New York State of Mind

While buying a bottle of water from the only shop open at 5:47 AM in Newark Airport's departure lounge, I realized that the most vivid impression I am taking away from America with me is the smell of fresh greenbacks (that, and the idea that Jodi Picoult is a very busy woman, indeed). They can change the design, they may tint the bills, but they can't take away that distinctive smell: the smell of money.

This provides a good lead-in to my posting, which is about our visit to NYC. This should not be confused with a critique of the United States; New York City, like London, may be part of the country it resides in, but it is a world in and of itself, and the New York City experience in no way reflects life as the population in the rest of the country knows it.

In New York's case, life is just that much more vibrant: the honking of horns, the herds of yellow cabs, the stampede of pedestrians, the steam rising from the grates, the ever-present sound of sirens. It is one of the few locations on the planet where, when you stand in the middle of it, you get a palpable feeling of being in A Place. The air practically thrums with purpose; that purpose being, commerce.

Personally, I have no problem with that; after all, it's why we're here. Everyone, at least once in their lifetime, needs to visit NYC in the weeks running up to Christmas, to see the lights, gawp at the decorations and pretend to shop in the outrageously expensive Temples of Capitalism on Fifth Avenue. This weekend, it was our turn, along with the equivalent population of greater Manchester.

New York is a city that loves Christmas. It's their spiritual holiday--being, as it is, an orgy of capitalism--and they spare no effort or expense getting the city in shape. The windows, the building facades, the parks, the vendors and the taxi cabs all do their part to highlight the mood; I even saw a group of joggers dressed in Santa hats sprinting down Fifth Avenue.

The legendary window displays did not disappoint, though I have not been in a crush of people that thick since the last time I rode the London Underground at rush hour. Likewise, Rockefeller Center was like a scene from a movie (a cross between Miracle on Thirty Fourth Street and the crowd scenes in Gandhi) with its world-famous tree, ice skaters and a queue nearly as long as the one for the Queen Mother's viewing.

All these iconic traditions are designed to bring in the tourists, and their money; the idea being that the tourists will eventually go away but their money will remain behind. I'm pleased to say we did our bit, and it was good fun taking advantage of the pound/dollar ratio by exclaiming over scarves in Macy's marked down to $130, "Wow, that's just twelve pound fifty!"

I jest, of course; even with the favorable exchange rate, this has been the most expensive three days of my life that didn't involve an intensive care unit. Even our hotel--a Holiday Inn Express in Brooklyn--was over $400 a night (but, of course, that's just twelve pound fifty). It was, however, a nice hotel, but for that sort of money I would expect on-demand back-rubs and foot massages and a window that fully opens. (I'm sure the windows were bolted shut to keep the guests from jumping out once they realized they spent over $400 a night for a hotel room. In Brooklyn.)

Despite all, it was a wonderful trip, and my wife managed to pack in enough New York experiences to last her into the next decade. For me, it was enough just to be back in the land of free ice water, proper bagels, great Ruben sandwiches and the best cheesecake in the world.

And, of course, where the money smells so nice.