NYC

Our taxi driver the next day was called Rocky.  A bizarre little man who asked us lots of questions didn’t stop to hear our answers.

"So you English guys don't like the French uh?  I had a French guy in the back last week and he was all like, 'We don't like the English' I don't get that at all.  He aksed me what I thought of the French and I was all like, 'Hey NO-ONE likes the French, buddy!'  Hey didya go on the Boston Duck?  You shoulda gone on that, yeah but it's always booked up though.  Wow!  Lookit that construction site you know about the Big Dig?  Yeah, they say it's gonna be finished in four years, hey man it's already gone like 14 billion over budget or somethin', man I hate the way they keep putting up my credit card limit, I mean, it ain't like I'm that well-paid, not that I'm complainin' hey you know a job's a job right?  But I gotta problem with buyin' stuff on tv?  Like I buy all those stoopid Spring Break videos with all them girls takin' their tops off?  And like last night I saw this advert for like knives and swords and stuff and I was like, hey that's cool and I was about to buy them and then I thought well what they hell am I buyin' THIS stuff for right?  Here we are, that'll be 20 dollars hey thanks buddy..."

Rocky drove us to Boston Southside train station, where we were giving Amtrak a second chance.  Actually, it was a remarkably good ride, got us there on time and gave me a view of the very pretty Connecticut countryside, with little wooden houses in the green countryside on one side, and yachts bobbing about on the other.  The other interesting scenery we saw was when Caro yanked at my arm, pointed out of the window and said, "Look Symon!  Girls snogging!  GIRLS SNOGGING!!!"
I know, I know, we're not very sophisticated.  It's embarrassing really.

I Want to Be A Part Of It
Then the scenery changed, and became uglier and more urban and we knew we had reached The Big Apple.  I had a lot of preconceptions about New York. They were born of films. I had this whole "Death Wish" paranoia thing going. I didn't want to be mugged! I didn't want to be murdered! I didn't want to be kidnapped and hooked on crack-cocaine and forced to become a ho' and have my pimp smack me around unless I gave him the green, baby. 

In fact, this didn't happen. 

Then there was the "Cagney and Lacey" fantasy. I wanted to be Christine, even if it meant I had to have a drink problem. But Caro told me she didn't want to be the one who was pregnant all the time. 

On arrival, it was horrid and drizzly, but people were sufficiently rude and brusque to make me feel like I had stepped right into one of my favourite tv shows. They had no cabs and we had to take a bus, but as soon as we got on the bus 10 taxis arrived and the bus guy discovered he had let us on by mistake.   This was the story of New York all along.  It surprised me because another fantasy I have about Americans is that they are organised, know what they are doing and demand good service.  Not in New York.  It had enough of the "Old World" left in it for the service to be crap and for things not really to work and it to be a bit of a shambles really but listen buddy this is New York so just quit yer whinin' ok? 

The bus dumped us a few blocks away from our hotel and Caro immediately wanted to get a taxi. This was to be the holiday that introduced her to the concept of walking.   We checked into an hotel in Times Square called The Milford Plaza, which sounds posh but was a bit crap (what do you expect in a room costing $100 a night in Times Square?)   Unfortunately it also suffered from a common American toilet complaint,  Tiny Toilet Syndrome.  I’m not entirely sure why this is, but American toilets are distinctly lacking in the flush department.  

Surprising.  

You’d think they would have overblown Texan typhoon whirlpool action.  I mean, this is a large, technologically advanced nation, one would imagine that NASA would have some sort of Supersized Suck developed by now.  Instead, the American flush is nothing more than an apologetic little cough, meaning that floaters are a constant hazard for the careless crapper and skidmarks almost mandatory.  

This was bad news for Caro, who is nervous about leaving accidental presents behind at the best of times.  She took one look at The Milford Plaza poochamber and her arse sealed tighter than a childproof cap.  It made for a tense start to our time in New York City.

I had first taken Caro to New York in the Spring of 2000 for her birthday and just she loved it.  This action made me very unpopular with the boyfriends of all the women we know, who immediately wanted to know how come Symon took HIS girlfriend to New York and He Must REALLY Love Her and how come THEY weren't going to New York for HER birthday that year?  I was really worried that The Boyfriend Mafia was going to take out a hit on me for that one.  So Caro was thoroughly looking forward to her New York return, not only because it is a vibrant city, full of Potential Caroline Purchases, but also because it would mark the reunion of Caroline and Brownie