Airbnb.
At first it looks like a mangled autocorrect but as your brain slowly starts decipher the chaotic scramble of consonants you wonder; is it an acronym or an abbreviation or both?
Officially, according to something I once missed the beginning of, its supposed to be short for Airbed and Breakfast but if it really was it wouldn't have caught on. Every airbed I have ever spent time on, didn't involve much sleep and rarely does the kind of person who puts you up on one, cook you breakfast in the morning. I know this for a fact; I own one and I often make my guests suffer the indignity of slowing going soft in the night....and sleeping on a flat mattress.
I mention this because having touched down at New York JFK at an ungodly hour, made infinitely worse by the time difference, an Airbnb apartment on West 48 and 10th should have beckoned us to our rest.
It was all planned in good faith because we had made this trip with the firm intention of staying with our antipodean friends (the VB's) and their extended clan, who had travelled infinitely further than us and hadn't even ditched the small people to do so.
Sadly, while Airbnb may be an ecologically sound, world beating internet sensation, powered by hipster beard trimmings, it too has succumbed to what has long ailed terrestrial estate agents the world over. Misdescription.
The apartment in now trendy Hell's Kitchen was advertised as offering all the latest modern conveniences. The roof patio boasted genuine rain water; the photos showed a palatial duplex with views of midtown unspoiled by the dedicated helipad; Jeremy Irons popped in to turn down the beds and leave a chocolate on your pillow.
Ironic*, or what!
It probably explains why the VB's looked so crumpled when we finally met them.
Victoria had called as soon as they got there to relay the bad news. At first it was hard to understand what she was saying as the receiver was pressed hard against her cheek, merely to give the others space to inhale.
In short, it wasn't quite as big as Airbnb might have led us to believe.
There are times when you realise what a good woman you have married and this was one. Had it been left to me, we would either have ended up spending (a) more than we could afford, or (b) three nights in a dumpster. Clare foresaw the alternatives, and without so much as a murmur of complaint, scoured 65 million websites in 0.67 seconds and booked us into the Hudson Park Hotel, even closer to the action.
That there was a room to be had anywhere in New York on Independence Day weekend, let alone one so central and for such a piffling amount, still confounds me. Ninety percent of my brain urged me to drop to one bended knee and immediately ask this girl to marry me. The other twelve percent said 'you did that 13 years ago (she said yes), and by the way she's not like all the other girls!'
The remaining four percent discarded any mathematical quibbles and put the improbable vacancy down to the high likelihood of alien invasion. After all, the movie would certainly have bombed at the box office if they had appeared through the cigar smoke on 23rd November (Thanksgiving) and not 4th July.
Conquest would have been inevitable as Jeff Goldblum would have been at home working his way through a massive turkey as opposed to starring in one.
Waking early on the 17th floor, we gazed out over mid town, skipped the $28 hotel croissant and headed to street level for a takeout and a very long walk.
'How do you get to Carnegie Hall?' I asked after stopping a passing local.
'Practice, Practice, Practice!' he said gleefully before cuffing me roughly across the ear with his Empire State woggle stick.
After that, Trump Tower looked distinctly brown and lacklustre, like 1980's commercial double glazing.
St Patrick's Cathedral did a great job of appearing simultaneously enormous (inside) and tiny (outside) like a TARDIS wedged between its towering neighbours.
Grand Central Station conjured memories of just about every great American movie that I have ever seen.
As we huddled in the east portico of the New York Central Library, the rain that had been threatening to fall all morning, started in earnest. As we gazed out down East 41st, it was not hard to imagine the approaching tidal wave in The Day After Tomorrow.
Lunch booked at 5 Napkins on 9th meant a four block dash in the monsoon conditions for Clare and a slightly more leisurely stroll for me as, having lost her in the crowds after 8 paces, I stopped, paid $5 for an umbrella and texted her periodically to update her on my progress.
I confess that I might have meandered a little; stopping to inspect some peeling paint; pausing to appreciate the architectural features of a basement door; admiring the reflections in the puddles, and by the time I arrived, I was still dry from the neck up, which is more than be said for Clare who had got there sooner but grown gills.
The burgers were excellent but this was but the first of a worrying number of meals at which I was denied the legendary New York cheese cake that I had specifically travelled 3,459 miles to consume.
It was probably for the best as New York only sells two things cheaply. The first is taxi rides and the second is .....let's stick to taxis.
Footsore and exhausted, we shambled back down 5th Avenue, past store after store sporting bored shop assistants but not a single paying customer.
The unattractively named Frankie's 570 Spuntino in West Village was our evening eatery of choice. A pine panelled chalet style restaurant, it felt like its natural home should be high in the Alps sporting a roaring fire and a pendulous, bear skin clad Bond girl .
Spuntino means "snack" in Italian and Google suggested that Frankie's offered 'small plates of Italian-influenced New York comfort food'. It was nice but it wasn't all that and the comfort became a tad less so when the bill arrived. A dollar sign just before the 570 would have satisfied the sticklers.
In the name of editorial balance, we headed down the street and stumbled into Jonny's Dive Bar where for the price of a Screw Driver in Manhattan you can have as much Sex on The Beach as you want, at least until they ask you to leave.
There may have been a genuine misunderstanding when I emerged from the toilets in my speedos and struggled to find the steps to the high board but the locals didn't seem to mind.
The VB's had a pitcher of something alcoholic that was comfortably big enough for a twisting somersault with reverse pike entry.
But to be honest, by this time, like my airbed, I felt a bit deflated.
*(Note: After first publication, a number of readers questioned why this was ironic. I looked up the term to make sure that I had not committed some terrible literary faux pas and then loaded my service revolver. Then I decided that rearranging my grey matter was an over reaction.
Irony is a state of affairs or an event that seems deliberately contrary to what one expects and is often wryly amusing as a result.
Jeremy Irons popped in to turn down the beds and this explains why the VB's looked so crumpled.
Jeremy patently did not iron anything.
I am not Alanis Morissette.)
At first it looks like a mangled autocorrect but as your brain slowly starts decipher the chaotic scramble of consonants you wonder; is it an acronym or an abbreviation or both?
Officially, according to something I once missed the beginning of, its supposed to be short for Airbed and Breakfast but if it really was it wouldn't have caught on. Every airbed I have ever spent time on, didn't involve much sleep and rarely does the kind of person who puts you up on one, cook you breakfast in the morning. I know this for a fact; I own one and I often make my guests suffer the indignity of slowing going soft in the night....and sleeping on a flat mattress.
I mention this because having touched down at New York JFK at an ungodly hour, made infinitely worse by the time difference, an Airbnb apartment on West 48 and 10th should have beckoned us to our rest.
It was all planned in good faith because we had made this trip with the firm intention of staying with our antipodean friends (the VB's) and their extended clan, who had travelled infinitely further than us and hadn't even ditched the small people to do so.
Sadly, while Airbnb may be an ecologically sound, world beating internet sensation, powered by hipster beard trimmings, it too has succumbed to what has long ailed terrestrial estate agents the world over. Misdescription.
The apartment in now trendy Hell's Kitchen was advertised as offering all the latest modern conveniences. The roof patio boasted genuine rain water; the photos showed a palatial duplex with views of midtown unspoiled by the dedicated helipad; Jeremy Irons popped in to turn down the beds and leave a chocolate on your pillow.
Ironic*, or what!
It probably explains why the VB's looked so crumpled when we finally met them.
Victoria had called as soon as they got there to relay the bad news. At first it was hard to understand what she was saying as the receiver was pressed hard against her cheek, merely to give the others space to inhale.
In short, it wasn't quite as big as Airbnb might have led us to believe.
There are times when you realise what a good woman you have married and this was one. Had it been left to me, we would either have ended up spending (a) more than we could afford, or (b) three nights in a dumpster. Clare foresaw the alternatives, and without so much as a murmur of complaint, scoured 65 million websites in 0.67 seconds and booked us into the Hudson Park Hotel, even closer to the action.
That there was a room to be had anywhere in New York on Independence Day weekend, let alone one so central and for such a piffling amount, still confounds me. Ninety percent of my brain urged me to drop to one bended knee and immediately ask this girl to marry me. The other twelve percent said 'you did that 13 years ago (she said yes), and by the way she's not like all the other girls!'
The remaining four percent discarded any mathematical quibbles and put the improbable vacancy down to the high likelihood of alien invasion. After all, the movie would certainly have bombed at the box office if they had appeared through the cigar smoke on 23rd November (Thanksgiving) and not 4th July.
Conquest would have been inevitable as Jeff Goldblum would have been at home working his way through a massive turkey as opposed to starring in one.
Waking early on the 17th floor, we gazed out over mid town, skipped the $28 hotel croissant and headed to street level for a takeout and a very long walk.
'How do you get to Carnegie Hall?' I asked after stopping a passing local.
'Practice, Practice, Practice!' he said gleefully before cuffing me roughly across the ear with his Empire State woggle stick.
After that, Trump Tower looked distinctly brown and lacklustre, like 1980's commercial double glazing.
 |
| Police help a window cleaner at Trump Tower. |
 |
| Trump addresses his adoring fans. |
St Patrick's Cathedral did a great job of appearing simultaneously enormous (inside) and tiny (outside) like a TARDIS wedged between its towering neighbours.
Grand Central Station conjured memories of just about every great American movie that I have ever seen.
As we huddled in the east portico of the New York Central Library, the rain that had been threatening to fall all morning, started in earnest. As we gazed out down East 41st, it was not hard to imagine the approaching tidal wave in The Day After Tomorrow.
 |
| Say hello to the New York Public Library. |
 |
| Tidal Wave goodbye to the New York Public Library. |
Lunch booked at 5 Napkins on 9th meant a four block dash in the monsoon conditions for Clare and a slightly more leisurely stroll for me as, having lost her in the crowds after 8 paces, I stopped, paid $5 for an umbrella and texted her periodically to update her on my progress.
I confess that I might have meandered a little; stopping to inspect some peeling paint; pausing to appreciate the architectural features of a basement door; admiring the reflections in the puddles, and by the time I arrived, I was still dry from the neck up, which is more than be said for Clare who had got there sooner but grown gills.
The burgers were excellent but this was but the first of a worrying number of meals at which I was denied the legendary New York cheese cake that I had specifically travelled 3,459 miles to consume.
It was probably for the best as New York only sells two things cheaply. The first is taxi rides and the second is .....let's stick to taxis.
Footsore and exhausted, we shambled back down 5th Avenue, past store after store sporting bored shop assistants but not a single paying customer.
The unattractively named Frankie's 570 Spuntino in West Village was our evening eatery of choice. A pine panelled chalet style restaurant, it felt like its natural home should be high in the Alps sporting a roaring fire and a pendulous, bear skin clad Bond girl .
Spuntino means "snack" in Italian and Google suggested that Frankie's offered 'small plates of Italian-influenced New York comfort food'. It was nice but it wasn't all that and the comfort became a tad less so when the bill arrived. A dollar sign just before the 570 would have satisfied the sticklers.
In the name of editorial balance, we headed down the street and stumbled into Jonny's Dive Bar where for the price of a Screw Driver in Manhattan you can have as much Sex on The Beach as you want, at least until they ask you to leave.
There may have been a genuine misunderstanding when I emerged from the toilets in my speedos and struggled to find the steps to the high board but the locals didn't seem to mind.
The VB's had a pitcher of something alcoholic that was comfortably big enough for a twisting somersault with reverse pike entry.
But to be honest, by this time, like my airbed, I felt a bit deflated.
*(Note: After first publication, a number of readers questioned why this was ironic. I looked up the term to make sure that I had not committed some terrible literary faux pas and then loaded my service revolver. Then I decided that rearranging my grey matter was an over reaction.
Irony is a state of affairs or an event that seems deliberately contrary to what one expects and is often wryly amusing as a result.
Jeremy Irons popped in to turn down the beds and this explains why the VB's looked so crumpled.
Jeremy patently did not iron anything.
I am not Alanis Morissette.)
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