I’m writing a novel about New York in 1975, Fun City as it was called then. I’ve never been to New York, never mind in 1975. So far, most of my research has been done on Google and, increasingly, Google Street View. Street View is ok, to a point. However, like internet dating, the landscape is detached and soulless and you scroll aimlessly on, not connecting with anything or anyone. On the plus side, I can wander along 5th Avenue or check out Central Park from the comfort of my WFH desk, the odd delivery truck or static shopper adding a bit of intrigue. Frozen in time, my glimpse of Gotham is a literal manifestation of that 1950s cult classic, The Day the Earth Stood Still. In these virtual walkabouts, I don’t get to experience the elements – I can’t seek out air conditioned shops to escape the humidity or pull my hat down tighter to shield from the grey wind or sleet. I’m unable to smell the hotdogs and onions, or the weed around Times Square. I’m spared the visceral reaction at being pushed out the way by an impatient New Yorker as I stop to look up and marvel at my surroundings. What’s missing is only the spirit and personality and vibe and energy of the city. As a writer, I want to explore the quirks, oddities, anomalies - all of which come from the people.
Knowing that I could never glean the essence of the city from the internet alone, last August I tentatively took a peek at how much a week in the Big Apple would cost for me and my daughter. I had long discounted such a trip, preferring climes that offer more bang for my buck. But now my excuse to go was my art. That first search nearly put my fingers into spasm in my hurry to click away from USAdreams.com and back to my work emails. However, my interest was piqued. I had a snapshot of what was possible. So I went back the next day, and the next. And the day after that I booked it.
‘We’re going to New York,’ I told my daughter. And in true teen spirit, she barely acknowledged me, but was immediately typing ‘things to do in NYC’ into TikTok. I now know that New York is home to the largest Sephora in the US, which is on her to-do list. The world title, it seems, goes to Kuala Lumpar. It’s still another three months until our trip, but already I can see I’m going to have to squeeze three New Yorks, or three Manhattans, into that already crowded island; the one she expects, the one I’m searching for and the one that exits. Her New York will consist of eating in different fast food restaurants every day; Popeye, Panda Express, Wendy’s, Chik-Fil-A, Shake Shack and countless others guaranteed to induce heartburn and send our insulin levels soaring. It will include shopping in airy stores with numerous floors and looking in vast polished windows. This New York is modern and glossy and Insta-friendly.
The New York I’m hoping to glimpse is a ghost of 50 years ago. Can I catch a wisp of its psyche? I want to walk the streets of Kojak and Travis Bickle, I’ll visit Burroughs’ Angle Bar – now a EuroPan Cafe – in the hope of sensing what came before. That New York, for all its grime and grit, was still wildly glamorous to my childhood self – a kid forged in the calluses of Red Clydeside. Lurid polyester disco shirts, Buick sedans, art deco skyscrapers, and something called pastrami seemed endlessly exotic to me and my pals, but then we lived in a street where someone getting a terrapin was big news.
I’ll drag my daughter away from the flashing digital billboards of Times Square to sit in the bar of the Chelsea Hotel and pretend myself into the past. If I’m lucky I may get to experience a time loop and see Valerie Solanas or Arthur Miller stroll by. Realistically, my best bet is to skulk the lobby in the hope of ambushing a resident. I may see a gnarly looking dude with ratty hair ambling through reception, not quite Fran Lebowitz or Howard Stern, but he’ll have to do. I’ll buy him a drink, probably a jack and coke, and hope my Scots brogue will win him over.
‘How long’ve you lived in New York?’
‘Since 1973.’ And he downs the jack and coke in a oner.
So far, so good, date-wise.
‘So, New York, pre-Disneyfication. What was it like?’
‘That’s one cool accent you have, my grandmother was Scotch. Her name was Eileen McDonald, came from a place called Maybole in Ayrshire. I think the McDonalds still live there?’
‘I don’t know, maybe. But Manhattan, in the 70s, what can you tell me? Did you go to CBGBs? Max’s Kansas City?’
‘You know what they say, if you can remember the 70s you weren’t there.’ He’s now ostentatiously swirling the glass, the ice cubes rattling and slowly melting. He wants another one but I don’t bite, this conversation is going nowhere.
‘I think that was the 60s, but ok.’ Better to cut it now than have to spend another $15 (plus tip) on him, ‘anyway, nice meeting you.’ I scrape my stool back on the mosaic floor and walk away before he responds. I grab the girl, who has been idling on TikTok all the while and we make our exit, back into West 23rd St in 2023. As the door swings shut, I can hear my dud raconteur in the background trying to reel me back with offers to be my personal tour guide.
I’m beyond excited for our trip to New York, that I can combine my literary adventure with a mother-daughter adventure is awesome; although one thing‘s for sure - her New York will require a lot more clams than mine.