New York, New York
Everything happens in New York, on this perfectly-chequered island, with the avenues razing straight up and down, and the streets describing the blocks. There's so much distance perspective here, like everything's built to recede. Every block there's a crossroad, where you can peer down the streets and avenues and see the skyscrapers squeeze into distant points of origin at every end. And in New York, the skyscrapers really do scrape the sky, in great geometric chunks.
But at ground level, and before detail is lost to perspective, downtown New York heaves. Life is crammed into every shop lot and pavement crack. In the mornings, to the tune of white sunlight, New York assaults the senses. The smells of brewed coffee, strawberries, off-the-press newspapers, hot dogs and American bacon and eggs throng the air currents. The crowd, sparkling with blingbling, barrels in every direction: a tight mass of bobbing heads dyed and styled the archetypal American way - loud, demanding attention. Brown skin scrapes white skin scrapes black skin, eyeballs lock into fleeting contact with face after face after face. Vendors wrestle for attention, cars blare their disgruntlement and the tarmac groans underneath. The atmosphere changes every two blocks. The air is thick with jazz. And sprawled on the curbs, the artisans document the days with markers, artblock and cartoonistic impudence.
And in my head, New York is documented in great gulps. We rushed through the city, slurping up the sights in snatched eyefuls:
Blink, huge corporate rectangles towering down the streets and avenues.
Blink, a stick of a child, dark skin drenched in bright white sunlight, swathed in a bandanna, little fist clutching an American flag trailing behind her on the curb.
Blink, four planes writing white words across a flawless blue sky.
Blink, Brooklyn 'cross the river.
Blink, Columbia University.
Blink, a mass of archetypal black basketballers, the ball a blur across the court.
Blink, a squirrel, nose burrowed into a banana.
Blink, the leering white-boys slouching across town in their flashy convertibles.
Blink, the play of shadows across Central Park.
Blink, a shockingly poor cappucino.
Blink, burst of pigeons.
Blink, yellow taxi.
Blink, yellow taxi.
Blink, yellow taxi. Repeat 12,000 times.
In short, I feel like this:
Blink, New York.
Everything does happen here. In the time I've been here, I've seen a movie being filmed, a wedding underneath an enormous ship on the quay, a Puerto Rican parade, two men holding hands, a stretch limousine with a six-car escort, a cops-and-robbers shootout street chase. I'm not even kidding about the last one. All I need to see now is Brad Pitt sauntering down 5th Ave. and my vacation (hell, my life) will be set.
But, time is short, and I still have six hours to saturate my self and senses with everything. So, until the next update.
Next up: Blink, Rome.