Start Spreading the Word…

April 1977. Never had a person been more excited than I, although the thrill of travel was diminished by the fact that I was leaving my baby girl at home with Handsome Hubby, while I flew to New York. One of my business colleagues had been going to New York every few weeks for the past two years and now it was my turn. I had competed fair and square with my male associates and I was the chosen one.

Handsome and Cherished drove me to Heathrow, London’s major airport, on a miserable morning, the sky weeping with me as I hugged my precious girl. She was too little to understand that I was leaving. Now, I truly understand that the one who is leaving hurts the least, the new experiences making up for the splendors left behind. What was I thinking? To leave my little one? I must have been mad. Ambition is made of stern stuff.
Above the clouds, we entered a world of eternal sunshine, one that stayed with us for the entire eight-hour flight to John F Kennedy Airport, JFK. I had been given strict instructions in London.

“Take the bus to the East Side Terminal in Manhattan. Do not take a taxi – much too expensive.” I obeyed orders and found the bus. The April sun was high in the sky, and cast a glinting sparkle over every blade of grass, every tree, every building. I was mesmerized by the Unisphere, a relic from the 1964 World’s Fair, an enormous hollow sphere with the continents cast upon it in silvery steel. I drank in the scenery as the bus wound its way along the Van Wyck Expressway, Grand Central Parkway and the Midtown Tunnel.

I took a taxi from the old East Side Terminal at 37th Street and 1st Avenue. In the late afternoon snarl of traffic jams, we slowly made our way across town, then north on 6th Avenue, also known as Avenue of the Americas and home to the New York Hilton. My very modest hotel stood at the junction of 7th Avenue and 55th Street, the subway entrance right beside the door.

New York City sits on the island of Manhattan, and the names are interchangeable. It is the busiest, most densely populated of the New York City boroughs, of which there are five. The New York Marathon winds through all five boroughs and is one of the world’s major marathons. Fifth Avenue, famous for its role in the movie, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, is the dividing line between East and West. On the West side, I quickly learned the North-South Avenues. From 5th to 6th to 7th to the diagonal Broadway, to 8th, 9th, all the way up to 12th Avenue. The East side was a little harder. From 5th to Madison to Park to Lexington to 3rd, 2nd and 1st, home of the United Nations complex.

I soon learned the lingo of Manhattan: Greenwich Village (arty), upper east side (wealthy) and all spots in between. Some of my staff lived in the 30s, that block of streets from 30th to 39th. My clients lived in the more fashionable 60s and 70s. Museums were on the Upper East side. The finest shopping was on 5th, the trendy boutiques on Madison. I craned my neck gazing up at skyscrapers, and kept my head down to avoid doggy deposits on the sidewalk. I learned to speak American: elevator instead of lift, subway instead of tube, auto instead of car.

I learned how to order food in the coffee shop. On my first morning in Manhattan, I was fascinated as the waitress translated my English order of bacon and eggs into ‘2 eggs over easy, bacon on the side.’ I learned how to order a ‘ros beef pladder’ rather than a roast-beef platter. I met some of my staff for a drink, ten o’clock at night, when they were just starting their evening junket and I was already ready for bed.

I drank a margarita, straight up, with a client and nearly passed out. It was much too strong for an English rose. I took a client out for lunch, was presented with a doggy bag and accidentally (on purpose) left it in the taxi on the way to my next appointment.
I was in New York to sell computer consulting services and getting appointments with potential clients came easily. They all loved my accent. In a city filled with Anglophiles, I was flavor of the week. I rode the bus down Seventh Avenue and back up Eighth.
“But you can ride the subway,” said one of my clients. “It’s much faster than the bus.” I tried it, and my client was right, but I missed seeing all the well-groomed seventy-something women with blue rinsed hair, immaculate make-up and gnarly hands who seemed to spend their lives on the bus.

I connected with an old friend from New Zealand who came into Manhattan to spend the day with me.

“Here’s my ‘must-do’ list,” I said. “The Statue of Liberty, Greenwich Village and Washington Square.” We did them all, taking the ferry to Liberty Island and climbing high into the head of Lady Liberty, hundreds of us slowly creeping up the narrow stairs, 154 of them, until we were high in the sky, gazing out from the tiny apertures in the crown. It was a thrill to be there, thinking of all the immigrants who had come before me. Immigrants who had no chance of ever going home again, who had ‘burned their boats’ and who must succeed in their new land or forever live with failure.

A few days later, I was packing to fly back to London, to Handsome and Cherished. I had a window seat for the long overnight flight. As the 747 trundled down the runway, gathering speed, surging, thrusting, roaring, lifting off, I gazed out the window. Twinkling below me were the lights of Manhattan, a fairyland of building blocks, the arteries of major avenues flowing like rivers between sentinels of skyscrapers.
I had seen this trip as a first step to going home, home to New Zealand the home of my heart. Instead, I had a new love, New York, and I already knew that I was longing to return.

21 Countries visited so far on this blog. They are: Australia   Canada   Canary Islands Curacao   Denmark   England   Fiji   France   Germany   Ireland (Eire)   Italy   Netherlands New Caledonia   New Zealand   Northern Ireland   Norway   Panama   Scotland   South Africa   Sweden   USA