New York – I took my bite, and my hunger still isn’t satiated…

You’d think that it would be possible to pretty much see everything if you spend thirty-seven sporadic days in the city of lights, horns and smoke. But no, I absolutely have to go back. I must discover the reason that everyone queues to shoot themselves up the Empire State Building, I need to take a sneaky peak inside at least one beautiful theatre, and have a swanky evening meal in the Upper East Side.  

 Naughty treat of wine and sushi in Long Island 

I may not have taken part in these rather expensive experiences this time around, but I still managed to spend a decent portion of my poor backpacker fund. ‘Don’t worry,’ I would tell myself, ‘you’ll be in Central America soon, so have one more of those tongue tingling, free-poured gin and tonics that you love so much.’ Thankfully I’m writing this blog from Mexico where my daily spend is roughly thirty of those special Great British Pounds that I intensely saved. This budget includes my accommodation, food and sightseeing. It is around the equivalent of six hundred Mexican Pesos. Stay tuned to find out what I spend those pesky pesos on in my next post.  

So back to New York City. There’s so much to tell you. I have a list (I love lists) of everything I did, everywhere I went and sweaty photos to show you where I ran. My original plan was to run around Central Park like a local, but as I was staying in Brooklyn, I would have had to use the Metro to get there and back. In resisting the urge to do so, I saved the whole of the subway from having to endure the after effect of my sport session during an unseasonable heatwave. 

Running is addictive, especially when you’re in new places where you accidentally hit distances of eight miles because you get lost, or completely underestimate the length of a road. Did you know that the longest road in New York City is Broadway? The reliable internet states that it is sixteen point three miles long.  

I did not run this road.  

In fact, my favourite place to run was Prospect Park in Brooklyn. There is a track that circles the entire ground, specifically for those who wish to run, cycle, walk, etc.  

Cheeky selfie in Prospect Park during a morning run

Each time I took the route to the park, I passed the beautiful gold mythical mural surrounding the entrance to Brooklyn Public Library. One quiet rainy day, I wandered around the building and read the majority of a haiku poetry book. I was soggy, but it was bliss. 

The door to Brooklyn Public Library

I arrived in New York City at the beginning of September and left on the twenty-fifth of October. With a couple of road-trips in between, I was able to experience the city during a time of intense heat, and witness the slow transition into a chilly red and orange wonderland. Winter was coming, and with it, so was ice hockey season. A quick search on Stubhub and I had my hands on two pre-season tickets for the game between New York Islanders and the Philadelphia Flyers at the new Barclay’s Centre in Brooklyn. 

Singing the National Anthem in harmony… Before the match mayhem…

It’s a great place to watch sport, but, I warn you now, if you want a pint, or a liquor with a mixer, or even a cocktail in a plastic cup, expect to cough up thirteen of your hard earned bucks. THIRTEEN. But beyond that, what a show. Talented men glide around the ice like they knew how to do it from birth, or even before. Underneath all the padding and oversized Jerseys was a sport that was instilled in their very being. They weave in and out of the other players on the ice like a rehearsed musical. Naturally, a seemingly harmonious dance between rivals wouldn’t be complete without a friendly punch-up or two. Or six.

Game time

New York is full of surprises during every season. As you may have read in my previous post about the 9/11 memorial, I am interested in the preservation of history and memory. On the eleventh of September, I made it my mission to scour the city for the best location to view the tribute of light. A couple of local friends advised that I head towards the piers on the Westside of Manhattan, so I made my way through Greenwhich Village, resisting the enticing soft serve in Big Gay Ice Cream, towards Pier Forty-Five on the Hudson River. It was half past six when I arrived and the sun was already setting. I meandered along the wooden boards and thought of home. I looked down and remembered the years I would stomp along the planks of Weston-super-Mare’s Grand Pier, desperate to get to the Pavilion, where I would spend all Mum and Dad’s money on the teddy grabbing machines, and eat my weight in deep fried donuts.

I reached the end of the pier and found fifty or more people partnered up and dancing to a Waltz. I watched the pairs traverse the wood until the sky faded and the clouds turned from white fluff, to a rainbow of orange, yellow and pink candy floss. 

The sunset across Hudson Bay

A few moments later I saw it, a blue beam of light streaming from it’s bulb in the financial district. But something wasn’t right. I could only see one. There should be two. I was in completely the wrong place. Drawn to the dramatic sky, I stayed until the pretty melody stopped and the dancers dispersed before I headed towards the nearest Metro. 

Dancers on Pier Forty-Five

A couple of misjudgements and an hour later, I finally figured out the best location. Perched on a bench at Brooklyn Heights, I gazed at that blue number eleven against the blackened sky. The ghost of the Two Towers. 

This beautiful picture (somewhat blurry – I need to perfect my photography skills) needs no caption.

I realise, as I think about closing this post, that I am yet to discuss Lady Liberty. How dare I. That one hundred and fifty one foot gift from the French (three hundred and five foot including the stone pedestal) was a symbol of freedom and new beginnings for thousands of weary travellers that crossed the ocean in search of their American Dream. I will admit that I almost didn’t bother doing the trip to Liberty and Ellis Island. I had seen both from the free Staten Island Ferry, but something piqued my interest as my New York City stint drew to a close. I also owed it to the friendly people of the United States, that are so proud of their country’s heritage, by taking my time to absorb the most dominating piece of their history. At eighteen dollars, it is one of the more affordable historical attractions in New York, and probably the most informative. This is where it began. This is how the United States of America became the super power that it is today.

Morgan Bear asked to have his photo taken with the iconic Statue of Liberty

Obviously Lady Liberty herself is quite a special sight. The crew that take you to the island will cut the engine and allow the boat to drift onwards. This is the perfect opportunity to take close-up snaps and study the statue as a whole, rather than craning your neck as you stand beneath her. As the vessel glides, you’re already imagining the wide-eyed foreigners staring at the crown of sunshine and the fierce gold flame; her mighty presence asserts promises of freedom, opportunity and improved lifestyle. Even today, when Ellis is nothing more than an island for learning and memories, Lady Liberty sits upon her plinth, and continues to look straight ahead, determined and unfazed. Regardless of the number of people that mill around her island every day, it is a peaceful idyllic location for a Copper deity who bears the burden of the Nation’s prayers upon her stone tablet.

View of Manhattan from Liberty Island

After gawking at the statue for an hour or two, I hopped on the shuttle boat to Ellis Island. I really wasn’t sure what to expect. I’d heard many a story of how the conditions on the ships were horrendous, and that many people died along the way. I heard that once on the island, there were still no guarantees that you’d be granted the right to enter the United States. In my mind it had never been a very welcoming place, and to an extent, it wasn’t. But it certainly wasn’t as bad as I imagined either.

Entrance to Ellis Island’s immigration centre

The audio tour is included in the price, so I followed the invisible voice as she took me through the stories of the thousands of immigrants that had trudged the halls of Ellis Island. She took me up the staircase where I would have been obliviously examined by doctors for approximately six seconds. They would have determined whether or not I was fit to enter the country. If I failed the test, they would pre-determine an illness and chalk a symbol on my clothing to establish the ailment. 

View of Ellis Island’s hospital buildings

If I passed this test, I’d have entered the iconic hall where my whole life would be examined via a set of rigorous immigration questionnaires, before being granted the freedom to join the American Civilisation. In the present, as I entered the now echoey hall, I could sense the buzz of multi-lingual conversations that would have bounced around the room all those years ago; frightened voices of people realising that they had just entered a completely foreign world with no concrete plans of where they would live or work.

The hall in Ellis Island’s immigration centre at the end of the day

But it wasn’t all doom and gloom, apparently, throughout the sixty-two years that Ellis was in operation, the island let ninety-eight percent of the immigrants onto American Soil, that equates to more than twelve million people. Another fun fact is that around forty percent of Americans today, are able to trace part of their heritage back to Ellis Island. If you’re lucky, you might catch a talk presented by one of the grand-children of an Ellis Island immigrant.

A New Yorker that works at Ellis Island – her grandmother was an immigrant here

What a fascinating and haunting place.

This post was written to the sound of my iPod songs on shuffle, some of which included the childhood tunes of Steps…

My Love Affair with Washington DC

A pleasant surprise

When I booked a one-way ticket to Toronto, I thought, okay, I’ll start off slow, take some time out, visit some friends, a couple of weeks in Canada, a month or so in New York City, then get back into the grit of backpacking, head to South America, and get my relaxed self back into the crazy world of hosteling. Three months later and I’ve visited 4 Canadian States and 10 US States. This is way more than I bargained for, and it’s all down to the amazing accommodating friends that I have visited, all of which are now family to me. So thank you to everyone that has been part of this not so relaxed whirlwind.

Don’t worry, the reason I’m writing to you today isn’t to present you with a soppy Oscar speech, it’s to reflect on my favourite place so far.

During a trip to my friend David’s hometown in Virginia, I was lucky enough to have the opportunity to visit Washington DC on three occasions. Naturally, I was desperate to see the monuments. David’s sister, Katie, drove us to a parking garage near the Capitol Building so we could loop around the whole National Mall. She warned me that it would be a lot of walking, but this didn’t phase a Fitbit obsessive who tends to avoid any transport that does not involve using her own legs.

The Capitol Building, like most of the monuments, is a bright white structure supported by an array of columns. It’s situated directly opposite the Lincoln Memorial at the other end of the National Mall. It’s a pretty building, but it doesn’t have the ‘wow factor’ for me, probably because you can’t get close enough to really appreciate the architecture.

Capitol Building

I do however, recommend checking out the Botanic Garden. Guarding the entrance to the conservatory, is a wiggly brown tentacled metal sculpture. It reminded me of a kraken or mythical creature from a Japanese Anime, but really it just represents the roots of a tree. You may have to patiently wait for a class of school children to stop climbing all over it to get a good photo, though. Inside, the garden is sectioned off into different categories of plants/areas of the world, like a mini version of Cornwall’s Eden Project. Did you know that cocoa pods actually grow from the trunk of the tree? I also found it amusing that they were growing Cabbage on a Stick and Pumpkin on a Stick. High five America.

Cabbage on a Stick

Pumpkin-on-a-Stick

After our short trip around the natural world, we continued our historic journey until we came to a tired, yet fully functional, carousel. This extra-ordinary carousel marked the end of segregation when eleven month old, African American, Sharon Langley, took a whirl on that magical roundabout; the same day that Martin Luther King, Jr belted out his, I have a dream, speech. The carousel is now enjoyed by people of all ages, shapes, sizes, colours, cultures… Everyone! This history was all very interesting and serious, until I read the first of the Rider Rules:

That was it. Game over. Hilarity won.

I feel very fortunate that I was able to explore DC with someone who had worked in the area and has an true interest in its history. The passion that Katie has for sharing her knowledge is infectious. I could feel my brain sponge working overtime to absorb as much information as possible, eager to make the most of my private tour.

Now we’ll move onto the good stuff. You can pretty much see the Washington Monument from anywhere in the city. DC law states that no building is permitted to be constructed taller than the five hundred and fifty-five foot obelisk; so you won’t find a stuffy high rise metropolis here. One of my favourite facts about the monument is that it is two-toned in colour. Six years after the commencement of the construction in 1848, it was halted due to lack of funding. Around a quarter of it had been completed. The money sucking American Civil War pushed the construction back even further. It wasn’t until 1884 that the monument was completed, and on 21 February 1885, it was dedicated to the first President of the United States, Mr George Washington. The bottom quarter of the obelisk is a darker stone than the rest of the structure due to the elapsed time and different sources of marble used; a constant reminder/symbol of the wartime effect.

Morgan Bear loved the iconic obelisk

A post about Washington DC would not be worth the read if good ol’ Lincoln and Jefferson were not discussed. Towards the other end of the National Mall, we came to a fork in our path. A bit of extra walking wasn’t going to deter a Fitbit freak like me, so we opted for the route that opens out onto the track that loops around the Tidal Basin of Potomac Park. Towering above the edge of the North bank is the gift of Japan – cherry blossom trees. Katie excitedly described the Spring season where they would bloom, unashamedly admiring their own pink reflections in the water below. Directly opposite, is the Jefferson Memorial. Proudly tucked away from the buzzing centre of the touristic city, Jefferson stands tall in his own columned castle. I was shocked to find that there were not many people milling about on the steps, enjoying the view of the Washington Monument from afar. Apparently, a lot of tourists don’t venture to this area because of the added walking distance. I wasn’t complaining.

Jefferson Memorial

The biggie, the one that everyone swarms to, like shoppers to a Black Friday sale, is the Lincoln Memorial. I proudly admit that I was one of the masses, happily chatting about the famous scene from Forrest Gump, recalling that time I ate Bubba Gump Shrimp in Las Vegas and taking my souvenir selfie of the Reflection Pool. We chilled on the cool steps, taking our time to imprint the memory of this monumental place. Children fed snacks to the fat ducks bobbing at the edge of the pool, locals obliviously jogged past, miming to their motivational running tracks, teens jumped in unison for a cheesy Facebook cover photo. Luckily, we had arrived at the time of a very rare tourist lull. It was not overly crowded in the memorial and I was able to have my picture taken with the big guy, completely on my own (with Morgan Bear), without having to queue. Not like the time it took me half an hour to take a photo of New York City’s Raging Bull.

Lincoln Memorial

We completed our tour of the iconic National Mall with congratulatory cocktails and a hearty meal of my first ever juicy mound of meatloaf (oh, my… just wow) in Old Ebbitt Grill. Before leaving, I made sure to take a photo of the original Walrus head famously bagged by President Teddy Roosevelt.

Aside: I was a little disappointed that we could not see the Whitehouse during that first day trip, as the whole area was closed off for an unknown reason. Fortunately I was able to visit during my second and third trip to DC in the week to follow. The best time to tour the monuments is definitely at night. I was like a child at Christmas, running from one to the other, eyes wide at the ghostly white marble against the black backdrop. It was a chilly evening and not many people were around. We almost had the moment to ourselves.

Our serene moment at the World War II Memorial

As we drove back to Reston, Virginia, I pictured my own Washington city lifestyle – I would stretch out my limbs each morning, prepping for a lap around the National Mall, eat lunches on the green, attend exhibitions in the museums, read under the cherry blossoms. My day-dreaming triggered a strange comforting feel. This was a place I could, possibly, call home, one day. I never thought I’d think this way about a city, but DC isn’t like hyper populated, claustrophobic London or New York. It is the equivalent of the United Kingdom’s artistic culture hub, Bristol, which I greatly missed, until I was introduced to this marble historic playground.

This post was written to the Spanish sounds of Mexico City at night and the pumping base of the upstairs club in Hostel Centro Historico Regina.

Slow down. Just for a minute.

Peaceful is not a word to describe New York City.

If it isn’t commuters bashing you with briefcases on the Metro (polite apologies aplenty up and down the carriages), it’s tourists elbowing you as they open their magic-carpet maps, dutifully guiding them to landmarks; checking off their city must-sees before they catch the red-eye back to reality. Visiting The Big Apple? Check out our 3-day, 5-day and 7-day itineraries, ‘we’ll fill every moment, don’t worry!’.

Why do we do this? This rushing thing? Why are we late more often than not? Why don’t we give ourselves enough time to actually enjoy? Of course I’m using the Royal ‘we’, because fourteen days into my city trip, and I’m still a culprit of this tangle of tube chasing, pretzel scoffing, sight cramming madness. I have lists on top of lists on top of lists. Go here this day, see that another day, do this when it’s raining.

Then something made me stop.

I emerged from Cortlandt St Metro station and hurried towards the end of the queue. After a forty-five minute wait in the sunshine, I was given my free ticket. I made my donation and slipped on the complimentary wrist band to prove I’d been generous.

I had forty minutes to spare until my ticket would be valid, so I wandered. I wasn’t really aware of which direction I should go, but already knew that I needed to walk slowly, take everything in. And then I understood. I’d been on it the whole time.

Ground Zero.

This is where it all happened, fifteen years ago.

If you take a trip to NYC, do not leave without meandering through the memorial ground. Stay a while. Listen to the water, the only entity that should be rushing, gushing over the edges of the twin reflecting pools. Walk around each one, touch the names lasered into the cool bronze. Whether or not you know them individually, you’ll still connect with them as one, as a nation. You’ll look up and envisage those legendary Twin Towers, building a picture brick by brick in your mind. You’ll imagine standing in the shadows of their glass walls as they block out the sun. Today though, the sky is open and the sun continues to warm you into the early hours of the evening. In terms of square foot, this may not be the most open space in the city, but it sure feels like it should be.

You might arrive at this sacred place with every intention of waltzing through those museum doors, eager to learn and immerse yourself in the tales of all those affected; from police dogs labouring through embers and rubble, to lives lost and left behind. But when it’s time for you to put one foot in front of the other and join the back of the five o’clock line, you might realise that you don’t want to. But that’s okay. You don’t have to go to the museum. Nobody is judging you. That’s the beauty of this memorial. You’re already there, sucked in by the empty space, standing in that grove of trees and running water; you can sense the heat, the dust, the noise.

You might reflect on your own life. Your own experiences. Regrets. Faults. Bad choices. The epiphany that none of it matters. Because here you are, breathing fresh air. Alive.

This post was written to the sound of Bastille’s twenty-sixteen album, Wild World.