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  • Travelling buddies!
    Virgin's 'signature' Bloody Mary = a Bloody Mary.Karin's teeny, tiny little legsBrooklyn thumbs!Crazy cleaver lady

    Day 1 - From here, to there.

    5 de junho, Estados Unidos ⋅ ☁️ 30 °C

    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.
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  • Day 2 - OMG, the burger.

    6 de junho, Estados Unidos ⋅ 🌙 25 °C

    19:45
    What a day!

    There’s very little surprise when we ‘re all awake before 06:00. Ali gave up around 03:30, and I find him chilling on the sofa when I pad into the lounge a little after 05:00. My head is a little bunged up from the overnight A/C, but I feel like I’ve slept reasonably well. Karin is next to emerge, followed really not that long after by Vicks. We decide to get cleaned up and head out a little earlier than planned, and we’re at the subway station by 08:00.

    We jump off at Times Square and 42nd, right in the heart of the Broadway theatre district. From here, it’s a 20 minute walk through Hell’s Kitchen to the Circle Line cruise pier. We stop for sustenance at Broad Nosh bagels, and I have the best bagel of my life. Kind of like a posh version of a McDonalds sausage and egg muffin, but oh so very much and a lot more. Ali and Karin both have variations on a smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel, and Vicki has a fab looking roast turkey and avocado wrap. Utterly delicious.

    We wander over to the Hudson River, and stop to admire the enormous USS Intrepid moored opposite 43rd Street. It’s crazy to think that the newest US aircraft carriers are almost 60% bigger again than this behemoth. A couple of piers down is the Circle Line Cruise company, an absolute must if you’re visiting New York for the first time. Manhattan is an island, and can be circumnavigated. Vicki and I have taken this trip on both of our previous jaunts to New York, and are very happy to be sharing the experience with Ali and Karin.

    The boat sets off to the South, and the sun is getting properly warm at 10:00. There’s a touch of breeze kicking around, but I slather myself in sunscreen to be on the safe side. We pass Chelsea, the financial district, and see the Freedom Tower. It’s 541m high, which is 1776 feet, and was built to this height to commemorate the US’s declaration of independence in 1776, which is the most, “America, Fuck yeah!” thing I’ve ever heard.

    Next up is the Statue of Liberty. The view from the water is beautiful - a real treat. From here, we head up the East River, and pass under the Brooklyn Bridge. That’s one of my very favourite things right there. It’s such a cool moment. I encourage the others to join me on the bow deck at the front of the boat, where it’s both cooler due to the breeze, and the view uninterrupted.

    We continue up towards Queens, passing some of the most recognisable buildings on the planet - the Empire State, the Chrysler, the UN building. There are other architectural gems though. There are two buildings next to each other but linked by a walkway around halfway up, which has been designed to look like two people dancing. I love it.

    Queens soon gives way to the Bronx, and the world famous Yankee Stadium that Ali and I will visit tomorrow. We loop around the top end of Harlem, and rejoin the Hudson, right at the very northern tip of Manhattan. The view across from us is staggering. The Palisades are actually in New Jersey. They were bought by a cabal of wealthy New York families - the Stuyvesants, the Rockefellers, the Vanderbilts - who committed to keeping the area undeveloped. These beautiful flint cliffs rise to towering peaks above the river. It’s so strange to see this unspoilt ecosystem so close to the sprawling mass of New York.

    Disembarked, and reinvigorated with a coffee, we set off to walk the High Line. What used to be an elevated train line has been turned into a public park - never more than a few metres wide, but stretching North to South across maybe 25 city blocks. The sides of the walkway are strewn with art installations and greenery - all plants that are indigenous to New York, but which have become increasingly hard to find as the urban sprawl has intensified. Some of the architecture alongside the walkway is uber-cool.

    At the South end of the park, we try to decide whether beer or food. Beer wins. We head for the Tavern on Jane, an awesome little slice of Americana that Vicki and I stumbled upon (and stumbled out of. Hic) on our last visit. We’re hopeful that the incomparable legend that is Johnny Pompadour will be working today, but are disappointed to find he’s not. Only Mondays and Tuesdays apparently. Undeterred, we sit at the bar and pass the time. One swiftly becomes two, and we’re conscious that time’s pushing on, and we need to eat.

    Hamburger America - what a place. George Motz is a dude. He wrote an entire book (and subsequently turned it into a documentary) about the history of the burger. This guy knows more about burgers than pretty much any other living being. HE LITERALLY WROTE THE BOOK. From all of this experience learning about and eating burgers, he decided to open his own place in New York, and it’s here that we find ourselves, drooling at the menu. There are only two burger options - Oklahoma style, which sees wafer thin slices of onion pressed into the burger patty, and his take on a smash burger. I go for the onion burger, Vicki the smash. OMG - the burgers are sensational. The onion adds such a depth of flavour, but never competes with the quality, dry-aged beef used in the patties. The cheese is perfect, melting not ‘onto’ the burger, but almost ‘into’ it. It’s burger alchemy. Straight into my top 3 burgers of all time.

    Our next stop is John’s on Bleecker street, a legendary pizza place all of 500m from Hamburger America. Vicki, Ali and I smash our way through a 14” pepperoni pie. We take it to-go, and eat it in a small park a couple of hundred metres down the street. It’s good. It’s not world beating, but we all agree it’s very tasty, and we’re glad to have tried this world famous pizza.

    A brief conflab suggests we are not going to be hungry anytime soon. I propose a walk through Washington Square Park, and then a beer. Washington Square Park is buzzing. It’s nearly 17:00 on a sunny Summer Friday, and the people of New York are coming out to play. The fountain throws some very welcome spray in our direction. The heat hasn’t abated all day, with highs around 32C. We’ve been marching around, and the sweat is constant. A couple of guys are advertising free hugs, and we persuade Ali to get involved. I’m not sure he’s exactly the kind of hug recipient these dudes were aiming for, but they’re happy huggers, nonetheless.

    Our next pit-stop is at a cool little bar called Malthouse, where we revel in some frosty, air-conditioned climatic conditions. In the interests of energy, Karin and I go for Espresso Martinis, which are excellent.

    Leaving Malthouse, we head over to the Bowery, in the general direction of Katz’s deli, our last planned food stop of the day. We head to Sara Roosevelt Park, and sit in the shade watching some games of 3 on 3 basketball happening. The standard of play is wildly varied. There are some serious ballers alongside some players who are anything but. It’s evident that you just pitch up, wait until a space on a team becomes available, and join in. There’s no vitriol against the less gifted players, which I find heartwarming.

    We womble around the corner to see some street art on Freeman’s Alley. Beautifully vivid colours, and some incredibly high quality work.

    We head back to the Bowery, and drop in to a very cool Irish Bar called Slainte. Ali decides a beer is probably too much right now, so has a lemonade. I decide that Guinness is a solid strategy. Our seats are becoming very comfortable. It’s around 19:00, and we’re tuckered. We’ve been on the go all day, and none of us are particularly hungry. We decide to revisit the Katz’s plan later in our trip, and head back to Brooklyn instead.

    The subway is a cakewalk. 30 minutes in comfortable, air-conditioned carriages. We’ve not seen any crazies on the subway yet, though it’s possible that we are the crazies. As we climb the stairs to our apartment, I can really feel the 21,000 steps I’ve done today in my calves and my feet. Tomorrow promises more of the same, though thankfully in slightly cooler conditions…
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  • A soggy Brooklyn Bridge
    Nope. Just, no.Ghostbusters day!The style icon, the fashion guru.I want... No, I NEED a meat room in my house.A bit gloomy and hazy, but always a magnificent sight.I WANT IT THAT WAY.....

    Day 3 - Less a shower, more a downpour

    7 de junho, Estados Unidos ⋅ ☁️ 20 °C

    The day starts a little later than yesterday, but still earlier than is absolutely ideal. I’m first up around 05:00, and Ali’s not far behind me. We’ve a LONG day ahead, culminating in a Yankees - Red Sox game that is unlikely to finish much (if at all) before 23:00.

    Coffee and Bloody Marys provide the sustenance we need to get up, showered, and out of the apartment. Frustratingly, the two subway lines that run just 100m from our apartment are suspended for the weekend for some engineering work, so we need to make alternative plans for getting out and about. I propose a bus route, which is met with initial suspicion, but ultimately proves to be a decent transport option. The bus is air-conditioned, which helps.

    We aim for a diner that’s just South of the Brooklyn Bridge, and we feast. Karin has some much desired pancakes with bacon and maple syrup. Ali has some kind of southern US take on an Eggs Benedict which includes some amazing smoked pork belly and a Chipotlé laced Hollandaise. Vicks dives headfirst into a ‘simple’ plate of eggs, bacon and toast, and I paddle in the shallow end of a smoked brisket hash. Sizeable, delicious, nourishing. It will stand us in good stead.

    From here, we head North over Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan. The walk over the bridge is spectacular. It is, for me, one of the most recognisable edifices in the city. The views across to Manhattan are some of the best of the city’s skyline, and the architecture of the bridge itself is stunning to look at. When Vicks and I last visited, there were street vendors selling tacky tourist crap lining both sides of the walkway. They have all but disappeared. This *might* be because of the wet weather, but we suspect more likely that there’s been a clampdown by the New York city government.

    Yes, the weather. The forecast has been predicting some stormy conditions while we’re in town, and it looks like today is the day. I’ve got a sturdy umbrella to help me out. Karin has a waterproof jacket, and Vicki has both an umbrella and a poncho. Ali has…. *checks notes* nothing. As we walk over Brooklyn Bridge, there are brief showers. The heavy stuff is due later, around lunchtime. It’s still warm though - around 24C, so the air is thick and steamy. We all sweat up with alarming ease.

    At the North end of the bridge walkway, we take a left, and wander down through the financial district to the 9/11 Memorial. I wrote about it at length in the journal for my last visit in 2023, so won’t retread this very saddest of grounds. I’m unsure why, but for some reason on this visit to the memorial that lists dead soul from that horrendous day, my eyes are repeatedly drawn to the very many entries that end with ‘and her unborn child.’ I’m in two minds about the folks taking happy, smiley selfies in front of the memorial. I suppose it’s nice that they came to pay their respects, but I wish they’d pay them just a little more.

    Sobering as the experience is, we head for a sit-down and a beer in a cool sports bar just round the corner from Freedom Tower (Fuck yeah!) The Irish bartender is an interesting character. He makes his own hot sauce, which he puts to great use in Ali’s Bloody Mary. It transpires he was a professional (but not brilliant) rugby player earlier in his career, playing occasionally for the great Leinster side of the early 2000s. He’s been in New York for 17 years, and very much considers this his home now.

    We head a little to the North, in search of FDNY Ladder 8 - the firehouse made famous by original 1980s Ghostbusters films. When Vicki and I last visited, we had the place to ourselves. Today, we’re a little surprised to see some folks in costumes heading the same way as us. As we get close to the firehouse, these intensify in number, and we can hear a large crowd cheering, and some live music. It transpires we have coincided with the annual Ghostbusters celebration. My personal favourite is a woman dressed as the ghost, Slimer, who is walking along hand-in-hand with her little kid, who is a tiny Slimer.

    We head further North to the Flatiron building, which is sadly draped in scaffolding and netting, so is robbed of much of its majesty. We pass by the Empire State Building, and make to head towards Grand Central Station, at which point, the heavens open. These are the much heavier rains that we were promised. Umbrellas are barely putting up a fight against the downpour, so much so that we seek shelter in a bar on Park Avenue. As we emerge, the rain is still there, but it’s just a couple of blocks to the station, so stay relatively dry.

    The interior of Grand Central Station is, I think, the most beautiful I’ve seen. The light refracting through the windows is so charismatic, and the architecture just stunning. It’s a bit of a shame that the soulless Penn Station is the source for all of the long distance trains from New York across the country, as I think it robs Grand Central of some of the romance of long distance rail travel.

    As we emerge to pick up a cab to take us to our lunch stop, the heavens have opened, and in a big way. It’s teeming down. Heavier than heavy. Cabs are at a premium, as no one wants to walk. Traffic is at a standstill.Vicki and I bravely stand at the roadside with our arms raised, and getting increasingly soggy. A yellow cab takes pity on us, and we pile inside. What should be a 10 minute cab ride is reckoned by GoogleMaps to be more like 20. When we ultimately abandon our cab 20 minutes later, GoogleMaps reckons it’s STILL another 20 minutes away by car, but only 10 on foot. Ali dons Vicki’s very fetching lilac poncho, and we stride up 8th Avenue, doing our utmost to avoid the largest of the puddles.

    We arrive at Gallaghers about 20 minutes later for our 14:00 reservation, and more than a little flustered/damp, but the Maitre D’ is welcoming and relaxed. Gallaghers is from the very oldest school of steakhouses - leather banquettes, dim lighting, huge slabs of meat roasted over charcoal, long-standing connections to the mob, and countless pictures of film stars and celebrities - past and present. They offer an incredibly well valued 3 course lunch menu. What follows is theatre and history in equal measure. The salads - my goodness, the salads. Karin’s Caesar looks like the real deal. None of that chicken bollocks - just leaves, anchovies, cheese and croutons in a rich, egg based dressing. Ali’s wedge salad features blue cheese, ranch dressing and bits of bacon. Delish. Vicki and I are a little more abstemious with our soups (asparagus for her, Manhattan clam chowder for me), both of which are excellent. The steaks are sensational. I wouldn’t describe myself as a fan of fillet (ubiquitously referred to as filet mignon over here), but this is a brilliant piece of meat, couple of inches tall, cooked to a beautiful mid-rare finish. Stunning. Dessert, whilst entirely unnecessary is New York Cheesecake or Key Lime Pie - both of which are very tasty. Our server also brings over Ali a teeny chocolate fondant with a birthday candle in it, as they’ve heard us chatting about the reason for our trip - a lovely touch.

    We’ve made up a little time, and can take our time heading down to the Rockefeller Center for our visit to the observation deck at the top of the building. It’s fairly cloudy still as we arrive at the deck, but the sun quickly pushes through. The same view down over Central Park changes dramatically in a 20 minute window. Even in the couple of years since my last visit, a couple of new skyscrapers have popped up, and more are under construction. The view to the North over Central Park and up to Harlem remains brilliant. The view South is more cluttered than I remember, and the beautiful Chrysler building is increasingly hidden from view by the far less elegant newcomers around it.

    We stop in briefly at the Nike Innovation Lab, where Ali discovers they don’t have the trainers he wants in stock. We repair to a very cool little bar called The Naked Pig, where it’s happy hour, and we’re happy to. Ali and I have been warned about the extortionate prices for beer at Yankee Stadium, so we collectively spend a very happy hour pre-loading. There is, at one point, a Backstreet Boys singalong.

    At 19:30, we arrive at Yankee Stadium. Our seats are up in the heavens, but actually afford a really good view down over the field of play. I’ve been a Boston Red Sox fan for a little over 25 years, and Ali has determined that he’s a Yankee. I suspect this is partly so he and I have just one more thing about which to bicker and banter. The atmosphere in the stadium is more rugby than football (i.e. soccer) Fans of both teams intermingle, there’s some friendly but lively chat, and not even the merest hint of crowd trouble. I have no qualms about cheering for my team when they’re doing well, and when they ultimately win. The view over the top of the stadium towards the sunset is a beautiful one. The beers - yes, they are expensive, but they are also huge. 25 fluid ounces, which is a shade under 750ml. We’re on the Stella, which for some reason is viewed in the US as some kind of premium European lager.

    Our journey back to Brooklyn is sketchy at best. Because of the line closure to our nearest station, we know we’ll have to change a few times. 3 subway trains and about 90 minutes later, we emerge about a 20 minute walk from our apartment. The walk back through the neighbourhood is pretty spicy. Lots of drunk/stoned/mashed people on the streets. At one point, a full on rap party on the street, with a sizeable crowd, and a car soundsystem at full beans. We get back to the apartment around 00:15. It’s been a long, but incredibly successful day.
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  • Day 4 - A planned reduction in velocity.

    8 de junho, Estados Unidos ⋅ ☁️ 17 °C

    Sleeps are definitely getting better, but slowly. I’m awake at 07:30, and Ali is not far behind me. As a collective, we’re up a little after 08:00. Our plan for Sunday has always been to hang out in Brooklyn, and be a lot moochier. Our legs are telling us that this remains a good plan. My right knee, which has been a suspect little fucker for several years, is enraged at the amount of walking I’ve done over the past few days. Karin’s knee, which shares some emotional baggage with mine, is saying the same. Ali has unintended blisters on both of his feet. I’m not sure Vicki has any actual physical complaints, but is very sympathetic towards ours.

    We head out around 11:00, heading for Kings Plaza Mall, right down in the South of Brooklyn. Poppy has inferred that she’d like some bits of clothing from a store called Hot Topic, and this is the closest one to us. We spend an hour or so wombling around the mall, and manage to grab a couple of t-shirts and a hoodie for Pops. We jump in a cab and head over to Brighton Beach.

    The sun is trying to shine, and there’s a brisk-ish breeze coming off the ocean. The beach is moderately busy at first, but the boardwalk is proper crazy as we cross over to Coney Island. Today is Puerto Rico day. Puerto Rico is a US ‘territory’ - not a state, but a self-governing US protectorate, positioned at the very northwestern of the Leewards Caribbean islands. There’s a sizeable Puerto Rican community in New York, and today is their national day. There are soundsystems up and down the boardwalk, lots of folks dancing on the sidewalk, a ton of domino games in motion. It’s a riot of colour, music, fun and flair.

    The girls have some ice cream, whilst Ali and I grab ourselves a hotdog and a beer from Nathan’s - a world famous wienery, and home to the annual hot-dog eating content, every 4th July. I’ve seen footage of this competition. It’s mental. The current record is 76 hotdogs in 10 minutes. Now - our hotdogs are hardly huge, but the idea of eating one every 8 seconds for 10 minutes is mindboggling. Our dogs are tasty. Very simple with sauerkraut and mustard for me, and same for Ali but with the addition of cheese whiz.

    We jump on a subway, and head up to Greenpoint. There’s a Korean fried chicken place called Peeps that Ali wants to try. We stop at a cool bar called Keg and Lantern for a quick pit-stop, and then head over to Peeps, maybe 10 minutes walk away. As we walk, the rains commence. We’d been warned there might be showers, but this feels fairly persistent. Arriving at Peeps, there are no indoor seating spaces, and the chicken is going to take approximately 20 minutes to be ready, during which wait we’ll be stood in the rain. I suspect it’s the kind of hardship Ali and I would happily bear for what are described as amongst the very best wings in New York, but to which we shan’t subject our wonderful wives.

    An Uber takes us over to Dumbo. Dumbo is the area:

    Down
    Under
    Manhattan
    Bridge
    Overpass

    There’s another acronym - Rambo - which replaces down under with ‘right around’ and we all feel this is a stretch too far. Ali and I take a selfie in front of the Evil Twin Brewery, and we head to the Time Out Market for some beer and food. Perhaps it’s the rain making the market busy, but it’s all a bit chaotic.There are some very pleasant sounding / looking / smelling food options, but we opt for a quick beer, and then head elsewhere.

    Elsewhere is a fab little Vietnamese place just around the corner from the market. Their wings are sensational. Some mussels in a coconut broth divine. I have a grilled pork and vermicelli type affair as a main course, and it’s banging. Heat, salt, sweet and sour in perfect balance, and the pork is collar, hard-grilled to a charred and chewy (in a good way) finish. There’s a bit of consternation when Ali’s chicken pho contains no chicken. It’s replaced with a beef version as the kitchen has apparently run out of chicken.

    Sated, we head down to the riverside under the Brooklyn Bridge, of one of the great views of the lower Manhattan skyline. We briefly wander around Water Street, where there’s a very pretty little pixie garden, with pretty lights around a fountain. It’s 20:00, and we briefly consider a foray elsewhere in Brooklyn, but Karin bought some wine at the liquor store underneath our apartment last night, and it’s not gonna drink itself…
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  • Day 5 - Sandwich of Champions

    9 de junho, Estados Unidos ⋅ ☁️ 17 °C

    15:30
    Just as we’re due to head home, our body clocks have adjusted. It’s ever thus, on these short, transatlantic jaunts. We’re still up and out in decent time, headed into Manhattan for half a day’s gallivanting. We start at Katz’s Delicatessen. I’ve been meaning to eat here since my first visit to New York back in the 90s, and Ali has has been dreaming of their sandwiches for the past 20 years.

    The ordering process is part of the experience. There are 7 ‘cutters’ behind a counter, who make your sandwich. Behind each of them is a vast, heated chest, containing countless pastramis, slabs of corned beef, breasts of smoked turkey, briskets, and so on. I go for the all-time classic - pastrami on rye, with mustard and Swiss cheese. Vicki goes for a Reuben. Ali’s order is the same as mine, and Karin has a chicken salad sandwich. Pastrami has quite a lot of natural fat in it, which is part of what gives it its sensational flavour. If you want particularly fatty bits of pastrami, you ask for your sandwich to be juicy. My cutter grabs a fresh pastrami from behind him, and starts slicing thick slices. He pops a couple onto a small plate for me to snack on while he’s cutting. Folks (rightly) talk in hushed tones about the knife skills of a sushi chef, but the meat cutters here have got a skillset all of their own, and equally (to my view) impressive.

    We find a table to park at while we eat. Holy shit - the sandwiches are sensational. The meat is rightly the star of the show, but the collective wouldn’t be nearly so impressive without the perfect bread, the right mustard, and the oozing cheese. It’s just an incredible combination of flavours and textures. I try a little of Vicki’s Reuben, and it’s also smashing. The corned beef has a *little* less flavour than the pastrami, but the Russian dressing is punchy, and the sauerkraut excellent. The sandwiches are BIG. Ali and reckon about 300g of meat per serve. We're certainly pretty well full by the time we finish. Ali has also bought a Celery Soda, which is a traditional accompaniment. It’s interesting - hints of sweetness, but with a savouriness that doubtless comes from the celery. If you blindfolded me, I’m not sure I’d have guessed it was celery flavoured, but it makes sense to know it is.

    Last item on our list for the trip is a walk through Central Park. The weather is just about playing ball. There’s some light mizzle in the air, but no downpours expected. We enter the park at the South West corner. The supertall residential sky-scrapers we could see on Saturday from the top of the Rockefeller have their top floors shrouded in cloud. We make first for the building that was used as Sigourney Weaver / Rick Moranis’ apartment block in the original Ghostbusters movie. From there, it’s a very short amble to Tavern on the Green - also featured in the same movie. The views from Sheep Meadow to the South are quite something. We stop for a quick coffee, before heading up through Strawberry Fields to the Dakota building - home of John Lennon, and the building outside which he was so sadly murdered.

    We’ve an hour before we need to head back to our apartment, so pop into Malachy’s - an Irish bar Vicks and I visited on our last New York trip. We spend a fun hour chatting away to the bar dude, who is maybe 70 odd, and who has some stories to tell about his many years working in the bar.

    23:30
    We pit-stop for 30 minutes at the apartment. A quick change of clothes, a freshen up. The drive out to JFK is much smoother than on arrival, and we’re dumped (technical term) at the terminal by 16:00. The security queue is a little lumpy, but not disastrously so. Airside, we find a bar in which to make a base camp, which is right next to our departure gate. A couple of hours pass in a haze of white wine (for me), and we board on time, a little before 19:00.

    JFK is JFK, so we push back on time, but it’s a good 1/2 hour before we take off. Once airborne, the person in front of me once again reclines their chair to the max before we’re at cruising height. I no longer care. I had a burger in the airport, so I’m not hungry. I focus instead on Sauvignon Blanc.
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