What a last day! It dawned on us yesterday that we would have a whole day to kill in Boston as our flight was late in the evening. We had an unplanned day in front of us, we would have to improvise. As it turned out it was a cracking day which started with a walk in the park following a hearty fast food breakfast at Au Pan Vit which had become our favourite eating place due to a multiple of facts. Firstly, as a self serve, no tipping was required. You simply dictated your order and it was produced, quickly. Merlin and I had been actually wondering how much of our money had departed as tips since we arrived. At least a couple of hundred dollars. So this joint was a Godsend, especially on the last day , when like the sands of time, dollars in the wallet were running out and needed serious eking. Secondly, they did a pretty good lobster salad, which Merlin treated himself to a couple of days ago, for breakfast. Now his opinion has to be listened to, for his is of the Normburger fame don't forget. And he was right, delicious. Thirdly, one can sit outside in the sun and watch the world go by.
But what to do with the rest of the day? We need not have worried. A fun filled one was about to unfold culminating in Merlin returning the favour of many years past. We wandered about for a while before stopping for another bite to eat and as it was past alcohol o'clock.......well it would be rude not to. It's worth reminding readers at this point, as it is crucial to today's tale, that Merlin does not drink. This is on the grounds that between birth and 57 years old, he drank a lifetime's worth and destiny chose for him, another route. We continued upon our ambling way and came upon a fire station. Outside, resplendent in shiny chrome and red, stood a Boston fire engine. Merlin was transfixed. Better was to come, for as he whipped out his camera, a firefighter approached. Merlin made some random excuse about his brother being in the Swedish Fire Service and wanted to show bruv the real thing. Without even asking him to sign a petition, Merlin was offers up to the cab. Unattended. What death they would have been dicing with in days gone by. He was like a small boy. I fully expected him to ask to sound the siren, which in the US is a truly deafening piece of kit, sounding more like an Atlantic liner's signal that it is intending to arrive in port.
After some time our stroll continued and I decided, using GPS to try a short cut between blocks, affording Merlin another photo opportunity, this time of a typical American movie type alley. His word not mine. Turning into the adjoining street we noticed a very old looking building on our right. This turned out to be The Boston Black American Museum, where a guided tour and talk was a mere five dollars. This, we mused, would eat up a few more minutes, but it was more than that, it was an hour or more and fascinating it was too. Boston, not only the place where they chucked our te in the harbour, but also where the sparks of the American Civil War were kindled. Any one who has seen 12 Years A Slave will know exactly what I mean. It was here that right minded 'liberals' decided that the colour of a person's skin should not dictate how they were treated in life. The abolition movement started here, and in this very building and chapel, where the first meetings took place. Brilliant!
Later at Boston International Airport, Trish and I decided to celebrate this great last day. Consequently, from that moment onwards, things went a bit pear shaped. Now, my wife hates waste and could not be convinced to part with the remnants of our duty free, now ten days old and mostly consumed. But not all. Not by a long way it turned out. For when the call to Gate came another gait was decidedly unsteady. These days, airlines are a bit fussy about who they let on 'planes and those that can't walk in a straight line are somewhere on their list. Knowing this Merlin went into action. Ironic this. I remember many a similar experience, merely trying to gain entry, with him in tow, to various clubs and bars in Gothenburg. We sandwiched Trish between us and marched the three of us forward. Confidently we negotiated passport and boarding card control. Security was another matter. They pulled her over for a bag and body search. A feeling of foreboding passed through us. I need not have worried. She pulled herself together and up straight and met the challenge. I was proud of her. We were through.
This effort seemed to have taken its toll as we had to repeat the sandwich manoeuvre to get her through the gate to the aircraft where, after a prolonged visit to the ladies, she slept the whole way home. Lucky her.
What a trip this has been. New York was a truly memorable experience. I can honestly say I have never been to a place like it. Non stop noise, traffic, skyscrapers adding to a keen sense of claustrophobia, people, everywhere, teeming from the pores of the buildings themselves, rich, poor, black, white and every shade between, yellow cabs, fast food, dollars and few cents, the almost perfect silence of Central Park and the 35th floor of our hotel, Brooklyn Bridge, the fetid heat of the subway, Ground Zero, taking your breath away, where few people talk but all look up, Times Square, daylight at night, fire escapes clinging rusty to the outside of buildings, the avenues going on for miles and the streets intersecting them, the queue at night for The Doctor Who Convention, the Broadway lights, catering stores in Greenwich Village selling anything you could wish for and more besides, where Trish could not believe her eyes, ancient hand powered mincing machines and grinders stacked floor to ceiling, The Dakota Building with its security guards and shutters snapping, Strawberry Fields and a Liverpool scarf, you'll never walk alone John, Penn Station, Madison Square Gardens, The Staten Island Ferry, Statue Of Liberty, it's copper you know, that's why it's green, Stars and Stripes and the names of the innocent etched forever on the memorial, bordering the footmark of The South Tower. Truly moving. And all in two days. Unforgettable, whichever way you look at it. I'll be back.
Friday, 22 August 2014
Tuesday, 19 August 2014
SUNDAY AUGUST 17th BOSTON.........BLANKETY BLANK!
The day of the Ball Game as they say here in the US. Merlin had been looking forward to this and I didn't want to dash his hopes but I have already experienced baseball in Cleveland on a previous visit and I know that it's less than exciting. We have to pause here and return to my new friend Rich from Boston, who I met in Washington. Now Rich didn't seem like the sports type of guy, more the sort that enjoyed the corporate entertainment that went with it, but nevertheless a fun and interesting character. He had experienced cricket in England and his opinion was that during the game, in Gloucestershire somewhere, he would have been grateful for a bullet through the head during the proceedings. I didn't seek his opinion about the game of baseball as I didn't need to, having been there myself in a previous life. And I kind of knew what he would say. But Merlin was determined and I didn't want to disappoint him. But Rich would have been looking for a revolver.
With Trish all Cheered out, I ordered tickets, the cheapest I could find, for The Game. Now for those of you who have never experienced baseball, here is a brief synopsis. The idea is to get as many runs as you can in nine inning. A run is a fat unfit geezer running through last base. Hey, does this not sound like rounders? Yes it does! And that's what it is, except it's more complicated at The Plate. It seems, that a hitter has three strikes before he is struck out for not hitting the ball. However, there are a number of foul throws allowed before a batter can Walk. Problem is here is that the bleacher crowd, us, sitting high in The Gods on a cheap ticket, have no idea what is a good ball or bad until it flashes up on the giant scoreboard. Even when watching it on TV, you don't really have much of a discriminatory idea about the various pitches. I assumed that during our game, from the number of balls, rather that strikes that were delivered, that Kelly, the Red Sox Pitcher, was in need of an urgent visit to Specsavers. But you could not be sure. Some balls, looking perfectly good to me were called bad whilst balls exactly the same were called good. The long and the short of this is that each inning, takes a long time to complete and is completely mystifying. Cricket is streamlined by comparison.
So there we sat, in the bleachers, the cheap seats, high up, uncovered, at the mercy of the midday and afternoon sun. And it was hot. Sporadically, a blue fug would make its way across the ground and the smell was exactly like your neighbour's shite attempt at a barbecue. It hung there like the smog in downtown LA of the seventies.
At first Merlin was well into the proceedings, but he made the Big Mistake of waiting for something to happen. Which it never really did. The game preceded along its sedentary path, and the crowd, made up of families enjoying a day out, were more concerned with their next soda or piece of pizza than the unfolding game. A Mexican wave was attempted, the highlight of the afternoon it could be said, but wasn't maintained. Some sporadic chanting occurred but wasn't of Wembley proportions. I could see, out of the corner of my eye, Merlin beginning to wilt. He began mopping his brow, trying not only to make sense of the Ball Game, but also keep cool up there under the sun.
A pathetic third inning saw Red Sox go 5-0 down. Then there was a controversial play in the fourth which again was not communicated to the crowd or explained via the scoreboard. We had to wait until we got home and watch the highlights to find out what had happened. By this time Merlin was resembling an ice lolly too long out of the freezer in the midday sun. I made a mental to take him to a 20/20 game next summer to prove once and for all the superiority of cricket over the sedentary baseball. It's true folks. The taxi driver that took us to the ground was right. When I informed him that Trish wasn't going to The Game and needed dropping off at the hotel, he responded with 'lucky her'. I should have known. Hang on, I did know, what a friend I am! Or an idiot. At least Merlin leaned a new colloquialism, it has to do with paint and drying. Ask him.
With Trish all Cheered out, I ordered tickets, the cheapest I could find, for The Game. Now for those of you who have never experienced baseball, here is a brief synopsis. The idea is to get as many runs as you can in nine inning. A run is a fat unfit geezer running through last base. Hey, does this not sound like rounders? Yes it does! And that's what it is, except it's more complicated at The Plate. It seems, that a hitter has three strikes before he is struck out for not hitting the ball. However, there are a number of foul throws allowed before a batter can Walk. Problem is here is that the bleacher crowd, us, sitting high in The Gods on a cheap ticket, have no idea what is a good ball or bad until it flashes up on the giant scoreboard. Even when watching it on TV, you don't really have much of a discriminatory idea about the various pitches. I assumed that during our game, from the number of balls, rather that strikes that were delivered, that Kelly, the Red Sox Pitcher, was in need of an urgent visit to Specsavers. But you could not be sure. Some balls, looking perfectly good to me were called bad whilst balls exactly the same were called good. The long and the short of this is that each inning, takes a long time to complete and is completely mystifying. Cricket is streamlined by comparison.
So there we sat, in the bleachers, the cheap seats, high up, uncovered, at the mercy of the midday and afternoon sun. And it was hot. Sporadically, a blue fug would make its way across the ground and the smell was exactly like your neighbour's shite attempt at a barbecue. It hung there like the smog in downtown LA of the seventies.
At first Merlin was well into the proceedings, but he made the Big Mistake of waiting for something to happen. Which it never really did. The game preceded along its sedentary path, and the crowd, made up of families enjoying a day out, were more concerned with their next soda or piece of pizza than the unfolding game. A Mexican wave was attempted, the highlight of the afternoon it could be said, but wasn't maintained. Some sporadic chanting occurred but wasn't of Wembley proportions. I could see, out of the corner of my eye, Merlin beginning to wilt. He began mopping his brow, trying not only to make sense of the Ball Game, but also keep cool up there under the sun.
A pathetic third inning saw Red Sox go 5-0 down. Then there was a controversial play in the fourth which again was not communicated to the crowd or explained via the scoreboard. We had to wait until we got home and watch the highlights to find out what had happened. By this time Merlin was resembling an ice lolly too long out of the freezer in the midday sun. I made a mental to take him to a 20/20 game next summer to prove once and for all the superiority of cricket over the sedentary baseball. It's true folks. The taxi driver that took us to the ground was right. When I informed him that Trish wasn't going to The Game and needed dropping off at the hotel, he responded with 'lucky her'. I should have known. Hang on, I did know, what a friend I am! Or an idiot. At least Merlin leaned a new colloquialism, it has to do with paint and drying. Ask him.
Monday, 18 August 2014
SATURDAY AUGUST 16th BOSTON.........BULLSEYE!
After NYC it was Boston. Our next port of call. Boston, with its leafy wide avenues and beautiful architecture and, more importantly, a reputation for loving the Brits. Remarkable considering their attitude towards us on December 16th 1773. Perhaps it's guilt. It was all quite a shock, and a pleasant one after the madness that is New York, and a contrast and just about any nice word you can think of. It's also the home of my wife's first favourite soap......Cheers. For at least a year I had been planning this part of the trip. I had even interrogated a bloke from Boston who was staying at our hotel in Washington about my forthcoming plan to 'make' Trish's trip by visiting Cheers. Merlin and I also wanted to spend one of the afternoons watching Boston Red Sox, something I knew Trish would not want to do, so it was VITAL I got the Cheers part of the trip right. Imagine my delight then when Rich, my new friend who loved shopping and worked in the entertainment business and had a lot of champagne friendly meetings to go to, informed me that there were TWO Cheers bars in Boston. The original, and a replica. Ching, ching, one hundred and eighty! (Rich also informed me that he could easily get tickets for cricket matches in London and Lords next year (Ashes test)would be no problem. How many maximum scores can you get in one day?
We had a full schedule as you can imagine in this city of colonial history but Cheers held importance that cannot be overstated. So, on our first day in the city, ahead of out 'Duck Tour' we made our way to Cheers....The Replica. Unlike The Pirates Of The Caribbean experience in St. Vincent, a hurricane destroyed film set and a lonely nutter valiantly running The Jack Sparrow Bar where we were greeted with 'don't worry I ain't got no licence and nothing to sell man' , Boston has gone overboard to accommodate sad Cheers geeks. It was mobbed. And it was pretty much what I had expected, except there was no road entry via steps leading down to the bar, with a door opening into the bar as in the TV series. This was to come later. This Replica Bar was stuck in the middle of Boston Market. Dining was on a scale Sam Malone could only have dreamed of. Norm's seat was taken, so we sat at the other end often frequented by Frasier and Lillith. But the Normburger was alive and kicking. And Merlin ordered it.
Even on the Cheers Menu it looked graphically awesome, a mega favourite word here in the US, but in reality it needed full mountain climbing gear to scale it's heights and eat. It was truly awesome. Even a bloke on an adjacent table laughed when it arrived. I managed, luckily to to capture this moment on digital. (See Facebook for photo). Out of the corner of my eye, as Merlin negotiated the extremities of the monster, I could see diners checking for 911 on autodial on their mobiles. To add to the drama, a nine inch kitchen knife protruded from the top of the mound, effectively stapling the dining drama to the plate. The whole thing reminded me of photos of the Leaning Tower Of Pizza where for original fun effect, tourists pretend, using awesome camera trickery, to be holding up the precarious pile. Know what I mean? This effect was certainly possible here. Merlin devoured it in seconds. I even had to point out that the knife was not part of the dinner as he wiped his chops on the Cheers napkin, examples of which Trish was moving bag wise.
A couple of Normbeers later and I was merrily caught up in the whole event, taking daft photos with the rest of them, visiting the Cheers souvenir shop and buying an oh too expensive t - shirt for my beloved. Meanwhile on the TV above our heads they were running an ad for tomorrow's Ball Game at Fenway Park, Home of The Red Sox, reigning NBA Champions. Sox v Houston Astros. 'Don't miss it' they said. 'We won't' I thought affording myself a sly Malonegrin.
We had a full schedule as you can imagine in this city of colonial history but Cheers held importance that cannot be overstated. So, on our first day in the city, ahead of out 'Duck Tour' we made our way to Cheers....The Replica. Unlike The Pirates Of The Caribbean experience in St. Vincent, a hurricane destroyed film set and a lonely nutter valiantly running The Jack Sparrow Bar where we were greeted with 'don't worry I ain't got no licence and nothing to sell man' , Boston has gone overboard to accommodate sad Cheers geeks. It was mobbed. And it was pretty much what I had expected, except there was no road entry via steps leading down to the bar, with a door opening into the bar as in the TV series. This was to come later. This Replica Bar was stuck in the middle of Boston Market. Dining was on a scale Sam Malone could only have dreamed of. Norm's seat was taken, so we sat at the other end often frequented by Frasier and Lillith. But the Normburger was alive and kicking. And Merlin ordered it.
Even on the Cheers Menu it looked graphically awesome, a mega favourite word here in the US, but in reality it needed full mountain climbing gear to scale it's heights and eat. It was truly awesome. Even a bloke on an adjacent table laughed when it arrived. I managed, luckily to to capture this moment on digital. (See Facebook for photo). Out of the corner of my eye, as Merlin negotiated the extremities of the monster, I could see diners checking for 911 on autodial on their mobiles. To add to the drama, a nine inch kitchen knife protruded from the top of the mound, effectively stapling the dining drama to the plate. The whole thing reminded me of photos of the Leaning Tower Of Pizza where for original fun effect, tourists pretend, using awesome camera trickery, to be holding up the precarious pile. Know what I mean? This effect was certainly possible here. Merlin devoured it in seconds. I even had to point out that the knife was not part of the dinner as he wiped his chops on the Cheers napkin, examples of which Trish was moving bag wise.
A couple of Normbeers later and I was merrily caught up in the whole event, taking daft photos with the rest of them, visiting the Cheers souvenir shop and buying an oh too expensive t - shirt for my beloved. Meanwhile on the TV above our heads they were running an ad for tomorrow's Ball Game at Fenway Park, Home of The Red Sox, reigning NBA Champions. Sox v Houston Astros. 'Don't miss it' they said. 'We won't' I thought affording myself a sly Malonegrin.
FRIDAY AUGUST 15th BOSTON.........TAKE YOUR PICK
Our next port of call was four hours up the coast by Amtrak from NYC. The journey was eventful as it turned out. Many Americans we have talked to seem to regard Amtrak as some kind of unnecessary evil, reserved only for people who have either a fear of flying or are poor. The rugby type scrum which we were by necessity involved in at Penn station, would indicate otherwise. Our silver bullet was sold out.
However, train travel is still a public service and the yanks are good at it. For example, the train had not one, not two or three conductors but four. And they were courteous and informative, making clear announcements regarding the next stop and advice for making sure customers got off the train safely. As I write this I want you to think about the UK rail system as each facet is mentioned. So staffing is great, matched only by the UK when the Olympics were on. At that time, as we made our way to The Olympic Stadium from our home village, I had never seen so many helpful train line officials, guiding the way through London and to The Games. I had to pinch myself to ensure I wasn't dreaming. In the US, this seems to be the norm.
Then there are the trains themselves. The cars are clean, seats comfortable and spacious, the toilets have running water and paper towels and soap for hand washing and the dining car has a great selection of CHEAP food and drink served by a cheerful bloke behind the counter. And, here is the best thing, Morons are not tolerated. I know this because there was a commotion in the car behind ours. I looked up from my blogging, to see Trish straining to see out of the window. Something was going on. Anxious not to miss anything and in a 'I'm lining up for the toilet' nonchalant kind of way, I made my way to the adjoining car where the door opened up to the platform where a drama was taking place. Someone, a backward baseball cap wearing youth and his luggage had been ejected from the train. He was surrounded by two of the conductors, a burly looking individual who turned out to be a plan clothed train security bloke and, within five minutes, two unamused and armed coppers.
It turned out that he was either pissed or stoned and had had an altercation with a woman passenger. About what I never found out. The conductor, under interrogation from myself, revealed that he had received a complaint from the lady and told the youth to calm down, sit down and chill out. He had responded by threatening the woman upon arrival in Boston, because she had complained about him. Naturally she had complained again. By now, my new mate the conductor had had enough. Apparently in the Old Days they had license to stop the train wherever it was at the time, and chuck anyone who was pissing them off, from the train. He said it has got a bit PC since then and they have to wait for a station. I could tell from his voice he was hankering for the return of those old days.
By this time the youth had gone into naughty schoolboy mode, telling the Old Bill 'I didn't do anything man, I didn't say anything to her'. The police merely responded by telling him it was his word against quite a few people including the conductors, whose chief goal is to get their charge to Boston on time and not delay it, having it stand in some out in the sticks station while they sort out some fool's avoidable stupidity. As the train pulled out of the station the West Kingstown Police were still telling him that. Me, I was still chatting to my new mate and mentally still thinking about British Rail or whatever it is called these days. What would Amtrak do with football hooligans I wondered? I'd pay to see it.
However, train travel is still a public service and the yanks are good at it. For example, the train had not one, not two or three conductors but four. And they were courteous and informative, making clear announcements regarding the next stop and advice for making sure customers got off the train safely. As I write this I want you to think about the UK rail system as each facet is mentioned. So staffing is great, matched only by the UK when the Olympics were on. At that time, as we made our way to The Olympic Stadium from our home village, I had never seen so many helpful train line officials, guiding the way through London and to The Games. I had to pinch myself to ensure I wasn't dreaming. In the US, this seems to be the norm.
Then there are the trains themselves. The cars are clean, seats comfortable and spacious, the toilets have running water and paper towels and soap for hand washing and the dining car has a great selection of CHEAP food and drink served by a cheerful bloke behind the counter. And, here is the best thing, Morons are not tolerated. I know this because there was a commotion in the car behind ours. I looked up from my blogging, to see Trish straining to see out of the window. Something was going on. Anxious not to miss anything and in a 'I'm lining up for the toilet' nonchalant kind of way, I made my way to the adjoining car where the door opened up to the platform where a drama was taking place. Someone, a backward baseball cap wearing youth and his luggage had been ejected from the train. He was surrounded by two of the conductors, a burly looking individual who turned out to be a plan clothed train security bloke and, within five minutes, two unamused and armed coppers.
It turned out that he was either pissed or stoned and had had an altercation with a woman passenger. About what I never found out. The conductor, under interrogation from myself, revealed that he had received a complaint from the lady and told the youth to calm down, sit down and chill out. He had responded by threatening the woman upon arrival in Boston, because she had complained about him. Naturally she had complained again. By now, my new mate the conductor had had enough. Apparently in the Old Days they had license to stop the train wherever it was at the time, and chuck anyone who was pissing them off, from the train. He said it has got a bit PC since then and they have to wait for a station. I could tell from his voice he was hankering for the return of those old days.
By this time the youth had gone into naughty schoolboy mode, telling the Old Bill 'I didn't do anything man, I didn't say anything to her'. The police merely responded by telling him it was his word against quite a few people including the conductors, whose chief goal is to get their charge to Boston on time and not delay it, having it stand in some out in the sticks station while they sort out some fool's avoidable stupidity. As the train pulled out of the station the West Kingstown Police were still telling him that. Me, I was still chatting to my new mate and mentally still thinking about British Rail or whatever it is called these days. What would Amtrak do with football hooligans I wondered? I'd pay to see it.
Sunday, 17 August 2014
THURSDAY 14th AUGUST: DOUBLE YOUR MONEY
Now all of you reading this Blog should know that I am an even tempered, friendly, and likeable sort of guy. But some things do get me annoyed. One of these occasional things happened today. Or should I say last night. Following our trip to Brooklyn, we managed to get back to mid town Manhattan where our hotel....The Warwick, probably the grandest hotel I have ever stayed in is situated............ William Randolph Hearst built the Warwick New York Hotel in 1926 for $5 million. Long catering to the elite, Hearst built the 36-story residential tower to accommodate his Hollywood friends as well as his mistress, the actress Marion Davies, who had her own specially-designed floor in the building. The hotel's restaurant, Murals on 54, features the 1937 murals of American illustrator Dean Cornwell. The famed murals were fully restored following a 2004 renovation of the restaurant. The Warwick is also home to Randolph’s Bar & Lounge, whose rosebud leitmotif references Hearst’s purported nickname for Marion Davies...............Not bad for a trio of travelling chumps eh?
Anyway, as usual we decided that after a bit of chill out in the silence of our respective rooms, we would venture out into the melee that is Manhattan. They say that New York is the city that never sleeps. I don't know about that because I have never been awake in the small hours to check this out but Trish and I, unable to sleep for some reason, have taken to early morning walks. Even at 6.30 am life is all around and the mega hustle and bustle of the day has left the starting blocks. The early evening, twelve hours later is nothing less than mental. Traffic is all one way, depending what avenue you are on. It would be a good idea to extend this to humans as well. If I was managing a football or rugby team, there would be no better place to bring The Lads for body swerve training than the streets of mid town Manhattan. Somehow, with the dexterity that is usually reserved for ski slopes at high season, the ants somehow avoid collision. Life is all around, busy, rushing commuters, tourists ambling, joggers and nutters. Plenty of them.
Anyway, I am returning to the topic of tipping for my latest annoying event. We visited one of NYC many Asian restaurants. This one was less that salubrious from the outside. Merlin reckons that the tell tale sign of a cheapie is colour pictures of the food you are going to eat posted on the windows. But, cheap does not always mean bad food. And this establishment was no different. The food was really good, but the service was less so. It was the sort of service which would make you reluctant to leave any kind of reward, never mind the minimum ten percent expected here. I had decided that was what I was going to do. Until the 'check' arrived. Firstly, it was probably easier to decipher the Rosetta Stone than this small slip of paper. Our food order was written in some kind of script that would make your local GP jealous. And, to make maters worse, service charge, or gratuity or tip had already been added, at a whopping and undeserved 18%. My companions could see my hackles rising and started to shift uncomfortably in their seats. Trish gave me one of her 'let it be' looks and Merlin his impression of a First World War General, right behind his troops.........two miles behind. I was on my own. I made the first advance, sticking my head over the parapet as it were. My questions regarding the content of the check were batted right back. It was then that I realised the waiter's peculiarities of speech matched perfectly the text on the bill. I also realised that there was little to be gained by pursuing the matter of the excessive tip. So I stole their pen.
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