Some random extracts from my New York notebook.

On my Monday wanderings, I suddenly realise I’m walking past the theatre where ‘Sunday In The Park With George’ is playing, as in the Daniel Evans London production with the animated projections. I’m reminded how lucky I was to see it in its original home, the Menier Chocolate Factory near London Bridge.

Just looked it up now to see which theatre this was. Studio 54! As in your actual Studio-fifty-legendary-70s-disco-Warhol-tastic-four.

Its full address is 254 West 54th St, between 7th & 8th Avenues. And this is another abiding memory. Ask for directions in New York, and you are given up to four numbers (254, West 54, 7, 8). Which is a lot more difficult to remember than just ’79 Charing Cross Road’. But then, Charing Cross Road doesn’t go on for ever, cutting across all of London through different districts. London streets know their place.

Notes for a Seinfeld-style stand-up routine, with lots of arm waving and shrugging, except in an English accent:

‘Hey, New York, right? I mean, what’s with all the numbers on the street names? I mean, what’s the DEAL with that? What’s going on THERE? ‘Between West 51st and 5th.’ ‘Between 2nd Avenue and Lexington.’ ‘Between Babylon and Ting…’ ‘Between 5th Rock And 53rd Hard Place…’

All the people I ask for directions find it amusing when I have to write down their instructions in my little notebook. But I know if I don’t I WILL get the numbers wrong, and I WILL get lost.

And I do. At one point I mistakenly assume a road for vehicles (the 79th St Transverse) would allow walkers like myself access into the middle of the park, as is the case with the roads going through Regent’s Park or Hyde Park. But no, it just goes under bridges and tunnels and out the other side, and is clearly not for pedestrians. So I find out this the hard way.

‘Here I am in New York, and what am I doing? Spending the best part of half an hour traipsing along an underpass for no good reason. And I’m lost. And I’m alone. And I don’t know how long this road is going to go on for.’

Still, at least it wasn’t at night. And it was a LEAFY underpass.

***

When I eventually do find a way into Central Park, I pass some young people on benches, who in turn pass unkind comment. ‘Get a load of this guy!’

***

Going into a general store to buy a map, a determined young man on roller skates hurtles off the street and into the shop. He zooms over to the fridge, selects a bottle of Coke – sorry, a SODA – pays for it and zooms out again, without the cashier batting an eyelid. This all seems to me very New York type behaviour – but 70s New York, really. Still, apparently roller skating is starting to return to London too (so say the style pages), so maybe I’ll be seeing similar things in the queue at Sainsbury’s before long.

Not queue. LINE.

***

Back to the English Seinfeld:

‘And don’t get me STARTED on the TUBE you have here! Sorry, SUBWAY…! Yes, I KNOW it’s so much cheaper than in London. But no wonder – the seats on the trains have no cushions! What’s going on THERE? And you have, like NO idea when the next train is arriving? And the tube lines have confusing NUMBERS? Not lovely helpful names like Circle or Central?

‘And what’s the DEAL with the map? In London, an interchange means you can change lines at that station, right? In New York – get this – you can only change if the train is going in the right direction! ‘Southbound only!’ I don’t think that happens ANYWHERE on the London Tube! I mean, DID I MISS A MEETING?’

And of course, I only find this out the hard way. I spend a ridiculous amount of time wandering around one subway station looking for a platform that doesn’t exist, finding the map utterly baffling, thinking all New Yorkers must be mathematical geniuses. I’m sure I’d get used to the system with a couple more days’ use, as one does with anything. But at the time, I reserved the right to get utterly upset and confused. Thank you.

The tube stations themselves are brutal and prison-like. Subway barriers are proper barriers. Not lovely London ones you can leap over (‘Ah, the first fare-dodging of spring!’). These barriers are full height steel fences, with doors and grills. But then, that’s what they are like in the movies. I just forgot about the movies. Why was I surprised?

I think of that Quentin Crisp quote, how in Britain people are suspicious and reserved, but the system is kind (ie, NHS, benefits, cushioned seats on tube trains). Whereas in America, the people are direct and open, but the system is brutal. Certainly this first experience of their underground trains makes me think of the latter.

But the people are the opposite. Despite the brutal environment of the stations, I see  young people sitting on the wide exit steps, strumming ukeleles, or toy guitars. Not buskers playing to a hoped-for audience, but playing to themselves. The idea of people even sitting on steps in Tube stations – who weren’t homeless or drunk or mad – would be odd enough in London. Never mind people playing ukeleles or leisurely reading books.

***

In New York, everyone speaks clearly. From businessmen to skateboarders, even with the heaviest of Brooklyn accents and the latest street-based slang, the words are perfectly audible from start to finish. Or they don’t speak at all. No half measures.

No wonder eavesdropping columns like ‘Overheard In New York’ are so successful, while UK versions need to be tidied up or embellished, if not made up from scratch. The irony of a ‘Genuinely Overheard In London’ column, based on true transcriptions of utterations in public, is that it would have to be limited to the conversations of… American visitors.

The only voices you can hear properly in London have American accents. At least, voices heard during office hours, and not counting conversations on mobile phones. It takes alcohol or mobiles to get the average Englishman to speak up. Mumbling, evasion and caginess are national traits.

**

Watch a bit of local TV news while I’m there. As of this weekend, ‘trans fats’ are banned in all NYC restaurants. The city is also getting ready for the Independence Day parade, and I watch a TV interview with the man behind the Macy’s fireworks display. He speaks like a natural TV star, bantering with the presenter as if he were one of her colleagues. A British counterpart would be all ‘um’s and ‘er’s.