A New York weekend: part II

Saturday

Saturday was something of a recovery day.  The jet-lag caught up with both of us, and we slept late into the morning, helped by the late arrival back from Asbury Park on Friday night.  I was sent out to fetch breakfast from the nearby Daniel’s Bagels; a small, busy place where it was somehow really difficult to make myself understood, a point proven when Vicky asked, “why has my bagel got egg in it?” – and my heart sank.  Thankfully, we swapped bagels and I avoided a return visit.

We headed out to Grand Central Terminal and chanced upon the ‘whispering gallery’ (see this photo), before moving onwards to Times Square for a taste of what New York really feels like.  It didn’t let us down: heaving with people, we searched in vain in the Zagat guide before giving up and going into Maxie’s which looked vaguely authentic.  How easily you can be disappointed: it was - of course - packed out, and they did give huge portions, but that’s the best that I can say about it.  You’ll draw your own conclusions from the photograph.

Feeling suitably ill, we moved on and managed to get some tourist photos in the Square.  Afterwards, we headed downtown and visited Macy’s, surely the biggest shop in the world – a hunch that the coats might be “upstairs” led to an adventure where I gave up when I got to the eighth floor, and I don’t think I’d even reached the top.  Ill-fated meeting arrangements were made (“I’ll meet you by the escalator on the third floor” – there are about 10 sets of escalators on each floor) before we found the coats in the basement.  Still, it allowed me to stop moaning, and for Vicky to pick up the complaining where I left off (ref: not having a new coat).

The worst mistake of our trip was passing an opportunity to take a trip on the Staten Island Ferry by night.  Having made the trip down to the south of the island, we looked around the terminal trying to find a boat tour around the harbour.  We didn’t find one, nor did we find out until the next day that the free ferry would have given us the best tour of all.  Still, we made the most of the time by heading up to the Rockefeller Center for a view across New York by night.  Captivating and much better than the nearby Empire State Building, it more than made up for the lost boat trip.

Sunday

After a late brunch at Pershing Square near Grand Central, we headed down towards the site of the World Trade Center and the South Street Seaport to take a water taxi around the south of Manhattan island.  Only an hour and assisted by an entertaining tour guide, we saw another side of town that we really enjoyed. 

Then we headed uptown towards Greenwich Village, in search of the bohemian lifestyle that Vicky aspires to.  We found an amazing shop, East West Living, then searched through the book again for a place to stop and snack.  What we found was perfect for Vicky (organic place, nice coffee) but not so great for me (nothing tempting to eat, lemonade which tasted of lemons – far too dramatic for me).

More to follow later.

A New York weekend: part I

So much to write, so little time.  We left London on Thursday afternoon on an uneventful, quiet flight, where we watched the beautiful sunset disappearing over the course of several hours as we were flying into it.  Alas, the queues in John F Kennedy International Airport were not so beautiful; I’m sorry to say that this place deservedly had a reputation of being one of the worst airports in the world.  Vicky took the better queue, and was able to find the bag whilst I waited in line watching two people just arriving from India trying to convince the officer that their planned six-month stay was “just a vacation”.

Now late on Thursday night, we took a yellow cab into Manhattan and our hotel, the Eastgate Tower Hotel, located in mid-town on the East side.  Formerly a residential tower block converted into a hotel, the facilities are basic (no restaurant, no fountains in reception) but the rooms are huge, with sofas and a kitchen.  Immediate requirements for food took us to Scotty’s Diner nearby; open all night, the food was hardly amazing but it served its purpose. Happier once we’d worked out how to turn off the air conditioning (learning from our San Francisco experience), we slept well and my first experience with sleeping tablets made sure that I slept through until Friday.

Friday morning took us out to a proper deli for breakfast.  Bloom’s Delicatessen certainly gave us our money’s worth; Vicky had piles and piles of griddle cakes, and I took the steak & eggs, always my favourite here in New York.  We decided to brave the queues of the Empire State Building, but were pleasantly surprised by how quickly we passed through the multiple security checks, and how unpleasantly surprised we were by the numerous attempts to sell us ridiculous merchandise through the whole experience.  Against the odds, we fought through and made it to the top in very strong winds; a brief visit, but worth it for the views on what looks to be the only sunshine of our weekend here.  Here we can see Vicky looking over the city; quite how she has her eyes closed in so many pictures, I’ll never know.

Afterwards, we headed down to the site of the World Trade Center, now in the middle of rebuilding as the Freedom Tower.  Surprisingly little see here, since most of the work to date has gone on below ground level, it was still busy with tourists and a newly opened visitor centre, which left me wondering if I was the only one who thought it a little strange to have an attraction dedicated to a terrorist attack?  Still, light relief was available on the subway, where the reason for the service alterations tickled me for hours.

By now totally exhausted, despite it only being 2pm in the afternoon, we headed back to the hotel for a rest in order to be ready before that evening’s Tom Jones concert.  Contrary to what everyone appears to think, we didn’t make the trip to New York just to see Tom; the boring truth is that we saw him on Jonathan Ross’ show after we’d booked the flights and, when Vicky said how much she liked him, I did some research and found out that he’d be in New York during our stay.

Well, when I saw in “New York”, I actually mean “New Jersey”, and despite them looking nearby on any map, it’s actually quite a trip.  But before we headed out, we stopped by another local deli which had a wonderful, huge spread of hot and cold food and we dutifully took trays and filled them to capacity.  The trays were, as it goes, substantially larger than our appetites and the “pay by the ounce” system, whilst fair, left us feeling embarrassed at paying $30 for food that we only half-finished. 

We left New York Penn station on the New Jersey Transit and took the near two-hour journey to Asbury Park, a small town on the coast.  The train seemed to stop at the most remote places, and despite having ten carriages, only seemed to carry a few people, even on our peak hour journey.  Worried that we wouldn’t make the walk to the shore in time, we took a taxi from the station to the Paramount Theatre (note the English spelling of ‘theatre’) which seemed deserted.  We needn’t have worried; inside the small venue (so small that we wondered whether it would ever be profitable to have a Tom Jones concert there) were hundreds of passionate Tom Jones fans.

It’s hard to speak of how captivating his performance was.  We’ve seen quite a lot of music live (most recently, The Killers and Keane) but Tom surpassed them all, somehow keeping everyone totally engaged from start to finish.  He was on stage for two hours, but it felt like just a few minutes; we realised in the end why he hadn’t had, nor needed, any support acts.

And so to the rush back to Asbury Park station; no chance of taxi this time, of course.  Despite our best efforts, the 20 minute walk was 2 minutes too long to meet the train, and there was an hour wait for the next one.  Not to worry; we headed over the road to Carmine’s, which looked closed at first but was actually quite lively.  We sat at the bar with the regulars, ate jumbo shrimps and drank beer; in the end, we met Dave (pictured below) who, despite sitting with us at the bar, actually worked there and he introduced Vicky to a drink of Grand Marnier with a strawberry dropped into it.  The smell was enough to put me off, but not Vicky; by the time we took that later train back, her face was a little bit redder.

A long journey back at another New York taxi got us back to the hotel for around 1.30am.  A long night was made worth it by Tom, and later Dave and his colleague Vicky; Saturday would start a little later for their efforts.

On a Mission in Mallaig

The journey from Fort William to Mallaig is as spectacular as the guidebooks say.  The question is why such a rural, remote railway route would ever be built, given that it most certainly could never be economically viable.  But as you rush along the water’s edge, and over the famous Glenfinnan Viaduct, those questions disappear.  It’s the only time I’ve ever heard a landmark being announced by a conductor over the PA system.

Mallaig was, to put it bluntly, closed.  There were several promising places for lunch, none of which were open; this one offered the most hope, but those lights are only on because it’s in the process of refurbishment.

Alas, God was on my side, in more ways than one.  Opposite the station entrance was the Christian Fisherman’s Mission, open all day and busy, too, though not surprising given the temperature outside and the lack of competition.

The menu didn’t hold too much promise but, as I reasoned to myself, it mustn’t be too bad given the number of actual fishermen who were eating there.  I particularly like the asterisk next to “homemade”.

At the counter, I asked for the scampi, attempting to take refuge in it being the most expensive item on a cheap menu.  What I hadn’t noticed was the time (1.45pm), and -more importantly - the sign.

Now, I should pay credit to the lady who served me, who went into the kitchen to deliver the news of this late order.  But, let me tell you this, the language I heard coming back out of that kitchen was far from Christian.  God would not approve.  Still, He was smiling at me, at least for now, because a few minutes later, this arrived.

I felt heartened by my experience in the Mission, and with another two hours before the train back to Fort William, I headed out round the East Bay to get some photos of Mallaig.  That’s when I saw the sign – not the lunch sign, but another one, just on the right of the main road.

With time on my side, I headed up the path and was immediately impressed by the views it offered after only a few minutes.  Filled with yet more confidence, I headed onwards and arrived at the summit to this spectacular view which also had, usefully, a chair to perch my camera on.  You’ll notice that I’m smiling; this is despite the fact that my foot is in a ditch which, as I now know, has a stream running through it.

I think that my friends back in the Mission must have spoken to Him, because just as the delayed shutter released, so did the most almighty clap of thunder.  Now a good 45 minutes from dry land, I headed onwards to get another beautiful shot looking out to sea.

Then, at the furthest point, the heaven’s opened.  Hailstones rained down on me as I tried to wrap up and get everything packed up into my rucksack.  Several things that I’d done before leaving now seemed quite stupid.  These included:

1.  Wearing trainers.  In fact, this had seemed stupid since the ditch incident mentioned earlier.

2.  Wearing denim jeans.  Look, I wasn’t expected to go walking, but it’s fair shout that I should have expected rain.  Denim is the heaviest material on earth when it’s wet, let me tell you.

3.  Packing my laptop.  Doing a few e-mails on the train up here was never going to happen, given the beautiful scenery I was passing through, although without it, I wouldn’t be writing this blog now.  (On the train back, with every part of my body wet and cold, I care much less for the scenery).

As I got back to Mallaig, the rain subsided a little and I stopped to record the moment.  I also sent a text to Vicky, saying that I’d been at the top of the mountain when I first heard thunder.  She text back: “Do you think that the thunder was a sign?” 

Yes, I do.  A sign that I should have ordered lunch before 1.30pm.

Day 5: Las Vegas, Portland

We started the day with the crowds at the MGM Grand breakfast buffet.  Breakfast was subtly different from the buffet at other times of the day; perhaps it’s the overnight hunger, or an overdose of gambling losses, but people were much more aggressive in getting their food. 

Afterwards, we took a taxi to The Little Church of the West Wedding Chapel.  Even at 11am in the morning, we arrived just as a wedding ceremony was ending.  The church itself is quite small and quaint; it’s just the location that makes it so peculiar.  Feeling strangely voyeuristic, we watched the lucky couple leaving the church and posing for photographs (which are, apparently, included in the price).

The downside of coming to the chapel by taxi was, of course, that there were no readily available chapels back to ‘the strip’.  Now, it may not look to be so far away on the above photograph, but, in the mid-day Vegas heat, it was quite some distance.  By the time that we arrived back at the MGM Grand for the final time, it was all we could do to overdose on ice cream until suitably sedated from our heat exposure.

In the air-conditioned taxi back to the airport; I was delighted to find that we were departing from the “D gates” (last visited during last year’s disaster) which meant that there would be chance for us to have the best burger and milkshake in America at Ruby’s Diner.  No photos of the food, sadly, but it’s fair to say that by the time we reached Portland, and our friend Sarah, I was feeling a little bloated and exhausted.

What did we make of Portland?  Whilst landing, we noticed such wonderful things as greenery and trees, which made the place feel like a whole different world to Vegas.  Far from being a small city in the north-west corner of America, Portland is surprisingly big but also quite low-rise; Sarah’s wonderful, smart and modern flat is in the Pearl District, a newly-emerging district that is being developed with some style.  Modern, clean and accessible: what a contrast to Vegas!

By the time we arrived, we were both ready to collapse.  Just time to take the modern Portland Streetcar, which is free to travel on as the local government encourage people not to take their cars.  We visited Deschutes Brewery; we managed to stay away from the beer, but not from their wonderful pulled pork sandwich.  Delicious food to sleep on.

Day 4: Las Vegas

Already in the routine of waking up in time to see the sunrise, we capitalised on being awake to head over to the famous breakfast buffet at the Paris Hotel.  The length of the queue is misleading: both the selection of and food itself is just average.  I enjoyed the caramel sauce for the waffles; Vicky worried that they were cooking that raw chicken a bit too close to the cooked sausages.

After breakfast, we took a visit to the Bellagio Hotel and marvelled again at the fountains.  Inside, we found elegance comparable, if not better than, the Venetian Hotel.  The Bellagio also afforded us good views of the Paris Hotel and the Eiffel Tower: whether half-size or two-thirds (it varies on the guidebook you read), it’s an impressive structure, if somewhat lost in the Vegas skyline.

It was time for a trip up the Eiffel Tower: after visiting the real thing a month earlier, I’m pleased to report this one has a few improvements: not least, hardly any queue and a single lift to the top, rather than the confusing and queue-friendly multi-instalment arrangement in the original.  It was great to take a view of Vegas from the top of the tower but truthfully, the real tower is a better spectacle in every respect. 

Afterwards, we took a visit to the Wynn Resort, which felt even smarter inside than the Bellagio Hotel, but perhaps with a little less atmosphere.  I guess any hotel which is topped with the signature of the developer can’t be perfect.  But then again, this is Vegas – they’ve build another wing next door, and it’s called “Encore”, again written in Mr Wynn’s handwriting.  Why not?

By this time, it was about 12pm and the heat outside was quite stifling. We retired back to the MGM for the afternoon, wanting to prepare ourselves for dinner in the Eiffel Tower Restaurant later in the evening.  In the end, we took too long before having an afternoon snack in the Studio Café.  At least the service was great: the waitress helpfully suggested that 12 chicken pieces would be too many.  Unfortunately, as it turns out, 6 chicken pieces was also too many to avoid spoiling dinner.

Dinner at 9pm was a mixed affair.  There’s no doubting that the Paris benefits massively from being opposite the Bellagio fountains.  Diners delight in having a great view of the show which runs every 15 minutes.  Service itself was mixed.  The waiters were polite and efficient, but we found ourselves stranded on arrival and I always felt like something of a second-class citizen after ordering a single glass a wine ($16) from a wine menu that included a bottle for $19,000.  No wonder the wine waiter didn’t spend too long at our table.

Our late afternoon spoiled our dinner massively: despite ordering modest food (me, smoked salmon and chicken; Vicky, shrimp & spaghetti and halibut & chorizo) we were completely unable to eat any substantial part of it.  It was such a shame, because there was no doubting that the Paris’ chicken was streets ahead of the MGM’s.  C’est la vie.

Day 3: Las Vegas

There’s something about sleeping in Las Vegas hotels that’s different from everywhere else in the world.  Yes, I know we’ve travelled back 8 hours and you expect some disruption, but I remain convinced that the air conditioning in Vegas hotels isn’t' “normal” and is contrived to wake you early each day, surely in the hope that you’ll gamble your life away downstairs in the casino.  Enough people do, that’s for sure.

Sure enough, we were both awake at 5am in good time to watch the sun rise over the distant mountains.  Vegas is such a strange place – a vast, sprawling town set literally in the middle of the desert.  Now developed, you can see many reasons for its continued prosperity.  It’s just strange to think what must have happened to have caused it to develop in the first place – surely it was easier for it not to have happened?

Thankfully, we managed to sleep some more and we took a late lunch at the hotel’s MGM Grand Buffet.  Hotel buffets in Vegas hotels defy description: their scale, in terms of tables and vast quantities of food spread over such a large area, mirrors Vegas itself.  Despite plenty of other choices (hotels typically have ten or more restaurants within them), the buffets are always aggressively priced (set price of $15 is typical for any meal, including drinks).  And the food is normally better than OK – nothing exceptional, but certainly good value and quite acceptable.

Our first trip on the Las Vegas Monorail took us to the Venetian Hotel.  The Venetian is surely one of Vegas’ smartest hotels – the decoration is simply impeccable – this example is the huge ceiling painting above the escalators.

 

The Venice theme has no apparent limits.  An artificial sky is complemented by an indoor canal, complete with gondola rides (expensive, but with no shortage of takers – just like the real Venice). 

By this time, I was very weary but Vicky manage to coerce me in to Jimmy Choo’s (they’re wonderful shoes, apparently) before we collapsed over a coffee (or Diet Pepsi, for the less sophisticated of us).

In a last-ditch attempt to wake myself up, I went on the New York-New York rollercoaster.   Afterwards, we headed back to the MGM and were surprised to find the Lion Habitat on show within the hotel.  Is it right to keep animals in a hotel?  We thought not, but apparently they are kept outside of Vegas and brought in each day.  I’m still not sure that makes it any more ‘right’, but it certainly pulls in the crowds.

Still in the fabled ‘corridor’, we struggled on to dinner a the Grand Wok in the hotel, before heading back to the Venetian for a performance by the Blue Man Group.  We’d both seen their show when it was on a couple of years ago back in London. 

Truthfully, we both thought the show was a little below their (high) London standards, and might have been lost on the unappreciative and unresponsive American audience.  What made the night for us was, having managed to avoid being selected for any audience participation in the show, we had the opportunity to meet with a ‘Blue Man’ after the show.  Vicky even got a little blue paint on her nose for her efforts.

After leaving the Blue Man, we had a quick look into the ballroom at the Venetian.  As regular blog-readers will know, this is where the famous “Monster night” took place in January 2007 and I took a photo of the room whilst we were there.  It looks big here, but it felt a 1,000 times bigger when I was making an impromptu speech bin front of the gathered audience on that night last year.

Day 2: San Francisco, Las Vegas

After a great night’s sleep and an over-priced breakfast at the Westin, we headed out and found the market at the Port of San Francisco.  Surprisingly pretty and varied, it was a mix of indoor and outdoor stalls and it gave us much more of a ‘feel’ for San Francisco.

Afterwards, I had the bright idea of taking a San Francisco tram back to the hotel to save rushing.  The old tram certainly saved us time, but the automatic ticket dispenser cost us some money – I didn’t know it didn’t give change, a lack of knowledge on my part that the driver found to be hilariously funny.

We collected our bags, took the BART and afterwards the flight to Las Vegas.  Always somewhat larger than life, our hotel (the MGM Grand) is apparently the biggest in the world with over 5,000 rooms.  Bewildered by the sheer size of the casino, we headed out for a walk down ‘the Strip’ – and even at 7pm at night, the heat was just astonishing!

We walked for as long as we could tolerate the heat (we just about made it far enough to see the Bellagio Hotel fountain show) before making our way to the restaurant I’d booked for dinner – Lawry’s Prime Rib.  I’d been before, on a previous work trip, and I’d remembered the food for being great.  Turned out to be a good shout – probably the best beef that either of us had ever eaten.

Given that I’d had some difficulties keeping Vicky awake during the meal, we admitted defeat after the main course and retired to bed. 

Day 1: San Francisco

We arrived in San Francisco mid-afternoon, and took the BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) to the Westin Market Street hotel.  I knew as soon as we came out of the station that we’d done well: the hotel was right in the middle of the ‘downtown’ part of San Francisco, away from the touristy (and expensive) Fisherman’s Wharf.  This felt much more like ‘proper’ San Francisco.

After a long flight, the hotel was just perfect: it had a wonderfully huge and comfortable bed.  In fact, the challenge was not going to sleep: in the room at 4.30pm local time (12.30am Sunday morning, UK time), it was far too tempting to sleep straight away.  The risk of sleeping would be to wake up at 2am local time (10am Sunday, UK time) and have another holiday would be ruined by jetlag.

We agreed on the principle, so Vicky fetched a Starbucks to keep herself awake.  For her, this worked; I duly crashed, and by 6pm, I think we may have easily killed each other.  We compromised by agreeing to go out for some food and then coming back for sleep.  Wanting to sample an American burger but not from McDonald’s, we found a small, local chain called Pearl’s Diner. 

On Google Maps, it didn’t look so far away but truthfully, it was too far for jet-lagged legs.  We found it in the end; the restaurant was basic beyond basic, but the food was just great.

One more walk back to the hotel, and we slept wonderfully.  Killing the jetlag, and not each other. 

Day 1: “Ten hours with a Virgin”

During our flight out, we were entertained by Scott, a Virgin Atlantic air steward, who decided that he’d make the announcements a little more ‘interesting’. 

During the safety announcements

“In the event of cabin depressurisation, oxygen masks will drop down from above.  After you have finished screaming, carefully put the mask around your head and breathe normally – although I’m sure in these circumstances, you will all be hyperventilating already”.

“Be sure to fit your own oxygen mask before helping others, such as young children.  If you have more than one child with you today, now is the time to consider which one you love the most”.

“Your lifejacket has a light and, usefully, a whistle, which may be used to attract the attention any passing sailors”.

“In the event of them being required, the lifejacket is yours to keep with the compliments of Virgin Atlantic.  I can assure that your cabin crew will not be coming around the collect them afterwards”.

“Be sure to inflate your lifejacket after leaving the plane.  If you do it whilst in the plane, you will not only look like the Michelin Man, but it will certainly impede your exit”.

The first announcement by Scott’s colleague

“My name is Neil; whilst you’ve all enjoyed listening to Scott’s announcements, my style is somewhat straighter – in more ways than one”.

After we landed in San Francisco

“Be sure to tell your friends who you travelled with today; after all, it’s not every day that you can say that you’ve spent 10 hours with a Virgin”.

As we left the plane, I noticed a printed list of “jokes and gags” on top of the first class bar area.  I will always regret not picking it up and taking it with me – I’m sure it would have made writing this post a lot easier.

Venice on a Friday evening

It's fair to say that Venice, when considered in totality, probably isn't as nice as Bellagio.  But Venice is itself quite unique.

In our two days here, we've had numerous plates of over-priced and only-average food. 

The queues for the various attractions are as memorable as the people in them are rude. 

The Rialto bridge is a riot; almost literally.  A bridge famed for its romance and beauty will be remembered by us for the continual scrum which takes place on it.  People physically fight to have the best view - and photograph - at the top of bridge.

It seems as though each water bus through the town centre carries about 1,000 people.  Travelling on one is a frenzied and over-priced affair.  Each stop of the bus initiates blind panic, as people push, barge and bite their way to the front to get off.   Their panic might be unjustified, as the bus stops only for a few seconds at each stop; the buses may come along as frequently as every one minute, but each seems equally crowded.

What about taking a taxi?  The short trip from the Rialto bridge to the station, near our hotel, cost around £30.  The boats don't travel so quickly, but they do ruthlessly drive at (and I do mean, drive directly at) the gondolas; let's not talk about the price of a gondola trip.

Venice is a city of contradictions.

I write to you on a Friday night from the San Carlo square in the heart of Venice's tourist district.  We are sat in the Caffé Florian, under the moon and in the shadow of the Basilica di San Marco, listening to a 6-piece string orchestra. 

At times like this, you'd be hard pushed not to describe Venice as the most romantic city in the world.

Then again, the coffee we've just had cost around £7, and later we'll have the choice between taking our lives into our own hands on the water bus, or taking a second mortgage and a water taxi.