#033: Can you dig it? Can Yooooou Diiiiiiig Iiiiit?!

The van finally stationed, a tiresome morning finally put to bed, it's into The Park, in a bad mood, in the sun nevertheless, in the skimpiest t-shirt I own. Fall is still very much in evidence, but a part of me does ponder what the park might be like in the depths of winter, ice-skating with King Kong (2005). I quickly remember he died, at least twice, and content myself with standing on that bridge, as if I am waiting to meet someone.
She never shows up. The fact I am going to win Wimbledon next year is no consolation, Mary Jane. (I haven't seen Melancholia yet, but I want to.)
It is a short walk to West 81st Street, on the Upper West Side, where I am disappointed again, finding the block ends at number 51, and number 55 - the American Garden's building - doesn't even exist. This day isn't getting any better. No lunch with Pat, Bateman, of Pierce and Pierce; reservations at Dorsia a sham. It must have been Marcus Halberstram all along.
Instead, back in the park, I hunker down in that underpass, waiting for it all to finally end, or at least waiting for someone to handily happen upon me with a camcorder. Neither prevails.
So I take to wildlife spotting. The Oregon ipad purchase has allowed me to keep abreast of Attenborough's latest endeavours, and it is his voice I hear as a mallard dive-bombs by way of bathing. And, then, at long last, something good happens. I get to witness a real ornithological treat.
Sir David, if you please...

"In the depths of Central Park, away from the noise of the traffic and the hustle of the streets, the former stars of Sex and the City can be found picking their way through the bins. The head of the gaggle, Carrie, that Canadian one from Liverpool, the other one, and, the other one, have been tracked here from their summer vacation in the deserts of the United Arab Emirates. They must make the most of the extended Autumn temperatures, by taking on as much human refuse as possible, in anticipation of the harsh New York Winter ahead. Here, they are at home in their new natural habitat, sharing the remains of half a doughnut. It is a special moment."

Thank you Sir David. It warms me to know karmic balance has finally accounted for Sex and the City 2.

Next day it rains hard. I cross the park and take refuge in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Their collection is vast: 13,000 European and American works of the 19th and 20th centuries alone. Seeing the whole place in a day is impossible.
I shan't bore you with more details of every little thing I saw. I will, however, let you know that I have, up until this point in life, struggled to see the worth in certain branches of abstractism - works of purely colour and form. Today I came to appreciate them rather more, thanks to the examples in the modern art section of the Met.
The largest Jackson Pollock on display was visceral and kinetic; it had something urgent about it, the way the drips and splashes of colour intertwined. And it helped me see some value in other works, such as those with solid lines and pure, clean colours. A painting doesn't have to be obviously landscape or portrait to be worthy, I've learnt.
The same night I head to Madison Square Garden and watch the New York Rangers take on the Pittsburgh Penguins in the NHL - my first experience of live American sport. Ice hockey is an incredibly frantic game - the swiftest of skills laced with dashes of brute violence - and the teams served up a treat: the Rangers coming from behind to win 4-3.

Wednesday, and another art gallery visit. This time it is to further my education at MOMA (Museum of Modern Art). I get my tourist thing in full effect today - Times Square, the High Line, West Village, Greenwich Village - and you can see the results of my respective papping below.

The next morning brings with it my second run-in with the NYPD.
At this point I am tempted to commence a rambling diatribe about how I, having swapped my skimpy t-shirt in favour of a tasteful maroon leather waistcoast, ran the gauntlet of a gang-run city, from Van Cortlandt Park in the north, all the way to Coney Island and the safety of home at the southern tip of the city. How my cronies and I were separated on the way, how we raced through Riverside Park, how we were almost entrapped by a gang of ruthless she-devils, and how we put the beat-down on every rival gang we encountered. Including the Baseball Furies. But to do so would be a lie. Because these things didn't happen to me.
Not since 1979 in any case.
It is when I am out on vehicle manouvers that I pick up the tail. Pulling over in anticipation of a parking spot, the blues and twos sidle up to my window. I am accused of using my phone whilst driving. It appears my habit of twiddling my beard - just below my left ear - whilst at the wheel has done for me. If only the Nimbus had manual gears, this would never have happened. Or, if only I had trimmed my face in the last three months...

My last day in New York, so I head Downtown and have myself a walking-about-the-city day, catching glimpses of Madame Liberty (far away), the Brooklyn Bridge (quite long but not long long), the Chrysler (tall), Zuccotti Park (low-key), Union Square (Christmassy), Empire State (taller), Public Library (props to Jake Gyllenhaal), New York's answer to the public sector strikes (placards vaunting socialism over Democrats and Republicans), Grand Central Terminal (Apple store coming soon) and The Rockerfeller Christmas lights (next to the nervous-looking HQ of News Corporation).
Something in the air in The City That Never Sleeps has kept me from getting much shut-eye this week. Hopefully by walking more than sixty blocks today I'll be rested up ahead of the trip to the capital tomorrow. These five days have flown by unbelievably quickly. There is so much going on in this city, so much I haven't been able to do. I'm very glad I'll be coming back here so soon.
Without a car.