxi Driver. Gritty. Crime. Diners. Dirty books.
We only had a few days there but we wanted to go back, that’s the main thing. Meantime we had that train to catch for Boston.
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I have photos but no memories of Boston either.
Except one. Rosemary, the woman whose Boston house we were to stay in, had arranged for her Dad, who taught English and History at East Nazarene College, to collect us from the train. Hers was a worthy, progressive, academic family.
He pulled his car over to where we were waiting on the sidewalk outside the train station, fairly late at night. How we identified each other I can’t recollect, but the fact that I looked like a Baptist preacher and we had a lot of luggage probably helped. He was a very nice man, and relieved to find us safe in what he clearly thought was an unsafe place to be. He drove us, conversational and friendly, to Rosemary’s house, which was in a good neighbourhood close to her campus.
We thanked him profusely, let ourselves in with the key provided, went upstairs, crashed and slept well.
In the morning we went blearily back downstairs to think about breakfast. We were still finding our way round the kitchen when a young woman came in, shocked and clearly alarmed to find two complete strangers in her house. The fact that she was Black and we weren’t clearly didn’t help.
Her name was Missie — but we already knew that. Rosemary had told us she had a young Black student boarding with her — a very progressive thing to do back then — and that, while we would be staying during a campus break, there was a chance she’d be there when we showed up. The problem was that she hadn’t mentioned anything about us to Missie. We introduced ourselves and things settled down to a state of polite acceptance.
I have the photos to prove that we visited Paul Revere’s house, the Mayflower 2, the Old Burying Ground and so on. I have vague memories of seeing the Liberty Bell too — but no, that’s in Pennsylvania. And maybe we went out to Harvard. I’m not sure.
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I feel like I’m being being predictably mean about the US, but I’ve written enough to demonstrate that I love the place, flaws and all. This time, though, I honestly can’t remember.
Being there, that’s what counts. Being a little discomfited. Wanting to go back.
And we did go back. Twenty years later, in the Spring, with the whole North East exploding into green. We drove across the North East from Niagara Falls to the Atlantic, then down to New York City.
My favourite spot that time was Mystic Seaport. New Zealand had just won the America’s Cup, and our waiter there didn’t think that reminding him that the America’s Cup was now New Zealand’s Cup was good sport.
Come to think of it, though, we drove straight past Boston on that trip too. We did see it in the distance as we roared past on the interstate — those interstates! — and we ignored New York as well. The closest we got to Manhattan that time was driving past the exit to the George Washington Bridge. We were on our way to Pennsylvania to see the Amish and the Liberty Bell.
Another time, we said. Right now we’re off to London.