Liv HambrettFlights, Ferries & Fantastical Hair
March 25th 2008 12:42
New York, New York. I have almost been putting off writing about our two week stint in the city famous as famous for its buildings as it is its abusive customer service. Not because I haven't wanted to write endlessly about it, wax lyrical about its unique charm and unparalleled vibe, till you are all begging me to stop ... but because it was a fortnight of so much hilarity, so much shopping, so many weird and wacky interludes one can only experience with people who never stop, in a city that never sleeps.
We flew from Seattle, via Las Vegas, an eight hour flight on the second worst airline in the world, American Airlines. We survived the trip and potential deep vein thrombosis by befriending two flight attendents who allowed us to hang out in their special area, whilst they, eyes agog, pressed us for information on Australia's wild flora and fauna. For perhaps the millionth time in the ten 3 weeks we had been away, we assured wary Americans that crocodiles do not emerge from suburban gardens and steal sleeping children from their cots. Nor do sharks suddenly appear in swimming pools, competing for most dangerous backyard critter alongside plate sized spiders and gloved red kangaroos.
It was 2.30am when we flew in over the bright lights of the big apple. Brooklyn glimmers and Manhattan twinkles and even though you haven't slept in 20 hours, and all you want to do is knock yourself out and sleep for 24 hours straight, you get that little shiver of excitement.
Never mind the man next to you has been liberally helping himself to your spearmint leaves for the past hour, nor that he insists on lifting his tee shirt up intermittedly to reveal to you his tan, as his wife sleeps peacefully beside him - the fact you will soon be escaping his greasy pony tail and greasier smile, combines with the impending touchdown in one of the world's most exciting cities, and the shiver of excitement escalates into delirious, relief filled laughter.
We found Satie slumped against a wall, in a small roped off area of arrivals they keep open for such outlandishly timed flights as ours. Contrary to my earlier email, she was not curled in a ball singing Waltzing Matilda. She has asked I correct that, fearing some of you may genuinely believe it to be true. We had nowhere to go for 3 hours - in the city that never sleeps, the entire bloody airport was sleeping, and so we sought refuge in an empty terminal. It was 6.30 when we finally left, having exhausted duty free and debated the merits of purchasing a litre of apple vodka for $20 (before realising we didnt have our tickets to claim the actual freedom from tax) and, thanking the Lord for the flat rate cab fare from JFK to anywhere in Manhattan, we set out for Battery Park, the southern most tip of the island. A grossly oversized breakfast (perhaps, along with bagels and cream cheese, the best thing about New York) later, we were on the ferry to Staten Island, one of the burroughs surrounding Manhattan, and the location of our accommodation for the next 5 days.
The location of our accommodation ... and our landlord's hair.
Irwin Ferrera, whose name I firmlz believe is one derived for stage purposes, sported a head of hair unrivalled in volume, in hue and in pure defiance of gravity and good taste. It blazed above his head, a furious storm that afforded at least 7 cm in extra height. When we stepped out of the cab, breathing in the rubbish scented air of our surroundings, taking in the ghetto into which we had unwittingly stepped, to be greeted by Irwin's hair, we all, quite comprehensively, lost it.
And here I shall leave you. It is only the beginning. Irwin's hair can be spied on our online album, although the photos do not do The Mane justice as, in his own words, 'I haven't brushed it this morning.'
Stay tuned.
We flew from Seattle, via Las Vegas, an eight hour flight on the second worst airline in the world, American Airlines. We survived the trip and potential deep vein thrombosis by befriending two flight attendents who allowed us to hang out in their special area, whilst they, eyes agog, pressed us for information on Australia's wild flora and fauna. For perhaps the millionth time in the ten 3 weeks we had been away, we assured wary Americans that crocodiles do not emerge from suburban gardens and steal sleeping children from their cots. Nor do sharks suddenly appear in swimming pools, competing for most dangerous backyard critter alongside plate sized spiders and gloved red kangaroos.
It was 2.30am when we flew in over the bright lights of the big apple. Brooklyn glimmers and Manhattan twinkles and even though you haven't slept in 20 hours, and all you want to do is knock yourself out and sleep for 24 hours straight, you get that little shiver of excitement.
Never mind the man next to you has been liberally helping himself to your spearmint leaves for the past hour, nor that he insists on lifting his tee shirt up intermittedly to reveal to you his tan, as his wife sleeps peacefully beside him - the fact you will soon be escaping his greasy pony tail and greasier smile, combines with the impending touchdown in one of the world's most exciting cities, and the shiver of excitement escalates into delirious, relief filled laughter.
We found Satie slumped against a wall, in a small roped off area of arrivals they keep open for such outlandishly timed flights as ours. Contrary to my earlier email, she was not curled in a ball singing Waltzing Matilda. She has asked I correct that, fearing some of you may genuinely believe it to be true. We had nowhere to go for 3 hours - in the city that never sleeps, the entire bloody airport was sleeping, and so we sought refuge in an empty terminal. It was 6.30 when we finally left, having exhausted duty free and debated the merits of purchasing a litre of apple vodka for $20 (before realising we didnt have our tickets to claim the actual freedom from tax) and, thanking the Lord for the flat rate cab fare from JFK to anywhere in Manhattan, we set out for Battery Park, the southern most tip of the island. A grossly oversized breakfast (perhaps, along with bagels and cream cheese, the best thing about New York) later, we were on the ferry to Staten Island, one of the burroughs surrounding Manhattan, and the location of our accommodation for the next 5 days.
The location of our accommodation ... and our landlord's hair.
Irwin Ferrera, whose name I firmlz believe is one derived for stage purposes, sported a head of hair unrivalled in volume, in hue and in pure defiance of gravity and good taste. It blazed above his head, a furious storm that afforded at least 7 cm in extra height. When we stepped out of the cab, breathing in the rubbish scented air of our surroundings, taking in the ghetto into which we had unwittingly stepped, to be greeted by Irwin's hair, we all, quite comprehensively, lost it.
And here I shall leave you. It is only the beginning. Irwin's hair can be spied on our online album, although the photos do not do The Mane justice as, in his own words, 'I haven't brushed it this morning.'
Stay tuned.
| 85 |
| Vote |
Shared on
Subscribe to this blog
