New York New York

I get to NYC full of assumptions and bad feelings. This big apple is very not appealing for me. Stopping by last Saturday didn’t give me a good taste and I struggled so much to find a decent place to crush at – apparently, only couchsurfing hosts available in NYC are horny male who expects you to share their bed. Naked preferably. -, I am beside myself.
When my bus drops me at the corner of Penn Station and 31st though, an airbnb is awaiting for me in Brooklyn and I enjoy a both lonely and comfortable place just for myself for the first time in a while. I enjoy it so much I shave to push myself to go out and explore in this sweet winter afternoon.

I wander in Brooklyn streets. Endless walk. Under Prospect Park naked trees. Along brown houses with stair to the porch. I meander in Dumbo streets, throughout factory from another time, beside the sea as Manhattan blue bridge hangs in one side and Brooklyn cooper bridge holds on the other. Endless walk. The night is coming as I keep going along the East River and it offers Manhattan sparkling in the twilight. My night promenade leads me to Brooklyn Heights. I tramp paved streets in between cute houses with little gardens and find a little church changed into a theater. Paradoxical. Endless walk, and dream, and gaze.

I go home and start sorting out my stuff one last time before my big departure. The Grapes of Wrath. This novel has followed me across all my American wandering and I haven’t opened it once since I dropped it three years ago. The Grapes of Wrath, it is time to part. I am surprised by a picture from my past that I have completely forgotten. Inside The Grapes of Wrath. It can’t be random. I walked around with this picture for eight months without knowing it. I have to leave this book behind and find a place for this memory that has stuck to my skin during my whole journey. I am not angry anymore. I need to find a place. Somebody is singing me Brooklyn Bridge in my heart but the bridge doesn’t mean anything for me, for us. I will wait for a better case before going home. Because I know one thing, I don’t want to fly with this memory in my backpack. I want to say goodbye like a blessing and not a sorrow. Like a result and not a necessity.

In the first hours of the next morning, I wait on the waves to go to Ellis Island – arrival platform for the first part of the 19th century -, in a grey weather that I picture to be the one immigrants experienced for their first look of NYC. I go through security in a weird reversed way, we are the ones who get to be searched if we want to visit the place where immigrants were searched themselves in order to reach their safe haven, fleeing from often European misery. Like me, they were passing by the famous Statue of Liberty, symbol of what they were looking for in this New World. Then, they came in the giant Registration Room where their fate was decided.
When I enter Ellis Island building myself, an unspeakable feeling burns my heart. I am sure a ghost goes through me and whispers something only my soul can hear. A few written words on panels might help this emotion as well. Something invisible wakes me up and boosts my novelist imaginations. I spend long hours following immigrants’ paths through ages, studying their why, understanding their how. I want to know everything about them in order to be able to tell their story one day.

The rain finally stops as I land on Low Manhattan, giving me more chance to wander… I first stop at Seaport District, where I buy tickets for The Phantom of the Opera played tonight in Broadway. I stroll on this old port wet paved streets converted in a cute district where small authentic shops gaze at Brooklyn.
After that, hesitating between pizzas and more wanderings, I walk towards 9/11 Memorial going through Wall Street and its obnoxious buildings… I can’t see my own feet so high skyscrapers are, it is almost night in the day by a rainy weather. I reach the Twin Towers’ ghosts, reflecting in two upside down fountains, imprinted with those who died’s memories. Waterfalls might be vanishing as deep as the tower were high since I can’t see into the Earth’s Heart. It is awful to say but it feels good to have such an open sky giving you a better view of the city. The highlight is not the dark marble though, it is the simple and pure evanescence of the burnt tree, the only survivor in the rumbles.

I get a glimpse at the Hudson River and New Jersey through Brookfield Place luxurious glass house. I end up in the Oculus that I like to call the Octopus for fun, I am taking the wrong subway to reach the « best pizza in town, even in the world». I take advantage of being lost to hang out in SoHo and I then enjoy the cosy atmosphere in Rubirosa Ristorante to dry my soul and warm my heart. It is so weird to think I am D Day-4…. My return is coming and I still feel so far from France.

Before reaching Time Square and its illuminated night, I am getting lost in Little Italy twilight. Running some errands for my family, I keep going throughout loud NYC streets. The Godfather is out, people are calling each other across the street, too much trash neighbors nice coffee shop terrace but I hear no Italian word, the only walkers I pass by are French! It is night and this ancient dirty district is now full of glittering shops in the wet evening. I leave Italy here and I go to Broadway.

There is something unreal to be standing in the middle of Time Square by night, almost as much as being on the edge of the Grand Canyon. Maybe because I have seen it so many times in movies and/or pictures? or because all those electronic adds are simply absurd? This crossroads in itself ruins any world attempt to save the Earth. Greta Thunberg might keep warning us, as long as Time Square will shine in the night, we are all screwed! Yet, I still have stars in my eyes, to be standing here and now, in this anonymous crowd. I feel like a life hero.

I take shelter in the Majestic quilted atmosphere to attend my first Broadway musical, the Phantom of the Opera. I unfortunately make a too Parisian choice. Songs are beautiful, sets magical and dances virtuoso but I am in a 19th century Parisian opera when I dreamt of getting lost in NYC 21st century…

And I come home in the dark.
And I take NYC subway by night which might be the one way one way to get the deep reality of the city. It might be the authenticity I have been looking for two days. It might be the ultimate experience. Feeling your fear in your guts because a crazy drunk Black man’s voice turns into a fist in your ears. He vocally abuses the white girl hugged by her boyfriend, telling her she doesn’t know what she is losing. Only he can satisfy white girls, white men don’t understand them. The couple runs away at the next station, he curses them even more:
« Go back to your low white boyfriend, he can’t do what I do. I know my power. I look good. Come and suck my dick. »
They leave and he doesn’t simmer down, he keep focusing on the four remaining white girls, including me, under everybody’s ashamed eyes. I wonder if the tension will turn into a fight before I can flee safe and sound. I feel in danger like I would in any other underground in front of any other aggressive and drunk man. His words are like a rape that I can’t fight.” Il will fill you up like nobody has before.” I could cry.
I finally run away, waiting for the next train on the quay, still towards Brooklyn.

My day starts with an endless laziness in my bed in order to reorganize one last time my departure, I pack again, give away some stuff. I leave my airbnb in Brooklyn and after a long journey in the subway I enter my palace for the last days of my trip, nearby Central Park. Because my new friend from Philly* saved my life once again and found me friends to crush at. I am in another world, I have to give my identity at the entrance and the doorman turns the revolving door for me… I am telling you: another world!

I walk in St Valentine’s windy sun, I wander in Central Park naked yards. Trees draw new landscapes on buildings and even if cars’ noise never falls asleep, it fades away. The Park travels me to Alice’s Wonderland, it brings me back to Alaska with Balto; I suddenly remember Denali and New York surprisingly belong to the same entity. I walk in the cold, I get lost, I witness places seen so many times in movies. I happily walk, pure and full of this exhausting city that I don’t despise anymore.

Then, I follow the 5th Avenue, indifferent, noisy and blinded. I go along luxurious shops blown by the wind. It is impossible to step back in NYC, I am always overridden by skyscrapers’ height and the best way to visit the city would be to stand on New-Jersey hills gazing at the skyline. NYC is a place you could only fully discover if you have put on your stilts before. In another dimension maybe…

I stop by St Patrick Cathedral. Crowded. As I walk golden aisles, I would like to light a candle, maybe because my mom would do it, maybe because the church is named after my dad, but I doubt God is really here in such an oddly profane place (I know, God is supposedly everywhere!). Here, I can’t hear spirits talking to me, no candle will give me a way to them in such a flock! I therefore quit, I gaze at golden colons, marble tiles and divine altars like a master piece.

I reach the Rockfeller Center, I thought the ice rink was bigger. Maybe I got confused with the one in Central Park. The Top of the Rock won’t welcome me, I don’t want to wait for two hours and pay $40, no matter how stunning the view might me. Instead I head for Central Station, the famous place that everybody has dreamt of, even only a little. I am a bit disappointed compared to Chicago beautified quiet Station though. It is too loud and profane here. But I do like the idea of the market hiding under its arches. I linger looking for another time in New York Transit Museum Gallery.
Ready to go back in the cold and the wind, I gaze at the Station outside front wall, broken by Park Avenue going through from Central Park to Union Square. Absolutely unreal.

I am starting to feel exhausted. My head is heavy to endlessly look up to the stars in order to get a glimpse of Chrysler Building’s top, the nicest building in NYC according to my friend Caroline and she knows what she is talking about. Once again though, I can’t see anything since I didn’t take my telescope.
I follow the strait street to Bryant Park, stopped on my way by the famous library and its magical rooms which would make an illiterate the best novelist. I linger in front of the wall of glory where shines the work of Coilm Tolbin**, I would dream to hang on some libraries’ walls myself, because my novels would have been written there. Then, the first book ever printed in History, Gutenberg’s Bible, surprises me at the corner, I didn’t know it was kept in these walls.

Bryant Park is blocked by an ice rink as well but it gives a look on a strange panel of buildings going back in time through a nice architectural timeline. Maybe in order to praise Gotham City’ Gothic heritage.
I follow my tours and my detours to reach the Empire State Building in the sunset, I keep breaking my neck trying to glance at the top. Its needle is my barbaric eyes’ only worthy goal.
Out of resource, I push my steps further than I should. I make the mistake to believe six blocks are the same in Midtown than in Low Manhattan. I am freezing cold to curse in every language; I head to the High Line. I gaze at the sunset in New Jersey. It is too cold, the bitter wind isn’t balanced by any warmth anymore and I give up, I take shelter in Hudson Yard’s warm luxury.

I take the subway to my palace, I am getting ready without being prepared for the typically NYC night I am about to spend. I reach the 20th level and meet my hosts, Max & Sam, Stephanie’s college buddies. I gaze at Manhattan and Central Park in the night, the promise of a roof top for tomorrow. And I witness almost all debaucheries without being part of it, red wine is my only poison. I am happy to find back some authentic travel feelings though, I can observe real people living. I get a chance to understand how the city breathes, how those who build it live. Those city night birds break my foly at 2 am, theirs will fade away later.

I wake up with headaches and a bad mood. Perfect hang over. I am so tired but it is the end and I want to enjoy every last minute, I am pushing myself too hard. I go for other adventures. I find my way back to where I dropped yesterday, the High Line’s starting point. I enjoy to walk on those invisible rails even if a busy crowd bothers me sometimes.
The further the day goes by, the more physical my sorrow becomes. I end the High Line at Meatpacking District where I feel terribly uncomfortable. I escape through Greenwich Village and West End, more similar to my heart’s colors. I finally find the ideal place for my mission. It is obvious. Friends‘ building bricks welcome my memory and my peaceful past. My heart squeezes a bit and feels relieved. It is done. Will my day take a new turn?
Lost cause. Washington Square. SoHo. NoLiTa. Last minute gifts. Nothing, I am cold and tired. I am insensitive to what I visit. New-York doesn’t match my soul. I am getting bored of what I have seen on so many screens, only offered to my camera and not to my heart.
I take shelter in my palace’s warmth near Central Park. A nap and a hot tea will be perfect in NYC buildings sunset.

It is my last night and I want to feel the special breath of it even if my body is out of my mind. I go to Brooklyn, at Bushwick, one of the trendiest district and I write my messy and hanging stay in NYC, I describe the Big Apple that has eaten me. In a beautiful and cheerful way, like a perfect waving goodbye to America.

New York is both the perfect representative of the US and the opposite. New York is the gateway, the origin of all those who will become American. It is the gateway before you belong to the country. It is the fleeting moment where nobody is American, therefore everyone is. It is the opening before the doors shut down. But is also and mainly the US’ monstrous dementia. It is the “too much” all vegan and other vegetarians try to clean off their soul by building theories about Alaskan way of life. Their karma is too heavy, there is too much of a gap between their morals, their speeches and their actions.

The city doesn’t suit me, it’s been so hard to create my own experience. All quickly turned into a bland déjà-vu. So different from everything I have experienced during my long journey, New York leaves me a bit numb. I felt like I was always following a path full of tourists, I could never catch who was New York. Maybe it is the beauty of it…
I think it is a place to explore with someone, with your friends or your sisters. Alone, nothing means anything, it is too loud to find you own personal pilgrimage.
I have no regret though because Ellis Island transformed me. I am so happy my journey ends here, I am glad to have experienced such a place. I don’t think I ever want to come back, even with someone, but who knows. For now, I am ready to go home. New York was too much for me and it was for the best!