After another whirlwind tour of downtown Luton - and Red and I getting to share Tanko's bed again - we set off for the Big Apple, via Detroit (Rock City). Despite what you might think about the US, they lack the firearm flair of their Turkish counterparts - no one rocks an automatic weapon as casually as a Middle Eastern security guard. What they lack in the arsenal though they make up for with enthusiasm, security at Detroit was like concentration camp DEFCON 4 level - roaming customs agents quizzing you as you walked towards the passport control, particularly if one of you has a scraggly red beard and the other appears vaguely Turkish/Spanish (according to the touters in Istanbul). Once we made it through (sans fisting) it was all aces though.

Our hostel was right in the heart of the East Village which was pretty cool - we heard a fantastic NY accent straight up - some woman stole a guys cab and he busted out a "Hey come awn lady, you saw me warkin!". Part of it was condemned - the room we were supposed to stay in as a matter of fact. On the notice stuck to the front door by the building inspector the hostel owners had written 'partial' to stop people from thinking that the WHOLE building was condemned - it's just part of it yo, chill.  But we got another room, it was just full of Germans - one of whom spent 20 minutes making his bed in the morning, every morning - snapping the sheets, checking the folds - snapping the sheets again. He was 30 years old. He had a hairdryer. He was Marko.

The weather at the start was a bit average, which seemed to make the locals pretty docile - but a couple of days in the weather was unbelievable - blue sky, 24 degrees, sweet as a nut. The city really came alive with the sunshine - baseball in the park, better looking people on the streets, life was good. We did all the touristy stuff - went to the top of the Rockefeller Centre, got the ferry to Staten Island, walked (partly) over the Brooklyn Bridge - yadayadayada. Central Park is absolutely pumpin' in good weather - and squirrels are the coolest animals going around, hands down. 

We got hustled at an Indian restaurant near our place one night - after being lured in by what looked like a good deal, then talked into ordering more food. The service was rubbish, the food average and we were low on hard cash, so we figured we'd tip pretty modestly - but Red still had to finish his beer (like a biatch). The guy running the joint said we hadn't tipped enough, which was kinda true, so i gave him my credit card and told him to run the meal up on that so that we could do the tip - but he made off with my card AND the cash, and came back after racking another $10 up on the card, turning it into about a 25% tip for trash Indian and wouldn't let us leave till we okayed it. It made me remember some advice I received a while ago - can't quite recall, something about the rule book of life, page four, paragraph two... never trust... 

I guess there were some things that were true to form - Coffee is an abomination in NYC, as is American beer, but we'd anticipated that to some extent. The stuff that was surprising is all the hype about the 'city that never sleeps' - the shops don't open till 11am, WTF? Sounds like a sleep in to me guys. The music was pretty hard to come across as well - lack of street press and a general lack of bars that aren't sports themed made it seem a little like we were slightly off the pulse (as opposed to our usual position at the cutting edge). Also NYers don't walk any faster or act any ruder than your garden variety Americans - nor are they any more stylish. Sorry girls, but there's not a lot of sex and the city sort of style going down - although there was an abundance of fake designer gear at prices that would make a Scotsman cheer. I managed to pick up some more Ray-Bans - although they were more expensive than my genuine 5YTL Turkish ones which somehow didn't make it to NYC. I bought a 'Figh Dolla' watch from some black guys on the street, who said Red and I were "on some olllld school Bluuuues Brothers shit man!" with our matching sunnies. For real. Talk about props.

 

We found a cool pub a few doors up from our hostel - McSorley's Old Ale House. It was opened in 1854, so it's one of New York's oldest pubs, and they don't muck around. They only serve two types of ale, light or dark, and when you ask for one they give you two glasses because they pour them so fast that it's head everywhere (a nice change from most American beers which are like a cup of tea). If you get a table they have waiters to serve you that are all old Irish guys in grey smock jackets. They're on the ball, every time you take the last mouthful they're on you with "another beer lads?". You get seated at tables with whatever other punters are in there, which is a good way to break the ice with New Yorkers who are kind of stand offish. We met a few cool Americans and an Aussie that lives in NY. He was there with his fiancee and one of his groomsmen to be - an Irish guy. The Aussie was telling us if you get a table there on the weekend you have to keep up an Olympic pace or they'll literally kick you out for drinking too slow. The mick groomsmen was feeding it to the Aussie about not drinking fast enough, so the Aussie was matching him with skulling until the Irishman turned green. He looked like arse until he promptly vomited on the floor (classy). Luckily the floor is covered in sawdust for just such an eventuality. We carried him outside and I assumed he was a goner, but Mikey our waiter just gave him a glass of water and assured us he was "probably good to drink another 10 now!". Snap. They didn't let women in until the mid 70's and they have newspaper articles on the walls from the day they allowed them in/ruined everything.

Red and I went to dinner in Little Italy one night and sat next to a French couple on holidays who turned out to be cops in Paris. Through a bit of awful Frenglish and some awkwardly clunky conversation we figured out they were on holidays here because it was his birthday and as a French cop their dream was to see the pinnacle of policing - the NYPD. For real. Sebastian is a cop in the 12th Arrondisement in Paris, where he assured us "If you come to see me in the 12e, I will be ROCKING". I asked if they were rollerblade cops like the ones guarding the Olympic flame - they seemed offended but the language barrier is hard to cross - what does 'merde tete' mean?

With only a day to go we had to grudgingly say goodbye to our German compatriots at the hostel, to be replaced by some Frenchies, as well as an Australian guy Adro from Narrabeen. This man was FUCKING ENORMOUS. Six feet ten is a ludicrous height - he made Red look like a midget and me look like some sort of small dog. We took him to McSorley's and as we walked along the street some black guy stopped him with a "OH shit son! I need your ass playing for the Knicks!". My services were not requested.

Our last day we spent kicking it on the grass in Union Square - soaking up the atmos before we got on the plane for Amsterdam... very tidy indeed. I recommend. That's it from NY. Stop reading now.