Manchester band Elbow has a wonderful song about New York. Lead singer Guy Garvey’s voice soars above a string arrangement, banging on about “New York can talk” and that “somewhere in all that talk is all the answers”
It’s a gorgeous tune, showing Garvey’s vocal talent while also converting a sense of optimism and general belief in the good qualities of the big apple.
I was disappointed to find, then, that my mum’s favorite singer was full of shit.
For context, I moved to Brooklyn almost 2 weeks ago. My block is chilled out, trendy. There are roughly 27 independent cafes, at least 2 coffee *and* CBD stores, and approximately 4000 vintage clothes shops. By my latest estimation, I see an average of 2.7 Aaron Dessners and 3.4 Jack Antanoffs every day.
For lack of a better term: It’s my vibe (and no, unlike my neighbor, I’m not a pot fiend, I merely buy into the trendiness of it all.)
Point is, I rather like this place. It’s sufficiently separate from midtown Manhattan — 20 minutes by train if you account for time staring at a dude dressed as Spider-Man doing flips on the poles in any given carriage. People like football here. The supermarket is reasonably priced. Beer is relatively inexpensive and almost obnoxiously local.
But here’s the thing. I don’t want to avoid Manhattan. In fact, I want to embrace it, learn it. I want to know my way around, stride across the city with the confidence of a celebrity walking back to their Tribeca penthouse.
It was with that guile that I ventured into the Lower East Side last Friday. The reason for my trip? I had to go to the bank to obtain a cheque. You know, cool, hip, young person stuff.
Anyway, I set myself a challenge: I wasn’t to “map” myself anywhere. I could look at my iPhone GPS thing but couldn't let Siri give me directions.
It went surprisingly well at first. I hopped on the M line, zooming through Williamsburg, past Domino Park, and across the East River into the LES. I was relaxed, cocky, even. How hard could this be?
Then, I stepped out of the subway, and onto Delancey Street.
And panicked.
In truth, I had no idea which direction to walk in. So I spun around, pondering the road signs, nearly hitting a man on an electric scooter in the process — I had barely managed a “sorry mate” before he advised me to “watch where you’re going, man!”
I took my incredibly cool bright green beats headphones out— even the Wombats’ 2007 tune “Moving to New York” couldn’t help me — and resisted every living urge to ask for directions.
But at that very moment, I learned a crucial lesson: you don’t stop in New York. That is because everyone knows where they’re going. The only people that stop in New York are tourists, homeless people, and street vendors. Since I am neither of those 3, I elected to start walking.
I arrogantly strode like a proud New Yorker. I walked in front of a moving car because I had a green man and he was careening around a corner illegally — if I died, the insurance bill would have been in his hands. I didn’t nod at strangers. I didn’t gawp when the Empire State Building came into view. I showed little care or interest in the world around me.
There was only one problem: I was walking in the wrong direction.
You see, Wells Fargo is on the southeast side of the LES, almost directly under the Williamsburg Bridge. But I walked north for a few blocks, of course refusing to look at my phone, mostly out of spite. I’d remembered that the Wells Fargo branch was near a Chipotle (genius marketing, that.) And as I passed Chipotle number 3 without seeing a bank, I had to make a decision: keep walking without checking my phone or stop to find directions.
I went for a mixture of both, glancing at my phone while I continued to stroll, almost barging into a wide-eyed European family who’d foolishly stopped at a red light at a crosswalk.
10 minutes later, I stumbled confused into a Wells Fargo (not the one I’d originally planned to go to.) It was humid outside, and my “fluffy” hair had gone haywire. I appeared sweaty and confused. Thankfully, the customer service person was rather helpful, and I got out of there relatively painlessly.
But then the thing I feared the most happened: a stomach rumble. It was around 2 pm, and I hadn’t eaten since 9. Lunch, it appeared, was a necessity. So, I texted a friend who lived in the area, asking if she had any recommendations for cafes and such. She responded with an 7 options that sounded nearly identical. I picked the closest.
This time I did use the help of my nag-nav (fuck it, I was hungry.) I found the cafe after a 10-minute saunter in which I was constantly overtaken by grumbling locals.
What I encountered, though, appeared to be overwhelmingly pleasant. Jamie XX’s remix of the XX’s “On Hold” was playing — albeit slightly too loud. The dude at the counter was a cordial young bloke wearing a retro Brazil kit, and told me that he “liked my backpack, man.” I thanked him and told him my Mum bought it for me, undeniably losing street cred in the process.
Of the many lessons I learned that day, one will stick with me the most: some cafes in New York either don’t post the prices to the food on the massive chalkboards above the counter or do so in REALLY small font.
So, I had no idea how much my food was going to be when I ordered.
At that moment, though, I did not care . A Panini and a small latte was my request: simple, yummy, filling, caffeinated. The barista made my latte, plopped it in front of me with the pride of a man who knows how to make coffee effectively, and then said something outrageous:
“That’s gonna come out to $22, man. Cash or card?”
I almost gasped. $22 for a fucking panini and small coffee? (8oz, by the way, which in real English is… very small.) And, of course, it is a formality in America to tip handsomely. So, I added 15% to the order, feigned a smile, and lumbered over to a table sit and await my lunch.
To be fair, it was fantastic. Loads of cheese, nice sauce thing, few greens on the side: not $22-plus-tip good, but getting there.
I exited with a wave, thanking the staff on the way out, with the barista reminding me that he liked the backpack that my Mum purchased for me.
Truth is, I felt robbed. The LES is supposed to be the inexpensive, trendy part of Manhattan, where all the cool, young, hip recent college graduates congregate and do cool, young, and hip stuff.
You know, the part where you maybe don’t pay $22 for a tiny coffee and a panini.
I didn’t have the energy to stroll back excitedly. I almost bumped into another bicyclist and my Apple Pay wouldn’t scan to let me on the subway.
After I’d bought a physical, paper metro card like a fucking tourist, I slumped into my seat, plugging in my headphones and shunning strangers. Then, it occurred to me: maybe I was being a good New Yorker. I looked grumpy, slightly sweaty, and refused to acknowledge others. I cut a figure beaten down by life but defiant because of it — the dichotomy of hatred for one’s situation but confidence in oneself.
But that notion was dispelled after 3 stops: I’d boarded the wrong train.
Dinner later that night was in my neighborhood, and I coughed up $18 for a big chicken sandwich thing and lots of fries. I’d met up with a friend from college, and we slumped into the couch in my flat while watching the Olympics.
“You know, I can’t hold you. I’m tryna live here, bro,” he said as he tucked into his burger.
Football things
It’s been a mad week in the footballing world, and there are people far better equipped than I to discuss the complexities of Leo Messi’s bank account (or, more importantly, Barcelona’s tax returns).
All I will say is that I’m a bit peeved that Jack Grealish has left Aston Villa for Manchester City. That is because I really like Jack Grealish and I really hate Manchester City.
Either way, great excuse to plug this moment of hilarity:
“Chiellini”
I’ve also been in the process of developing footballing enemies in NYC. You see, I recently got involved in the local pickup scene. My first session was fantastic: standard was good, nice group of people, scored a couple, etc.
One particular moment, though, was slightly problematic. It was getting towards the end of our two hour time slot, and I found myself in a bit of space, with one defender and the keeper to beat. The center back in question was a stocky Italian guy, probably a few years older than me, wearing a full Inter Milan kit.
Now, the few among my loyal readership who have seen me play football know I have one semi-effective move: tap the ball with the outside of my right foot before rolling it quickly across my body and darting left. It’s usually remarkably effective once, and then never works again.
On this occasion, it worked a charm, and I wrong footed my opponent, seemingly destined to slide the ball past the keeper. However, just as I was about to shoot, a stray boot caught my right leg, and the center back dragged me down.
It was a classic tactical foul, the kind of thing any Italian would be incredibly proud of. The guy winked, helped me up, looked me dead in the eye, and said “Chiellini”, evoking THIS incident in the Euro 2020 final:
That was it. He’d moved into my brain, rent free. I hardly touched the ball for the rest of the match. My last involvement in the play was to blast a shot over the bar before he could close me down. And that is why I’m never playing football again.*
Well this was a bit of a lengthy one. No idea how long it’ll be until I write another one of these — suppose it depends on how bored I get/how interesting my life becomes.
Do people care anymore? Perhaps. This was the product of a jolt of inspiration to vent about my the all too easy “fish out of water” concept.
Either way, cheers.
*I lied. I signed up for the same time slot for pickup next Wednesday.
Also for what it’s worth, Elbow make some great music.
Thomas - YOU’RE ALIVE!!!!!!!!! What a relief. One piece of advice; never, ever give in against an Italian. It’s simply not right.