They say that you can
get anything 24/7 in New York City, and, what’s more, have most of it all
delivered to your door.
It’s just not true. You can’t,
for example, buy a decent bottle of wine (either in store or by delivery) after
10pm, when most of the liquor stores close and you have to be dependent on a
supermarket’s Californian cooking wine (my wine consumption has inevitably
dropped as a result. To every cloud and all that).
You can’t get the cable and phone
service Verizon to answer the phone. Ever. And you certainly can’t get cleaners
to swop their eco-friendly products that leave a tide of dirt on everything,
for your politically incorrect chemicals that leave everything sparkling.
In my area of West Hollywood that
I recently left, there is a wine store and delicatessen where you can buy a
really great bottle of wine up until 2am; you can even drink it on the premises
for a corkage fee. In LA though, drinks are whipped off every table on the dot
of 2am because of the licensing laws, and, being a night person, the 4am
closing hours of NYC suit me better, even if I have to be content with water as
an alternative to ghastly Californian Pinot Grigio (NYC, bars, like those in
LA, are incapable of grasping that there are wines other than this one; in most
places, they can barely get their heads around white and red).
In Paris, where I lived for six
years, you really can get decent wine 24/7, and if the idea of a champagne
breakfast suddenly strikes, you are spoilt for choice even before the birds
start chirping.
The drinking culture is the first
thing one notices in looking for the differences between the two cities. I don’t
drink cocktails, having once been the victim of a Vodka Martini in Nick’s Bar
in LA’s Beverly Hills. Almost unconscious on the street after just one, I
returned to the bar the next day, insisting that my drink had been spiked and
demanding to know what proportion of Martini there was to vodka. They looked at
me, incredulous, explaining that I had consumed pure vodka, with “a touch of Martini
around the rim of the glass”. It must have been the equivalent of about 12 UK
measures. Never again. Contrary to what people may think, I don’t drink to get
drunk; that’s just an unfortunate by-product.
Cocktails, however, seem to be
the drink of choice among most people in the more upmarket bars in both cities.
In LA, the “mixologist” is now king of cocktails, and NYC is trying to match
this by introducing a whole new concept I discovered this week – the “bar chef”.
In Cardiff, where I am from, we still have barmaids, and a very good job they
do, too.
I already have my favourite
hangouts in NYC, just as I did in LA. They say that no matter where you go in
the world, you quickly find your triangle: the place where you are staying and
two other points of reference. I live on 45th St and 10th
Avenue; my first point of reference is 43rd and 10th; the
other, 46th and 7th – at a push 49th and 9th
(ok, so it’s a triangle with a bit on the side). The generic name is Hell’s
Kitchen and suits my personality down to the ground, even if I tend to be The
Only Straight in the Village.
I’ve been to Brooklyn once, and I
might as well have gone to Canada for all the effort it took me to get back to
Midtown on a Sunday. I joined the Guggenheim but have yet to go there. I look
at Google maps, print out the directions, but each time I get as far as Bed,
Bath and Beyond at Columbus Circle on 59th, I can’t resist going in and buying
$300 worth of stuff I don’t need because I have my 20% Off voucher on me.
Maybe all this will change when I
sell my UK house and feel more settled. I am desperate to go to Coney Island
because I love rides; I want to do more walking and gazing at what, to me, are
exquisite buildings that, in their varying shapes and sizes, turn the very sky
into a changing architectural sculpture of its own on a daily basis. I want to
see more shows, listen to jazz.
There is, undoubtedly, a lot more
to do here, and everything is a great deal more accessible than it is in LA
where, if you don’t have a car, the no 4 bus that takes an hour from West
Hollywood to Santa Monica, soon loses its charm.
On September 4th, my
brilliant Welsh artist friend, Harry Holland, has an exhibition here; I am
going to take Argentinian tango lessons; I am considering a photography course
to make use of that smart Nikon D300 I bought when I thought I was going to be
the next Robert Doisneau – and would have been, had the iPhone not improved its
camera and made me think “Sod that Nikon palaver for a bunch of soldiers”.
I miss my LA friends but am
making new ones; I don’t miss the LA weather yet, as NYC has been so much better
than the rare humidity that hit LA when I was last there. I miss the
show-business bollocks of Hollywood, especially yesterday, when I hadn’t been
able to make it to LA for the Emmys.
Both cities are great places and
I love the bi-coastal existence. Hopefully, by the end of the year, I will be
able to afford it once more. Because, to be honest, winter in NYC does not beckon.
Not unless someone can deliver mulled wine to my door, 24/7.
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