My Time in NYC: 1 Week On

One week on and it is raining and pouring. The rain is pouring in that American way where it never stops, and I don't still know whether my flatmates snore. In fact, I only know one of their ages – the other is not an old man though. I do happen to know that I enjoyed the Armenian soup recipe they treated me to the other night, we have established a great rapport aligning with our similarly nocturnal schedules. I tried my hand at returning the culinary f(l)avour - proffering up a delectable portion of my 100% homemade burrito and side serve guac recipe - an English staple - but they had already eaten.

Where to start if not with food. Well, immigration of course! After touching down, I was treated with a lovely Brexit-sized queue for non-US citizens. Throughout this surprisingly sweaty build-up, I was able to size up who amongst the customs staff was having a particularly pleasant day, and who might not be. On the right of the aisle, not a throwaway political reference I will be coming back to, was someone who hadn't smiled too much. I landed my turn, and it was with him.

Asked based on my US visa in my passport what I had studied, I responded in a politically neutral manner – ‘American history’. However, the third-degree didn’t stop there; I was grilled further after not recognising an old professor who taught at UIUC. I proffered up the Harlem Renaissance including great poets such Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston as part of my dissertation. I was greeted with the scarily deadpan response: "I thought you did American history". Great, the one man whose discretion I depended on and I genuinely couldn't tell if he hated African Americans or was making a politically incorrect joke. No option was preferable, so I responded with the most traditional English poets I could muster: Wordsworth and Milton (neither of whom I studied at university). That seemed to work. He handed me a crusty Dunkin’ Donuts napkin where he’d scribbled the name of a ‘controversial’ professor at UIUC for me to look up. Turns out it was someone by the name of Revilo P. Oliver – an infamous right-wing polemicist whose Wikipedia page didn’t take much scrolling before the words ‘Holocaust’, ‘denial’, and ‘antisemitic’ all surfaced. Great. While I wasn't sure if he wanted me to elaborate on my reading of all ten books of Paradise Lost, it hadn’t been curtains on potential paradise here in NYC. I entered.

After taking the express A Train to town from Howard Beach, and now having spent a few days in and around the public transport system (witnessing a woman being spat at, myself being filmed and told by an older woman: ‘I know your type, I am going to get you’), I realised I had made it. However, it has not all been turmoil following a historic Trump win; Brooklyn's more sunny disposition has helped assuage this initial coldness. Orange and yellow trees midway through their 'Fall' adorn the streets paved in famous brown stone. Two people have stopped me in the street just to wish me a good morning, seemingly innocuously. My cold British exterior hardened by the recent anti-cyclonic gloom has melted away. Even though the ‘drip’ coffee here hasn’t been up to my snobbier standards, the vibes and beer have been immaculate. Maybe it’s because I’m not drinking Coors Light or Bud Light exclusively. Seeing Nick, Madeleine, and old friends has been fantastic. My room is tiny, so much so that one reviewer’s description of the Airbnb’s atmosphere as 'rustic' feels apt.

Words have inspired me as much as the natural scenery in sleepier Bedstuy. ‘The City’, or Manhattan to those uneducated, houses all the main attractions including a delicious 24/7 culture. It feels like an extension to BK, not the other way around. Google reviews of great dives have featured fantastic bits of prose, not to mention being absolutely on the money. Before we visited Tip Top Bar & Grill the other night, I read a great review that described it bar entrenched in Obama 2008 memorabilia that looks like it hasn’t been taken down since 2008. It is a literal time capsule, and I recommend it wholeheartedly to anyone passing through.

My host has welcomed me and told me exactly how to get into the city. Occasionally I hear shouts from downstairs "Alexa!!!!" "ALEXAAA" until it is followed by the inevitable quainter enquiry "what's the weather tomorrow?" Then, "ALEXAA". Poetry exists and is alive and well in BK. I can’t wait to see what’s in store in the coming weeks and months.

Featured Image: my own.