New York For Blondes E-Book

Lisa Krämer

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Seitenzahl: 385

Beschreibung

With no concrete plan, and a little naive, Lisa is traveling to New York. Ostensibly, she just wants to improve her English. But, having reached a turning point in her career, she is secretly longing for a time-out. For nine and a half weeks she will conquer "her city", mostly on foot. Between shopping, culture, and celebrity hunting she will find tons of clichés and experiences, but also some surprises. And, on her way to the various sightseeing spots she will find the opportunity for contemplating her life and her approach towards it. The appeal of the uncertain and the freedom to do whatever she is in the mood for eventually lead to a liberating motto: "Just be yourself!"

Leseprobe

The Book

After a stressful time, both at work and at home, Lisa realizes a long cherished dream and takes some time out. She travels to New York City for 9 ½ weeks. Inquisitive and open-minded, she just wants to take things as they come.

From the very first moment, she feels the wonderful sensation of this new-found freedom. She would most like to shout with joy, being at long last free from responsibility.

Almost every day, she experiences something thrilling and new in her chosen exile, finds everything extremely exciting and electrifying.

By the end of the first week she has already explored the local district, mostly on foot and fast-paced. She wants to show the three visitors, who will be visiting her one after the other, everything there is to see. A demanding sight-seeing program lies ahead.

Half-way through her stay, her visitors have left and calm descends. Lisa reflects upon her life in New York, the polarity which is constantly present, and asks herself many things with a fair share of skepticism.

Her new “self“-consciousness leads to her the question of whether she would like to live in New York permanently. And what would her partner, family and friends say about that? Suddenly nothing seems to be of greater importance than her newly discovered self-determination. She increasingly begins to appreciate her own value and recognizes that the personal judgment of others is not important at all. She constantly wavers between the yearning to remain in New York City to start a new life and the joy of returning to Germany.

The Author

Lisa Krämer, born in 1963, lives in Aachen and is a freelance personnel management consultant.

Besides writing, she paints and is a passionate sportswoman. In addition she loves good food and excellent wine (preferably Chardonnay).

Further information is available on her website: www.newyorkfuerblonde.de

I dedicate this book to...

… myself

Please support Women’s projects –

I will donate 50 cents per book to charitable organizations

Contents

Chapter 1

Upon Landing – The Arrival, Sounds and No Silence

Chapter 2

Mannahatta – Rubber Boots and the Blonde Columbus

Chapter 3

American Pie – An Overweight Squirrel and a Birdman

Chapter 4

English Teacher Wanted – Asian Exodus and Male Invasion

Chapter 5

Downtown – Ground Zero and the Sexiest Man Alive

Chapter 6

Martini on the Rock(s) – The relationship to Alcohol

Chapter 7

Art or Fashion – Artsy Fashion for Shopaholics

Chapter 8

Bad Manners – Louts and Animal Tormentors

Chapter 9

Empire State of Food – New York Cut, Soul Food, and Bagels

Chapter 10

Hotdogs, the "Heidelberger", and Baseball

Chapter 11

Famous View of the Skyline – Austrian in a Sea of Lights

Chapter 12

Only Five Days in New York – Shopping: Pleasure vs. Pain

Chapter 13

Feeling Alien – Harlem Renaissance and a New Friend

Chapter 14

Imagine – Strawberry Fields Forever

Chapter15

Times Square - Showtime!

Chapter 16

The Upper Lifting Class – Cliches and Polarity

Chapter 17

Summer in the City - The Event of Events, and All for Nothing.

Chapter 18

Sex and the City – Robert and No Date

Chapter 19

In-Spots and Background Actors – "My" Celeb and My Dress.

Chapter 20

Good-bye – American Trainers

Freedom

Epilogue

Chapter 1

Upon Landing – The Arrival, Sounds and No Silence

"I'm between two jobs, and I'd like to improve my English communication skills." That was the first English sentence I said to the official at John F. Kennedy Airport, who eyeballed me seriously and sullenly.

"Please, let me take your fingerprints." I placed, slowly and carefully, one finger after another on the scanner.

"And your thumb", I heard from his lips.

What does "thumb" mean? I was stumped.

"And your thumb", he repeated grumpily. And, I still couldn't understand, even after he repeated his demand a third time. Finally, he took my lifeless hand, and pressed my thumb on the little square box.

To his suspicious question, why I wanted to stay nine and a half weeks, I answered, stammering, "Because my English is so bad." Well, whoever doesn't understand "thumb" needs to learn English. At least that's how I interpreted the indifferent look he adopted, as he dismissed me with a wave of the hand.

So here I am, in the arrival hall at JFK Airport. The first hurdle - the immigration officer - had been overcome. My nervousness had made me stutter. The fear upon entering the country was entirely justified: umpteen visitors have been sent home because the stated purpose of their stay was declared implausible or even just doubtful.

Now, the tension subsides, and I am only excited about what awaits me. Me, the business woman: restless, career-oriented, impatient most of the time, and curious, occasionally a bit clueless and not very profound. Maybe because I'm blonde? Embarrassed that I didn't properly understand "Mr. I-decide-whether-you-may-pass", I immediately look up in my dictionary what the rest of the fingers are called in English. Who knows when I might need this knowledge?

What brought me here in the first place?

I live in Bad Kreuznach, an idyllic town on the Nahe River, am a woman in my prime, and very dedicated to my job. I am in fact between two jobs, and want to improve my English. Because of residual leave, excess work, and good financial standing, I'm in the position to fulfill an old dream of mine in those ten weeks: a journey to New York, and a long stay there!

To learn English is the defined goal. I started my weeks-long planning with the idea of taking an internship or some job in New York. Soon, however, it became clear that I was going to be visited by at least three of my beloved fellow humans in New York, and I decided to just start off.

The difficulties one has to face when applying for a work permit for the US was another welcome reason to leave it at taking a holiday. I planned to decide on what exactly I wanted to do only on the spot – everything else would take care of itself.

After all, I deserved a restful time-out. The last few weeks in which, as head of human recources, I had to sack a hundred of my colleagues because the firm in which I had been working for four years skidded into insolvency have left their mark on me. I'm tired, haggard, stressed, and sapped. Even my long-standing relationship has suffered under these strains. Therefore, this time in New York is supposed to be a little get-away from my private, everyday life.

How characteristic, that it had to be my favorite TV series, “Sex and the City”, that gave me the idea for my destination. It was that serial that made me curious to see this huge metropolis. Everybody wants to go there. And still, most of what I knew about the Big Apple, I learned from that series. But, I wanted to get to know it, this town fraught with cliches and dreams; the city that “never sleeps”. I asked myself what its charm consisted of: Is it the enticement by the “land of the free” – the secret dream to be allowed to be one's self, after all? Or is it the thrill of anticipation in the face of the unimagined, whatever it may be? Isn't it true that many came to this city in search of something as yet not found? What did I hope for, personally? An adventure? As of now, I have no idea what I've let myself in for.

My First Long Day

The flight with Singapore Airlines had been relaxing and soothing. I hereby declare it the world's best airline! After bad experiences with low-cost airlines, everything I experienced with Singapore Airlines was pure pleasure. The lovely, delicate stewardesses with their long, colorful skirts and brightly red painted lips apparently enjoy doing their job. They act artlessly and attentively. On board, catering is good; there is fine wine and more than forty movies to choose from (after that, I stopped counting). The blockbuster, “Benjamin Button”, starring Brad Pitt, however, is boring – a reason to close my eyes for half an hour in between.

Thus, on June 8th, 2009, I set foot on American soil. A cab is supposed to take me into the city; I had already made this decision at home. It strikes me as being more comfortable taking my big, silver-colored aluminum suitcase into account that I expressly bought for the trip and I consider these first $45, plus tip, to be my first reasonable investment. Upon seeing the city's towering and seemingly endless silhouette for the first time, no sense of euphoria overtakes me. Instead, I tell myself: “Well, my dear, now I'm here and we have to get along with each other. What do we do with that? How do we handle each other?” Am I going to experience New York positively? Many questions haunt me. Most of all, however, there is curiosity and equanimity, and a feeling as if this city had been waiting for me. It seems to be thoroughly aware of its beauty, its riches, and its elegance. Yes, I feel that New York is sympathetic and benevolent to me. And it is, after all, the same vice versa.

I got to know my landlady via the internet. Many of those living in New York rent out part of their bedroom apartment since the rents are often not affordable for one person.

I advertised the dates and length of my trip, and Susanna responded with a nice email. She was looking for a roommate for her apartment, which consisted of one bedroom and one living room. Some pictures were attached to her email. The place to sleep is situated in Susanna's sitting room. She, on her part, is sleeping and living in her bedroom. When I saw the floor plan, I declined, for the time being. The room is adjacent to the kitchen (which is only separated from the room by a bar) and to the entrance door. There is a screen which is supposed to provide visual cover and some privacy, but the thought that a stranger had to cross my room whenever she wants to reach her own room was disagreeable to me, at first.

Susanna, however, persisted and sent me more emails. Eventually, she convinced me with her nice manner, and by informing me that she, herself, would be absent, and that I would have the flat all to myself.

After that, everything was easy as pie. For a short holiday trip, I'd probably have preferred a hotel, but for sixty-six days, a homey environment struck me as more comfortable.

I agreed, therefore, and it turned out later that sharing an apartment with a stranger really did work.

Now, I am very happy with my decision, for the apartment is fantastic. It is a modern, beautiful, and simply furnished room on the 30th floor – with a breathtaking view. The panorama window allows a spectacular view of the Empire State Building and Downtown. Opposite my narrow and high bed there is a writing table and a small cabinet with books and lots of pictures of Susanna and her family. Next to them, some prints adore the dark red painted walls. Behind the screen on the end of the bed there's a TV set vis-à-vis an ageing light-colored leather couch that shows that apparently not all roommates have treated the furniture with respect. Susanna even gives me the use of a big, built-in cupboard. “Closet”, she calls it. Somehow the word sounds strange to me, having learned in school that the German “Schrank” means “cupboard”. I don't ask her, however. After the embarrassment at the airport, I wouldn't like risking another. She will be right.

It's not unusual in New York for two or four persons to share apartments of this size, Susanna tells me. The rents for apartments range between $2,500 and 4,500, depending on size, facilities, and situation, so that only people with higher incomes can afford homes of their own. A nice thing is that the apartment buildings are under security surveillance night and day and that they boast a gym, a laundry, and the service of the doormen.

Susanna hands over the keys with a snappy introduction and a handwritten note with everything important on it. Among others, the well-meant hint to wash my hands after entering the apartment. Strange, I think. On the same evening, I'll understand her intention.

My roommate, barely thirty, tall, slender, and with henna red, long hair and dazzling white teeth, has but little time because she is a singer and often in search for engagements. She leaves me for the time being, having to attend a rehearsal.

First of all, I open the huge sliding window, which it is hard to move. Apparently this isn't done too often. Then I take a deep breath and look in all directions. On the right hand side, there is the Hudson River, and on my left the famous Empire State building, close at hand, almost within reaches. I hold my breath. Then I take an uneasy look down, where it is seething as in hell. There's the entrance to a tunnel through which buses run day after night under the waters of the Hudson River to New Jersey. Several roads, wide like freeways and from each of which three other roads are issuing forth, lead in all directions. From above, it looks like a gigantic freeway interchange.

View from the 30th floor of my apartment building

I exhale and hold my breath for a moment. It is noisy – no, it is very noisy! Some minutes later I'm to discover that I can't make a call when the window is open. And, after my first night, I've learned that it is impossible to sleep with the window open, even if you use earplugs.

First of all I make a call via the internet to my “Mr. Big”, who is already missing me very much. It wasn't easy for him that I left him alone. It wasn't easy for me, either, to explain to him and my fellow human beings, how important the journey, and my taking a step back from everything, was to me. There are only a few who understood that I preferred to be on my very own in this transitional phase and to take responsibility only for myself for a change, especially after the last months. I want to know how freedom feels like. I have the right to it, and I presume to do it. And, I have no bad conscious about it, either, for I wanted to allow myself this trip. And I intend to enjoy it. And, after all, there is Skype, where one can even see each other, thanks to the web cam. That doesn't make up for the lack of physical proximity, but it is some comfort, for him as well as for me.

I'm tired, but I also feel the urge for physical exercise after the long flight and to finally to get to know my new environment. I take the elevator down to the ground-floor and only then do I realize how beautiful, elegant, and upscale the lobby of this thirty-five-floor apartment building is. It resembles a lobby of a ritzy hotel, and like that, it is rather busy. On the reception desk there's a computer terminal where messages for the residents and other information can be accessed. Mail and other deliveries are being deposited, and visitors have to register with the doormen before they are allowed to take the elevator to the apartments.

I leave the apartment, which is on 42nd Street, between 9th and 10th Ave, in the neighborhood of “Hell's Kitchen”, but I'll come back to that later.

Its 1 pm. June guarantees agreeable temperatures, even in New York. The sun is shining and there's a light breeze in the streets. Without a definite aim, I wander towards 9th Ave, just a few meters away. At the crossroads, I pause for a moment. What uproar of traffic there is at noon! Lots of cars, innumerable Yellow Cabs, huge and clanging trucks, and buses emitting black soot, one beside the other, in several lanes – stop and go. And, above all that: the stench of the exhaust fumes and loud roar.

The street scene is dominated by Yellow Cabs, which ruthlessly and incredibly cheekily fight their way through the thick traffic. The sidewalks, too, about eight meters in width, are full of people. I look around in all directions. Behind me there is a house, painted in bright yellow and with flaked-off, weathered commercial murals, only fit for demolition. A pathetic sight.

A passerby barges into me. He doesn't see me! Just a fleeting glance while he's crossing the street, then he drops his gaze again.

Such behavior is alien to me, a person with open eyes. I shouldn't be halting at one spot for so long; probably that isn't done here. Therefore, I retreat a few steps towards the wall of a house to look at the scene at leisure. The 42th, in whose vicinity there's Time Square, seems to be an important traffic hub.

On the other side of the street there's a snack bar – here a pizza baker is selling huge slices for $0.99 only; from afar, it even looks appetizing. A little distance further on stands a narrow and decayed three-story hotel; the windows look as if they hadn't been cleaned for a decade.

Wherever I turn, I discover banal and yet exciting things. I'm impressed most of all by the glass leviathans with mirrored fronts and glittering, looming facades. One of those towering buildings increases in width from bottom to top, which is unusual. I've read that the city planners of New York stipulated that home builders construct buildings terrace-shaped, tapering towards the top so that the sunlight can reach down to the streets. Later, it sufficed to create open spaces in the vicinity. Many of the more recent skyscrapers boast wonderful green areas and backyards, indiscernible from the outside, as I realized later.

On my left, there are red brick houses, which are equally enormous. Surely, one can take lodgings there, too. I am about to get a stiff neck! There is flashing and blinking in the distance. That leads me to assume that Times Square won't be far away. But it has to wait a little longer.

Buses are humming along to get to the seemingly very complicated shuttle system that transports people out of the city to New Jersey. A courier on a skateboard whizzes by. The people appear very busy, in a hurry – they talk into their mobiles, eat or drink something while walking and scarcely raise their eyes; an incredible pace rules the city. For the first time in a long while, I have got time, and I feel like the slowest human being on earth.

Bustling New Yorkers

I discover some telephone booths; open in the front, but it is way too noisy to make a call. I am confused. Everything is so contrasting. First, the fantastic view of the Empire State Building from my window, then the look downwards on the traffic hell, the luxurious lobby, the dingy corner fifty meters farther on, the friendly doorman opening the door to me, the ignorant passer-by barging into me. Wildly wagging policemen, regulating the traffic with their whistles, side by side with those who hasten heedless across the streets with the lights showing red. People with headphones on their ears, hurrying past the telephone booths in which others are roaring into the phone because they can't hear anything themselves and the masses aren't pausing. That is The City; that is life!

In the distance, a venerable small church and old red brick buildings with green patinas on their roofs stand in bizarre contrast to the glass leviathans soaring into the sky. To me, Hell's Kitchen is less the restaurant area described in the guide – rather hell itself. Far back, the peak of the famous Chrysler building, in the east of town, projects from the sea of houses. This famous building makes me conscious of where, exactly, I am – in New York!

For a few meters, I wriggle through the masses of people urging forward, alongside 9th Ave heading south. From the beginning, I have planned to explore the city walking. Every street, every park, every building, and every detail, no matter how unimportant, I want to appreciate and experience directly, and this is possible only when on foot.

Not to be recognized as a tourist, I abruptly adapt myself to my fellow beings on the street. “Jaywalking”, crossing the streets when the red light is on, is the rule hereabouts, surely one of the reasons for the traffic snarl and the noisy honking.

Before the lights change, there is a red blinking warning light in the shape of a hand. An experienced jaywalker observes with foresight whether the cars are still standing or about to move. If they are standing, one swiftly crosses the road, by all means. In case they are already moving, one has to be a little faster, that's all. And if the lights are red and the cars have to wait at the crossroads, one threads one's way through.

I've read that children in New York are taught jaywalking as the first rule of survival. In times past, the red lights read “Don't walk!” Parents told their children that “Don't walk!” didn't mean “Stop!” but “Run for your life!”

But I have to be careful; the New Yorkers' behavior seduces me to disregard the traffic completely and just go. Whether the brakes of the onrushing Yellow Cabs are always in impeccable working order may be doubtful.

Special caution is indicated when it comes to cyclists. They dash every which way across the roads and turn the corner so full of verve that they brush the ground with their knees. With the traffic being as ruthless as it is, riding a bike is a challenge. Still, cyclists don't wear helmets. By way of compensation, they wear their bike locks like enormous necklaces round their necks or hips. Bikes are apt to be stolen, or so it seems.

Already, I find myself hurrying across the street among an army of people. Some of them are all but running roughshod over me or barge into me, saying “Sorry”.

If I’m nearly smashed to the ground, they say “I'm very sorry!” Learning easily, and not wishing to be in anybody's way, I now and again pause close to the houses in constant amazement. Now, I look to my left, stretching my neck: There stands the slender, graceful, and completely glazed skyscraper of the “New York Times”, arguably the city's biggest publishing house, which also gave Times Square its name.

Something else surprises me, however, and that is the dirt. The big, green garbage cans, shaped like baskets, are overflowing with rubbish, and it reeks from every corner. It also smells of foul meat from the supermarket on the right, whose windows are plastered with various offers so nobody can see inside. Curious, I enter the shop and discover a meat counter with displays unworthy of the term “fresh meat”. I won't be buying anything here, that's for sure.

Some meters further on, there is a smaller store, a “grocery”. Grocery stores, also called “Delis” are often tiny shops where almost anything needed for everyday life is available. From vegetables, sausages, and cheese, to paper handkerchiefs, toilet paper, and detergents. In addition, they usually offer a wide variety of fresh salads, sandwiches, and other hot and cold dishes, as well as coffee. And that on every day of the week and at any hour, just with a smaller range of services than a supermarket offers. Grocery stores are usually run by the owner himself. The staff often consists of family members who know their regular customers with their personal habits and stories. This store looks better kept and cleaner than the supermarket. Here I could buy with a good feeling.

On the other side of the street, I spot some very old, three-story houses with their characteristic fire escapes. Located on the ground floor, there is a coffee and tea shop.

Some more meters further on, I see the entrance to the Port Authority bus station, with lots of police cars parked in front of it. Do they want to keep an eye on the people arriving here? That doesn't inspire confidence, I muse, glancing at a “waiting room” for homeless people, where they can get some coffee and a snack. Some of the homeless are sitting outside on upturned boxes. They have the grime of the streets on their skin like a film, and wait for somebody to drop some dollars into their paper cups. They smile in a friendly way when you look at them. I smile back. I'm still in possession of my teeth, I have a warm and clean place to sleep, and I can afford a meal every day. They just have the air to breathe, nothing else. They deserve a smile. I don't think they often have eye contact.

Now, I'm walking past a Spanish restaurant, then again past a food store and a fishmonger, whose fresh goods on ice look appetizing. The smell, however, is discernible even on the street. I estimate the temperature to be about 30° C – too hot for fresh fish. The buses enter the ramp, while I perceive a new smell coming from a cellar entrance on the sidewalk: chemicals. Small wonder, the cellar door of the cleaners is wide open. The cellar entrances on the sidewalks are shuttered by heavy, hinged iron doors. They take the place of the doors of our cellars that can usually be found indoors or directly on the wall. Sometimes, they are left open, as is the case here. The steps leading down are steep and long. That harbors dangers for a klutz. Here, however, an orange cylinder in front of the heavy open hatch warns in an exemplary manner.

What variety of shops, goods, and offers! This is easy to explain, however. Every new surge of immigrants brought new eating habits and foods into the city. That is hard to miss. The Troy Turkish Grill Restaurant, a Diner Gallery, a Moroccan snack bar, and the Garden City Café, all those and more are located on 9th Avenue.

I have passed the gigantic interchange I saw from my window. The buses have turned off, but the heavy hauling vehicles thundering through the city still make for enough noise. After eight blocks, between 35th and 36th Street, I discover the first restaurant that appeals to me. Uncle Jack's Steakhouse has a steak on offer for $45. What might those people who bought themselves a slice of pizza for $1 five minutes further up the street think of that?

Now, even the traffic on the roads dies down a bit, until the lights turn green, and the cars move on towards downtown. The pavement in many places is worn, mended and patched up. The holes, sometimes resembling small craters, are plugged only provisionally. Not all, though; some remain open, and are marked by orange stripes to warn pedestrians and bikers. Should one overlook the warning, one can break one's leg; such is their breadth and depth. In consequence, the streets are extremely uneven. The slant is especially pronounced near the curb of the sidewalk. After heavy rain, one is obliged to jump over extensive puddles, and well advised to stand well back from the curb, for the vehicles show no respect. They splash a brown gush of water on everybody who hasn't removed himself to safety in time – I was to learn that the hard way.

I reach 9th Street which is the next bigger and more heavily used intersecting street southward. With the ear-deafening noise of its sirens and blue lights switched on, an ambulance rushes past me, largely ignored by the other road users. All of that strikes me as very outlandish. In compensation for the almost intolerable noise, to my left, the Empire State Building entices me from afar. It gleams, sunlit, as if inviting me. You have to wait, I'm thinking.

34th Street marks the beginning of Chelsea, the artist's quarter. The cityscape is characterized by smaller and middle-sized brick buildings, box-shaped and reddish brown – in sharp contrast to the buildings some hundred meters further up the street. Inviting and exceedingly charming restaurants, attractive shops offering elegant fashion for men and women, unusual home accessories, precious porcelain, and among them, again and again, grocery stores. Only now, do I realize that there are trees – small, with spindly boughs and but little foliage. Some of them look withered or even seriously ill; others are framed by flower beds and low iron fences to keep dogs out.

Fenced in minigardens - a little nature in the middle of New York's concrete desert

Equally charming are the innumerable nooks and corners, like the entrances to the basement apartments, in front of which wonderful herbal arrangements in pots are arranged. A group of kindergarteners patters past me. They are attached to one another and to their teachers by a tether with loops. The little ones are conscientiously holding fast onto the loops; presumably, they were told that they could be lost any moment in the hectic crowd if they did otherwise.

Besides, I see lots of dogs - a fact that surprises me at first, in a city in which living space is sparse and expensive. There are more dogs here than there are in a rural environment at home. To the New Yorker, the trusty four-legged friends are obviously part of their lives, as are cars or hobbies are for others. Some of these so-called “dog walkers” amble past me with several dogs on their leashes.

I continue my walk, and finally reach 14th Street. Here, the scenic Village begins, geographically divided into the West Village, Greenwich Village, and the East Village.

In Washington Square Park, the green center of the Village, I sit down for the first time. I watch the people and the many artists, entertaining the visitors in the park. There are lots of young people in the park, probably because it is the center of New York University, one of the two major universities in the city. Here in the park, it's not as noisy and bustling as in the streets. The sounds of the musicians; mothers with their strollers; some couples, seemingly in love, on the benches – and a gay man, wagging his butt conspicuously past me, bring a smile to my lips. I've arrived at last! My dream has come true. All of a sudden, I feel so happy that I could hug the strange people surrounding me and shout out my joy. New York has conquered me already.

Beyond the glistening white bridge arch of the park, Washington Square Arch – striking me as impressive and magnificent, reminiscent of the Arc de Triomphe in Paris –, the famous 5th Avenue originates, which, after my short rest, I follow, heading uptown.

Suddenly I stop short, amazed, for many tourists are taking pictures in my direction. I turn round, searching for the reason. They can't possibly mean me – is there a celeb in sight?

Now, I realize that I'm standing in front of the wonderful Flatiron Building, the famous house in the shape of a flatiron, which I, coming from south, hadn't recognized immediately.

The Flatiron is a main attraction (they also call it a “landmark” over here), and the most frequently photographed building. It was built in 1902, and has twenty floors. At its completion, it was one of the city's tallest buildings. One of its peculiarities consists in its being only two meters in width at its narrow side on the crossroad.

I've read that the aerodynamic form of the building leads to high winds in the streets. Therefore, women have to take care that their skirts aren't blown upwards. They also say that in the early days of the building, men frequented the Flatiron exactly for that reason, to catch a glimpse of uncovered female legs – a rare sight in those days.

It's early evening when I reach Bryant Park. The park is located on 42th Street, between 5th and 6th Avenues, and therefore in the immediate vicinity of my new home. Since most apartment houses and flats don't boast balconies, New Yorkers spend much time outdoors in the summer, like Southern Europeans. Everywhere in the park and on the meadows there are lots of narrow tables and chairs of dark-green painted metal. People eat, drink, talk, and read. My first impression is that it has to be some kind of restaurant. But soon, I realize that benches, chairs, and tables are there for everyone, and it seems that everybody who can find a place is invited to participate in the convivial circuit. I accept with pleasure. However, I take a place at the open-air bar and drink a glass of cool, sparkling Chardonnay. Thus, I come to enjoy my first after-work party in the park, between the formally dressed businessmen and women enjoying their end of the workday, their evening. I love pretending I had work that day, too. I'm rather finished after a long day, tired and exhausted. And I, too, am now covered by the dirty film and smell of this exciting city. On the way, I continually had to wash my hands with the water from my water bottle. Everything just feels dirty – the door knobs of the entrances, the hand rails of the escalators, the push buttons in the elevators, simply everything. Now I come to understand Susanna's advice. Hygiene in this town is a tricky endeavor. Later, I observe that Susanna always carries lotion in her handbag to repeatedly slather her hands with while out and about. I won't overdo it like that, however.

Which impressions did I gather during this first long day?

New York is an unbelievably big, wonderful, restless and indefatigable city, in which one can walk faster than cars can drive. Some of the expected cliches – like the crowds of people, the deafening and heavy traffic with its innumerable Yellow Cabs, the countless restaurants and shopping facilities, guaranteeing a round-the-clock supply – were confirmed for me even today.

Lots of things however, have been new and totally unexpected: I wasn't aware that the city would blend this smell of tar, waste, chemicals, food, exhaust fumes, sweat, plants, and rivers to its very own sweet smell, wafting like a perfume made expressly for New York.

Or, the rush of its inhabitants, conveying the impression that each and every one of them has to fight for survival. They fight for a taxi when rainy, for the best place in a restaurant, a ticket for a successful show on Broadway, or simply for a place to sleep.

It's a city full of contrasts. Side by side with a first class steakhouse, a dingy supermarket can be found. Next to expensive flower stalls – a small bunch of flowers costs from $8 onward – you can get a slice of pizza for $0.99. Just off the glittering world of Times Square and Broadway, destitute looking people offer bags of fruit at the ridiculously low price of $2 each, while the admission fee for the wax-museum is almost $30 per person.

As contradicting as I perceive New York to be, I perceive my feelings and emotions, and change myself: My strict discipline is being substituted for by randomness. My sudden lack of plan dominates over the usual obsessive need for order, and all of a sudden, I, the indefatigable and sociable networker, enjoy the anonymity. My enthusiasm is constantly alternating with horror, and all this makes it clear to me that there are two sides to everything. Both, good and bad, are always united. How simple, how logical and vivid appears the polarity that reveals itself to me here.

I can't describe what there is to be seen – people of all nations, ages, and stations of life. And no matter how you act, dress, or behave, you won't attract attention. People seem to accept one another the way they are. Nobody pays attention to him who may be slightly different from oneself or, now and again, even appears to be outright crazy. That's something very special, and I like it, very much indeed.

Back in my apartment and taking notes of my first hours in my travel journal, a contented fatigue comes over me. My heart is still beating excitedly when I look out of the window. It is almost dark now. The lights are being turned on, and the city is gradually coming to rest. I open the sliding door of the immense window and listen into the night. Later, in my sleep, the noise will annoy me, but right now, it's music to my ears. I feel the breeze on my face and, free from worry, I look into the distance. Soon after, peacefully and with new earplugs, I fall asleep.

Chapter 2

Mannahatta – Rubber Boots and the Blonde Columbus

I wake up in the early morning and have to close the window. It is simply too noisy, with or without Ohropax. Quietly, so as not to wake up Susanna, I climb out of my bed and stretch myself in front of the window. At home, it's late in the morning, as I realize when I take a look at my watch, which I still haven't changed to US time. Outside, the sun is rising.

Wow! The bombastic view over the city, expanding before me and stretching itself out, colorful mile after mile in all directions, is hard to describe. Everything seems to be painted in pastel shades – yellow, pink, and orange – and millions of windows are reflecting gray, silver-gray and ice-gray in the light of the rising sun.

My tired eyes have to strain to take in this magnificent play of colors in its full beauty. The street lamps and the lights in the high-rises are still brightly lit. On the huge parking level down to my left there are still no cars, but the first are emerging from the tunnel, together with all the trucks that ensure the supply of the island.

This view recompenses me for the extraordinary noise – the roar below hasn't diminished since my arrival. Sinatra was right, this city really never sleeps. “I'm going back to bed, Franky Boy”, I mumble to myself, while digging myself into the sheets. What a pleasure if one has to get up early day after day – work, what's that? Already I'm snoozing once more.

After an on the whole invigorating sleep, I feel rested and fit. What with being on my feet for many kilometers yesterday, and skipping my afternoon nap, I was able to play a trick on jet lag. I pack my day bag, for I want to continue to explore the city by walking. My daily luggage contains a Lonely Planet travel guide, my small black Moleskin Notebook New York, a rinseable and tear-proof city map, a bottle of water, wallet, mobile phone, and keys. Later, in light of the frequent showers, I add an umbrella to my inevitable companions.

In the entrance hall of the apartment building, I meet John, the doorman, standing behind his desk. John has already introduced himself yesterday, asking me where I came from, how long I was going to stay, and what the purpose of my stay was. Doormen are a typical New York institution. A profession not to be found in Germany, it resembles the porter in a hotel. John and his colleagues wear dark-blue suits with contrasting red lapels and white shirts. With their porter's caps they appear neat, almost elegant, and treat you with professional courtesy. Without fail, one of them would open the door for me, with some friendly comment on his lips. I get to talking to John, who is from Albania, again. This heavyset father of a family, 1.90 meters in height, with a round head, warm eyes, and a smile which shows his small, even teeth, again and again gives me tips and information.

I reveal myself to be German, and smiling, John tells me that he holds Germans in high esteem, because of the great cars we manufacture, and because we play such good football. We chat for some time about the region I'm living in, the good wine and the Carnival in Bad Kreuznach. He tells me about his wife, who works in a shopping center in Queens, and mentions proudly that his eldest son is studying at Columbia University. What interests me most however, is his story about the origins of Manhattan.

Manahatta, the city's native name, originates from the language of Native Americans and means “rolling land”. An Italian, Giovanni da Verrazano, discovered the island as early as 1524 – and considered it to be unimportant. The settlement from Europe commenced in 1609 with the arrival of the Englishman Henry Hudson. Later, the Dutch came, and with them, Peter Minuit. They say he bought the island for sixty Dutch Guilders worth of supplies – the equivalent of $24.

Manhattan is the oldest and smallest (in area) of New York's five boroughs, and it’s most famous, or so John tells me. Even so, 1.8 million people are supposed to live there. Further research on the internet elicited the following facts: The Island, which is the heart of the city, measures about twenty-two kilometers in length and between 1.3 and 3.7 kilometers in width. Thanks to the simple grid, it is easy to find one's way. It is easy to look through the pattern, a fact that facilitates orientation especially for non-locals. From South to North (or, for Blondes like myself: from bottom to top) twelve Avenues, parallel to each other and numbered consecutively in ascending order, cut across the city. 5th Avenue is the dividing line between East Side and West Side. Transversely to them, or “crosstown”, the Streets run from East to West (oh, right: from right to left), likewise numbered in ascending order.

As I was told, there are highly sophisticated mathematical formulas to know near which avenue a given house number/address can be found. Its logic, however, eludes me. That may be the reason for me losing my way several times; mathematical understanding isn't my strong suit! Still, as a rule of thumb, it applies that the lower the house number, the nearer to 5th Avenue.

New York City – not to be confused with New York State – together with its five boroughs, emerged in the year 1898. Manhattan was merged with the adjacent, independent municipalities of the Bronx and Queens, the town of Brooklyn, and the small Staten Island into one of the world's biggest cities. By the way, of these five boroughs, only the Bronx is linked to the mainland. All others are islands.

After this short introduction, John smiles at me in a friendly way, wishes me a good day, and holds the door open for me. I enjoy talking to immigrants; my inhibitions to speak are less pronounced then. All these people know the story of Peter Minuit and the sixty Guilders; it's probably part of the naturalization process.

Today, I'm planning on exploring my residential “third” of the city, Midtown, that is! I leave the house and realize that it has been raining, for literally all women are wearing rubber boots. In contrast to those yellow, uniform, and unsightly rubber boats commonly to be seen at home, the New Yorkers prove themselves to be fashion-conscious even in regard to this more practical footgear: The boots are modern, colorful, funky, and sometimes even distinguished! New York's ladies wear those boots in combination with all kinds of garments: summer frocks, long or short skirts (high-class or plain ones, colorful or not), but also in combination with suits, leggings, jeans, or shorts. I notice that another pair of shoes invariably peeps out of their enormous bags. Flip-flops or rubber boots in exchange for pumps.

That's the way they do it here, I think – that explains the enormous bags, too. And the men? They don't seem to be as clever as that, but on the other hand, they aren't equipped with such big handbags in which to pack their shoes. Only once, have I observed a man in a business suit wearing grass-green chucks on the street. Very funny and original; surely his black shoes, matching the rest of his outfit, had been stowed away in his slim briefcase.

Apart from casual wear, business attire is most commonly seen in Midtown, the business district, and in spite of summery temperatures, on the legs of the ladies covered by silk stockings. With that, they wear traditional pumps – if those haven't been put away in the bags.

For some reason, everybody seems to be forearmed for sudden rain showers. I wonder where they store their things when the boots aren't needed for some time – in narrow apartments without cellar or attic!

Spontaneously, I decide in favor of another long walk (this time, above 42nd Street), and in a leisurely manner, I stroll north along 9th Avenue.

59th Street onward – here begins Uptown – 9th Avenue becomes Columbus Avenue. At 72ndStreet, I turn right. I feel drawn to Central Park now, about which I've heard and seen so much. It is the setting of so many movies.

Instantly, I'm overcome by the feeling of having set foot in a special place. From most places, one has a clear view of the surrounding, and sometimes magnificent, skyscrapers. That makes it look so unreal. Still, in reality it is like an oasis, a magic place, the green lung of New York.