Killing time in New York...

Two weird coincidences, sort of; first, arriving in New York at Penn Station was incredible. I don't know what it is, but there's something monumental about the city, you kind of know you're here, but at the same time you're wowed by the fact that you are here, it's an unbelievable place. I don't know, perhaps it's just me, but hey, I'm in New York and for some reason that's special. Anyway, and this will sound odd: the first thing I thought about as I waited for a cab outside of the station was Phil Collins and that time, back in 1985, when he performed at both Live Aids (in London and then Philadelphia). It came into my mind for some reason and then, once in my hotel room, I was watching a random interview given by John Lydon, in which he talked, quite candidly, about a number of subjects, including how he and his wife Nora had lost a baby. Very sad to hear that and I'm guessing the interview was fairly old, easily 10 years ago, as he said he'd just turned 50 at the time. In the same interview, although it might have been a different one, I watched half a dozen, he talked about being charitable and mentioned Phil Collins' appearance at both Live Aids. As Lydon rightfully pointed out, the money spent should have gone to the charity, there was no need for Collins to be at both events.

Home of the British Consulate in New York

Similarly, another coincidence. I am reading Will Self's Psychogeography at the moment and there's a bit where Self asks his readers when they realised that Evian (as in the mineral water) was 'Naive' spelt backwards. Well, at the risk of being a right pain in the arse, I remember the moment very clearly. I was sitting in the Selsdon Park Hotel in South Croydon with a marketing executive from a rival mineral water company - in the office we knew him only as a 'poor man's Richard Madeley'. As we sat at the bar he said, "Did you know that Evian is 'naive' spelt backwards?" I remember thinking about it and realising he was right. From then on, for a few months, I asked everybody else the same question, although I don't think many people found it as exciting as I did. I mean, even I didn't find it as exciting as I found it. The poor man's Richard Madeley, of course, was suggesting that people who purchased Evian mineral, and not his brand, were naive, but I can't even remember the name of his brand and I don't think you'll find it on the shelves today.

Lexington Avenue, New York...

I'm in New York, sitting in a Starbucks on Second Avenue and 50th Street. I've just eaten a cookie and I'm sipping from a large paper cup full of mint tea, killing time while the British Consulate, which is just up the road, processes my emergency travel documentation and thereby ensuring that I will leave the country later today. I'm not being deported, I  had my passport 'stolen' from the hotel I was staying in back in Pittsburgha (the hotel was totally responsible) and had to train it to New York to go through what turned out to be a fairly straightforward process.

It's weird being on the other side of the Atlantic and still listening to the same music. "I'm over yoooooo and I don't need your love no more, oooh I'm over you, don't call me up!"

Yellow cabs pass by and so do people and trucks. "I'm over yooooo and I don't need your love no more...don't call me up".

Last night the hotel was fine. The room was smaller than the Sheraton and I decided not to use the safe, just in case the hotel engineer decided to come on up and take out my lap top and defunct passport. Just one night, but it was fine, although I hate hotels that don't conform with the designers' rule of 'function before form'. A tiny round marble bowl with no plug. It doesn't work, guys, just give me a proper sink with a normal tap that works. And how about a plug? It's not big, it's not clever and hey, it's not even trendy, just very, very annoying. There was no restaurant either, which is often fine with me as it means I can explore what's out there, which I did. I found an Italian place, a pricey one - Montebelo's -  and, as always, it's never worth it. All I had was a bowl of soup, a bottle of Pellegrino and a chicken-based main course and I got little change from $70. Still, you live and learn. Look, don't get me wrong, it was alright, just a little on the expensive side. It came heartily recommended by Danny, the hotel concierge. Thanks, Danny.

Breakfast was fine, but it lacked the excitement of other hotel offerings.

Breakfast was okay. I had scrambled egg, a bowl of bran flakes with raisins, a bagel and a pastry, not forgetting a cup of English Breakfast tea. The breakfast offering, however, wasn't that substantial and I didn't have the feeling that I often get in hotels where there's a lot more on offer and I can really go to town, so to speak, but it wasn't at all bad.

I checked out early, long before the official noon check-out time, and headed towards the British Consulate, which was about 20 minutes away on foot. While there I struck up a conversation with a young chap from Muswell Hill who left his passport on the plane coming over and was waiting for emergency documentation to get home. We talked about all sorts of stuff, with me doing most of the talking, boring him, no doubt, with travellers' tales. "See that buildin' over there? It's full of politician sheeet!" The Consulate offices were on the 27th floor of a tall skyscraper on Second Avenue, but it was all very pleasant and soon I was waltzing out of there with a beige-coloured emergency passport. I was told I would have to give it up when I arrived in the UK.

Only certain people will get this shot...

New York is a vibrant, industrious city with lots of people milling around, going about their daily business and I love it. Actually, that's the good thing about America as a whole, that feeling that people are getting on with stuff. Goods trains carrying coking coal or aggregates or goodness knows what, endless goods trains pulled by two massive locomotives heading, perhaps, for an integrated steel mill somewhere, people selling flowers from highly perfumed stalls, office workers behind numerous windows in faceless skyscrapers, hotel workers checking people in and out, hordes of people waiting for the stop sign to beckon them across the street, gig economy workers on ridiculously fast electric bikes darting in and out of traffic. It's all good. There's something solid about New York, like there was something solid about the Amtrak train I took from Pittsburgh to NY Penn Station yesterday.

If you want to read about the experience that led me to be in New York, just click here.

The excellent Morning Star cafe on 2nd Avenue, good value, great food

After getting my temporary passport I looked around for somewhere decent to have lunch. I chose a traditional establishment called The Morning Star Cafe. It was fantastic. I ordered another mint tea (two, in fact) and I had penne with chicken, garlic and brocolli. It was good, very good, and I left on a high. We need more traditional cafes here in the UK, normal food, not poncy places with poncy food like you see on MasterChef. I had plenty of hassles to come, such as going through airport security. Why is it that some airports demand that I take off my shoes (like JFK) while others, (like London Heathrow) don't? It's one of those questions that never receives a straight answer.

Lunch at the Morning Star cafe...

But before the airport loomed large I wandered around, I mooched about, as I'm prone to in foreign cities. I moseyed on up Lexington and somewhere I turned on to 42nd Street and then passed all the big street names: Madison, 5th, Park Avenue. I was tired, if I'm honest, and I couldn't be bothered with the spectacle. I wasn't interested in shopping, I'd sat in a Starbucks earlier and besides, they all looked crammed with people and I wanted something a little more chilled. I decided it was time to wander back to the hotel, pick up my bags and trundle them towards the subway where I'd catch the E train. At the station a man was playing a steel drum, bringing a sense of carnival to proceedings. The station was packed, however, and it lent an additional sense of chaos to everything.

I'd reached the airport by taking the subway on Lexington and then jumping on the so-called Air Train. It was fine. I purchased a Metro Card at Lexington for $7.00 and it saw me all the way through. But! There's always a 'but': Because I swiped the card twice in order to chase after my suitcase, which had scampered off through the barrier on its own, like an unruly dog, I had to pay extra to board the Air Train. All was well, however, and I reached JFK's terminal seven (where the BA planes arrive and depart) with plenty of time to spare. After a turkey and Swiss roll, a large cup of some kind of exotic herbal tea and a banana, I moseyed around and then made for Gate 10 where my Jumbo jet to London was waiting.

On the subway at Lexington

I sat in seat 39K, a window seat with a 'bulkhead' meaning a wall, a little more leg room and a spare seat in between myself and the passenger in the aisle, who spent the entire flight covered head to toe in a blanket, like a criminal arriving at the Old Bailey. Later she told me she was cold, leaving me to wonder why it is that women always seem to feel the cold more than men? They're also skilled at wrapping towels round their heads.

The flight was smooth most of the way, but had its bumpy moments, and I spent my time listening to REM, reading Will Self's Psychogeography and writing rubbish in my notebook (you'll be subjected to it at some stage, unfortunately for you). The flight was just six hours and we landed half an hour ahead of schedule at 0830hrs.

Right now I'm sitting in a Caffe Nero inside Terminal 5 (they accept dollars) with a mint tea and an almond croissant and I'm contemplating my next move: train or taxi? I think the latter wins because I have some cumbersome luggage that I don't particularly want to lug anywhere else. Remember that I've pushed my suitcase from the hotel on Lexington Avenue all the way to JFK via the subway. I don't particularly want to continue pushing it.

The subway as we see it on the movies

But when I reached the taxi rank I noticed they were all Black Cabs, which means the journey would be metered. A metered journey means the final cost will be around £100 so I took the Heathrow Express to Paddington (£22) then the Bakerloo and the Victoria Line to Victoria where I picked up a train to Sanderstead. I was picked up at the station and spent the rest of the day lolling around, eventually hitting the sack at 8pm and sleeping through until 6am the following morning. Now it's Sunday and I'm feeling okay, the sun's shining and the garden is looking great. It's good to be home.

Approaching Ireland, nearly home...

On the ground at Heathrow Terminal Five - home at last!