Day 1 - From here, to there.

12:30
It’s been a while, and for that - I apologise. Would you believe, I’ve been hard at work? No? Didn’t think so. Well - I have. And I’m really enjoying it, thanks. I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice to say, I don’t feel like I NEED a holiday, and yet - here we are.

‘Here’ is Terminal 3 at Heathrow. The eagle eyed (elephant memoried) of you will recall this as my jumping off point for a couple of trips over the past year - 2 to the US and one to India. You will also recall that it is one of my very least favourite terminals. Not just at Heathrow, but of any major International airport. It’s just so glum.

Since my last departure experience from here in January, flying to Delhi, the terminal has had a bit of a glow up. It needed one. The security process is vastly improved by the introduction of the new scanning machines that don’t require the traveller to extract every item form their bag for scrutiny. Our fave driver, Andy, dropped us at the kerbside of T3 at 09:20, and we’re comfortably (and comfortable) in the Curator bar by 09:55. Magic.

This trip is a birthday bonanza. My beloved twin, Ali, turns 50 in a few weeks, and this trip to New York is a blowout celebration of the fact that he’s made it this far. It’s his and Karin’s first time in New York Vicki and I are ultra excited to show them around this city that we love so much, that holds such precious memories for us, and that is just so much fucking fun to visit.

We spend a couple of hours in the Curator breakfasting, and having a very important few beers to grease the skids. When I visit the gents, I notice that the smell contraption in the urinals is called Whiffaway, which very must reminds me of the backing vocals in the seminal 80s hit, “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.” So much so, in fact, that I start singing a slightly amended version about a toilet, a stinky toilet. I won’t go into all of the detail. I only realise when the gentleman next to me in the facilities surreptitiously looks over at me that I’m singing out loud, and everso slightly louder than is strictly necessary.

We’re quickly boarded onto a moderately empty flight. Premium Economy is perhaps 50-60% full, economy maybe 20%. The kind cabin crew offer a Prosecco (for me, Vicki remains abstinent), and we ease into our flight.

12:03
Not magic. I forgot to reset to Eastern Time on my phone before we took off.

It’s a pretty standard Virgin daytime flight. The crew are fabulous. Due to an unforeseen circumstance, Ali and Karin have been separated from us. We’d booked window and aisle seats behind each other. A good friend of ours works at Heathrow, and bumped them to the bulkhead, with the additional legroom, love and attention that comes with it. I can see their heads / hear their fun from a few rows back.

Despite this, the flight has a feel-good nature to it. Intercontinental flights generally, and transatlantic flights specifically can feel pretty turgid. Business at the front, party at the back. Virgin will remain one of my favourite airlines, for as long as they retain the policy of recruiting cabin crew with the joy and fun they currently do.

The only slight hiccough is when the lady sat directly on front of me fully reclines her seat while we’re taxiing, leaving me in no doubt of her full flight intentions. I briefly feel like kicking off, but catch sight of her - her skin is waxy, she looks like she’s sweating, she immediately dons an eye-mask, and falls asleep. She’s having a way worse day than I am - so I leave her to it.

As lunch is being served, she wakes up, and I ask (gently) if she’d mind popping her seat up while we eat. She retains the waxiness, but her eyes at least look like they’re working. We wordlessly agree a form of accord…

We can see Ali and Karin having a blast. We stop in briefly at their seats, and they’re particularly enjoying their proximity to the bar. Seeing their joy warms my soul. We were chatting in the Curator earlier, about how weird it is that we’ve never actually travelled together outside of the UK, and certainly not just the 4 of us. Treating them for Ali’s 50th is an AMAZING excitement. We’ve got so much cool stuff planned over the next 4 days. I CAN. NOT. WAIT.

18:30
Stunned. We’ve signed up for a quick immigration option, and we’re through the line in a little under ten minutes. The regular queue to our right is warning of at least a 1 hour wait. Our bags turn up quickly, and around 30 minutes after we landed, we’re heading for our cab. This is unheard of at JFK. I don’t know if we’ve just got ultra lucky, or whether there’s change afoot across the airport.

Our cab is then sluggish in getting to us. The heat outside is both pleasant and stifling. We left behind chilly rainstorms in the UK, and we’re met with hot, sticky sunshine.

William finally turns up. It’s not really his fault. The traffic around JFK is particularly terrible today. Our apartment in Brooklyn is a short (as the crow flies) distance away, but it takes us nearly an hour to crawl through New York rush hour traffic.

Our apartment is great - a 2 bed walk up. We crank the A/C as soon as we’re in the door. Happily, there’s some frosty water in the fridge, and the conditioned air starts to bring the temperature down.

Ali and I head out in search of supplies. Water. Much more water. Some milk. Some tomato juice for Bloody Marys. This last one proves trickier than we’d expected. There are countless juice options that are not tomato. There’s a tomato option mixed with clam juice. We end up buying a monstrous tin of tomato juice. Neither of us can recall ever seeing tomato juice in a tin before. It will have to do.

We’re unsure whether there is a tin opener in the apartment.

22:00
We’re all a little shocked to have made it this far. There were murmurings that we’d be asleep by 19:00. Mainly me and Karin. Ali and Vicki rouse the arse out of it, and we head up the road to a grand little place called Market Bar. We arrive at about 18:55, and spend some time perusing the menu. The lovely staff member looking after us says that because we arrived before Happy Hour ended, we get happy hour prices, even though it’s past 19:00. We’re starting to really love this neighbourhood. We’re in Little Caribbean, a melting pot of cultures, cuisines, and accents. We’re comfortably the only white people in the bar. It’s an awesome little place to hang out.

We move a couple of blocks up the street. We try and stop at a Mexican place, but it lacks seats. Half a block up is a jerk chicken place that Ali’s read about - called Irie’s. The smell coming off the massive drum style BBQ is rude. We’re umming and ahhing about what to do, when the chef brings Ali and I over a couple of little tasty morsels. Holy fucking shit - the taste is amazing. I’ve cooked plenty of jerk over the years, but I’ve yet to master the alchemy of marinade and heat that leaves the meat juicy, the marinade charred, but critically not burnt. Ali enters into negotiation with a frankly quite scary woman for a plate of chicken. She says you can’t have just a plate of chicken. He repeats that he wants a plate of chicken. Her eyes roll, but her hand reaches for the cleaver. She spends the next 10 minutes brutalising chicken legs. Smash! Chop! Whack! Chop! She eventually give us (Ali and Tim) a paper bowl of the very tastiest chicken, for the princely sum of $8.

A couple of doors down, the girls are in deep negotiation with a lovely lady, to order some tacos. Ali and I swoop in, apparently sound like Hugh Grant wannabes, and get in on the taco action. They’re lovely, but not a patch on crazy cleaver lady’s jerk. The very sweet server who finds our accents so alluring offers to make Vicki a mocktail, despite there being none on the menu. Vicki’s game, but perhaps not expectant. What turns up is a delicious strawberry concoction - juice and fresh fruit, something a bit sharp to liven things up. Delicious.

We’ve hit the heady heights of 21:00. It’s not quite time for home, as we’re trying to ensure we don’t sleep before about 22:00. We stop at a German bier bar called HasenStuble - a word I’ve said more today than I ever thought I would. We sit out on the street, as the temperature is finally starting to come down a little. It’s a very pleasant place to be - hanging out with your besties, watching the world go by, telling old stories, and listening to the stories and dramas of those around us. We fairly quickly identify that the group sitting at the next table to us is a group of ravers, and they’re dissecting last week’s party. I can’t imagine a better place to be right now.

Around 21:30, we admit something akin to defeat. It’s bed time. We head back to the apartment, and pour one last salutary glass of wine. We shall sleep the sleep of the just.Читать далее