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Nearby Central Park beckoned and I have to admit it was a bit of a revelation. I’d expected wide open flat spaces and not the scuplted, textured, intricate arrangement of pathways, trees and water. I marched around and onto the expanses of water; the boating lake cafe (at late morning devoid of punters, so to speak) offered an opportunity to quench my marched thirst.

Back on the trail and the large lake awaited with more sign of energetic life: lunchtime joggers encircled the water in a singular direction. It felt surreal. Not the joggers but the layers I tried to capture in my photos. Water, grass, tree line, metropolis. Separate, ordered in a long unwaveringly straight line. London, on the other hand, doesn’t do straight lines. Nor does it do parks like this; true, there are probably more of them but there’s something about the New York approach that appeals. “Here’s your huge rectangular block in the middle of the city: now do whatever you like with it.”

The painters on the East side of the Park seemed to capture it better. Besides I was flagging again in spite of my inspired route towards the Guggenheim. Everyone raves about this place and the exterior architecture had always carried me along with that raving. Time for a few arty shots of sweeping curves against an incredibly clear blue sky.

Good plan were it not for the scaffolding that so unceremoniously obscured the Guggenheim’s finest feature. True, inside looked great but I was left more than a little disappointed; that and the admissions costs (given I underuse London’s ‘free’ galleries) rather soured the encounter. Classic Paul piped up, reminding me not only of my exploration first duty (especially given the few hours that remained) but also of other water-bourne opportunities.

Before I knew it I was on the subway headed down town (stopping first to take a picture of William Sonoma for Lauren, a friends episode ringing in my ears). I knew my destination well by now. South of Wall Street, by Battery Park, I’d been here several times in the last 24 hours to meet E, to take the helicopter. If I’d had more time I’d have done the trip to Ellis Island and visited the type of museums I couldn’t see in London. With time running short on this occasion I stepped through the swish new Staten Island ferry terminal. Any excuse to be on the water even if only for a return trip.

I suppose I expected it to be a little more like Hong Kong’s Star Ferry i.e. rather more frequent. In spite of what seemed a long wait there’s something about a working ferry rather than a pleasure craft. That’s the way I’d like to commute to the office.

No time to see what limited attractions my Lonely Planet meekly recommended on the Island; a quick return trip and it was back to business. In particular the business of getting back to London. Everything then happened so quickly; a few choice purchases left in the flat along with a note than said as much as I dared and less than I wanted. Dropping the keys back at E’s office my words stumbled. Wanting to say even a grateful thanks inhibited by the corporate surrounding and work facade. I retreated, unsure whether I’d done the visit or myself justice.

JFK and I write a final blog entry on American soil. It’s not particularly well written or lucid and it’s probably not going to be posted but it was at least honest.

The End.

In between monsoon-like downpours on Saturday I’d arranged to meet her for dinner on Monday night and had also been told of her dalliance with The Ambitious Orchestra. Ambitious since they numbered 20+ and, more personally to Wendy, because she hadn’t even seen the complicated punk/classical music she was to guest play.

Sure enough, late on Saturday night E & I had gone along to what was a very cool venue for new & upcoming music. Not exactly packed, the music of the acts that had gone before and then of the Orchestra filled the place several times. $5 for a 5 track CD on the way out and I was buzzing. Not only had the sets been superb but there’s something about seeing someone performing that you know off the stage; had the same feeling that time Claire dusted off her saxophone and did surprise vocals with her old band in Oxford.

Dinner on Monday was about as perfect as it could have been. E & I had just finished our marathon helicopter tour and I was having dinner with three of New York’s finest – Wendy, E & D. Now this is what life used to be like.

I wasn’t sure about visiting Ground Zero.  Others had recommended it with approaching a similar, but thankfully more subtle, fervour as to the latest Broadway sell-out.  And I still wasn’t sure.  Why would I visit?  Voyeuristic curiosity?  Respectful pilgrimage?  Thankfully none of my New York friends were in or near the World Trade Centre on that day and yet the latter did seem appropriate on some level.

My journey there was typical Paul.  Stepped off the Circle Line cruise (from where it was difficult to place where the twin towers stood even with the commentary) and started walking down town.  The piers aren’t exactly in the centre and I’d just missed a bus.  Half an hour of dipping in and out of the lunchtime sun and past eerily quiet warehouses I found a bus and elected to see Greenwich Village on my air conditioned way.

Such is the great swathe of land so dramatically ripped out of the city the site isn’t exactly easy to get to.  It’s a mix of temporary side streets, past decommissioned subway stations and across six lanes of traffic.

Then there’s the ‘Viewing Platform’ itself; not exactly ‘viewing’ apart from boards retelling the story of the day and not so much ‘platform’ as hawkers market.  Unless you venture around the side can you see the (literal) depth of work going on, the construction site so immense in scale the great diggers seemed ant-like.

Sadly my abiding memory is not one of solemn reflection.  I doubt many of those around me were New York-ers for whom the latest tourist attraction must be a wrench.  On one side, the twin towers mini economy with all its inappropriate hassling hawkers sold every souvenir you could possibly imagine.  Yes, you too can have a twin towers fridge magnet.  Felt very similar to the markets in Shenzhen, China – both in intrusiveness and in nationality.

On the other side were what I could call my fellow visitors.  Except they weren’t visitors, they were tourists.  Click click, flash flash, ‘stand together, ready?’.  Families with children for whom the horror of the location should have been tempered by education and not by holiday frivolity.

No photos.  Thanks but I know what a building site looks like, remember those pictures coming over a 56k modem that day.  I’d rather these words be my pilgrimage than the few minutes of sadness (for all sorts of reasons) I spent at Ground Zero itself.

The first time I was in New York, a fleeting visit while working for boo.com, I spent the few hours I had spare on the river on the Circle Line cruise. Six years on I felt I needed a reminder.

Monday was a day of New York from different angles. The morning started at Pier 83 for the famous 3 hour Circle Line cruise which aside from affording one of the most interesting views of the city, the variations in architecture and affluence acutely apparent from the shore, provided some ‘me’ time on the water and to scoff a breakfast bagel or two from the insanely cheap carts that had held ground at every street corner on the walk to the pier.

Most people think of Empire State skyscrapers when they think of Manhattan Island and may never visit the harder and industrial-feeling of the North East or the peace and greenery of the North West.

The evening promised to provide a different view altogether. M&C had recommended a helicopter tour and who am I to ignore such a suggestion? The thing is, trying to book such a treat wasn’t as easy as you might think. Offices closed, telephones unanswered, frustrating websites that promised booking confirmations which were far from definitive. As indeed we found out when E & me agreed to meet at the Downtown heliport only for her to receive an email late in the day with ‘Jersey City’ as the departure point.

A harrassed, annoyed, possibly angry E arrived Downtown perilously close to our previously-understood departure time. Due to the lateness of the email I was still none the wiser that our tour had apparently departed nearly an hour earlier from the opposite bank of the Hudson. Honesty now battled ambition, civility combatted frustration.

Luckily I’d already made contact with the (literally) heavy security and so had my place in line… in front of half a dozen or so others. E recommended best policy and I could hardly argue or disagree and explained that someone had obviously mixed up our booking; with time ticking away and tours coming to an end our place in line gave us entry to reception regardless as others were turned away. I could hardly believe our luck: deserved but luck nonetheless.

I can’t disguise my love of helicopters; despite learning to fly planes, nothing beats that take-off feeling, of total freedom in all axes. I’ll learn to fly a helicopter too some day… once finances allow.

I did try and disguise my realisation during the pilot’s briefing that our tour was going to be significantly longer than we’d planned or paid. Helicopters are notoriously expensive to run and companies are very careful about the minutes they give away. The $62 per person 5 minute ‘Taste of New York’ had turned into a $179 per person 17 minute ‘New York, New York’ thanks to a combination of there being only one last flight of the evening, there being a huge cock-up with the booking and that our fellow passengers had paid three times the fare. E and I kept quiet, smirking, grateful that our smirks could be mistook for the awe and wonder of the flight and sights.

Energy was provided by a typically late Mimosa and Bellini-fuelled brunch with M+K. As E and I staggered to Pier 83 afterwards we debated the market for a true brunch place in London, in Wimbledon itself perhaps.

Dining in London is so formalised: if you do lunch it only lasts between 12 and 2 and it’s going to be of this cuisine and this size and the appropriate beverage is x or y. If New York socialising has shown me one thing, it’s the potential in more organic groups, bringing in a few degrees of separation. Maybe it’s just me, due in the past to a fear that different groups of friends would talk and find out things from each other about me that I’d managed to keep separate: mistakes I may have repeated…

But a place where the gathering can start and last from morning til evening, can incorporate a snack or a smorgasbord, can offer a coffee or a cocktail, where I can invite you and you then invite others and it doesn’t matter if each layer takes an hour to get there as there’s no deadline, no rush, no rules.

One casualty of no deadline was no row-boating on the Central Park lake but, given our condition, it probably wouldn’t have been a good idea. Besides, we had bigger thrills ahead. Maybe without the mimosas and bellinis this speedboat ride down the Hudson replete with water bombs and supersoakers for those who managed somehow to avoid the spray wouldn’t have been as fun. As it was we were buzzing: I’ve got to get me one of these… the speedboat, that is.

Eventually we stepped out into the barmy heat for a spot of brunch. A bagel, schmear and lox and Lonely Planet later and we’d decided on a trip to Coney Island. If anything I was keen to get away from skyscrapers for the day, despite how naff I was warned the environment and peope would be and how dangerous the rollercoasters were.

The subway headed across the river (no talking, we’re going over water) via Brooklyn ready to snake down the coast. E had mentioned a botanical garden on the way and as this was due to close in a couple of hours we decided a detour was in order.

Peace, tranquillity & humidity. Well, 2 out of 3 ain’t bad. We admired Japanese torii, drank orange juice, discussed new career ideas.

Meanwhile the humidity rose and it rose until it could rise no more and the vapour was no longer hiding in the air, it was falling monsoon-style. With zero shelter and a finite amount of time together E and I continued walking: we’re no strangers to reservoirs and lakes so a little bit of rain (okay, a lot of rain) held no fear.

Eventually, drenched and dripping we returned to the subway: Coney Island would have to wait til another day. Instead we retired to a rather drier Manhattan, spotted a yakinuki restaurant just a block away from the apartment and returned that evening. The food was as gorgeous as I remember in Japan: the meat platter, though not the special sauce, possibly better. Sacrilege, I know, but at least a third of our 2-person platter was left untouched, uncooked and to the side; now if only I could find one of these places a little closer to home, for visitors, obviously.

Going from a very ‘New York’ venue to an almost spit & sawdust-style British (?) pub was a bit of a surprise but at least the surroundings didn’t detract from the stunning M, D and indeed E herself. A slightly sobering Starbucks later and back into a cab hurtling downtown again to a rather trendier bar where were it not for a surprisingly accommodating bouncer yours truly would have suffered from his first New York faux-pas.

I’d long since dispensed with my exploring bag and had just brought a credit card and cash: I hadn’t counted on needing ID to get in anywhere. I no longer look anything like 21 so was genuinely amazed when everyone else in the group proffered driving licences and passports. This was, hopefully one of my few, gaijin-style lapses in the Big Apple.

By this stage I was flagging, without much sleep the previous night having walked most of the day and body clock ready for its wake-up alarm on London time: hopefully I didn’t spoil the atmos too much and thankfully it wasn’t the last time I met E’s magnificent mafiosos.

Intending to start my trip where I left off – on the Circle Line cruise around Manhattan – I wander up to 42nd, conveniently passing Grand Central station. It goes without saying that Victoria Station it ain’t. The morning rush is over and, according to trusty Lonely Planet, it’s no longer the hub it once was. Instead it’s a temple to the golden age of the train complete with vaulted ceilings and altar champagne on tap. Truth be told, I’ve seen no finer station. There are British contenders: Paddington is a Brunellian masterpiece but no-one ever looks up to the ornate supports and now diesel exhaust-tainted roof. Canary Wharf on the Jubilee Line is a modern day public transport cathedral, deliberately built over-sized for the future and with budget busting concrete, glass and steel grandeur.

Back at Grand Central my photographic attempts are frustrated: in my mind is stuck that famous black and white print of the sunlight streaming in through the semi-circular windows. I have a problem with taking standard, touristy photos: I want to find an edge, a new angle, a post-production mood. Every attempt is haunted by much cleverer, better exposed and more respectful stock photos.

Probably should have stayed and persevered: a few steps back onto 42nd and it’s the Day After Tomorrow. New York doesn’t seem to do anything by half, least of all the weather. Flashes of light, a bass note that is felt as well as heard and the heavens open. This is no light shower, these rain drops are fast food-gorged, plentiful and unrelenting. Initially unwavering in my steps I take some solace as I huddle with other New Yorkers under the ornings of Barnes & Noble on 5th Avenue. I may be in shorts and a T-shirt with a couple of standard issue umbrellas securely stowed in a cupboard under the stairs 3458 miles away…. but I’m not the only one. Those that are carrying umbrellas are getting drenched anyway: rain is rebounding upwards off the streets and the gutters are impassable streams.

I realise 3 hours on the Circle Line, though under cover, is probably not a great time to see the city. E realises this quickly as well and calls with museum and gallery advice: it’s appreciated as I know my Lonely Planet would last about 5 seconds if I unsheathe it now.

A few amused/exasperated looks exchanged with my fellow New Yorkers later and the downpour subsides. Tens of blocks separate me from the Guggenheim, Met and others and the sensible approach would be to find a cab, a subway train, a pedello. But no, this is my first full day in NYC and I’m a stubborn, soaking so-and-so. Besides I know that between me and said galleries lies the Rockafeller Centre and a mysterious glass cube which hasn’t survived the downpour completely unscathed.

I’m torn, there aren’t enough days. Yes I’d love to spend hours admiring the Guggenheim, and possibly even the art work within. But I don’t do enough of that at home in London and my instinct is to explore given an untrodden street or two. By Central Park my knee is playing up and the weather is clearing. Walk on to walk round some of the best galleries in the world or hit the subway towards a 3 hour boat trip? The Hudson and East Rivers were calling me home.

A bagel later and Pier 83 comes into view. It’s vaguely familiar: after all the Circle Line was the way I spent most of my fleeting visit back in 1999. Another dilemma though… a full 90 minutes until the full 3 hour Circle Line which would leave me very tight for time to get back for evening plans or 30 minutes for the 2 hour semi-circle. There’s a sensible, compromising choice but it feels like cheating; what’s more, though memory of the first time is rather hazy, I do remember that some of the most interesting elements are those parts of Manhattan less-photographed in the North. No, if you’re going to do the Circle Line, you need to do the Circle Line.

Schedule-outwitted and knee-weakened I stand temporarily confused like Buridan’s Ass between options. I never thought inspiration would come from a bus, a Cross Town bus at that. This is 42nd Street… on the East side of 42nd is the UN and this waiting bus’ terminus.

Surprisingly, even a former PPE student like me learned something new so I can understand why an intellectually-wanting History student like the one who recommended it would do so. Despite the to-be-expected security checks I was still a little surprised to be walking so close to the Security Council chamber, in session, discussing the Israel-Lebannon crisis: my advice not sought on this occasion.

I expected more security, more sense of occasion about the place. Not that I was disappointed: donated works of art from member states were fascinating and the General Assembly chamber was impressive and, yet, impressively very 1950s. It’s obvious that priorities have, understandably, been on the variety of humanitarian programmes rather than renewing décor but it still feels a little strange for such an busy, under-pressure and under-scrutiny organisation.