So Good They Named It Twice

Welcome, well-travelled reader, as this week we venture out of the bubble within a bubble within a bubble which is Palo Alto, Bay Area, California, and set forth for the giddying pace of Old New York.

The blog's been on hiatus for a couple of weeks, as we've had Visitors. Yes, some family from the UK were intrepid enough to get on a plane and come over here to see what California's like for a week and a half. I'm fairly sure they enjoyed it, and we may have done more to advance the sport of baseball in the UK in those 10 days than anyone else has ever achieved, but that's material for a future blog. Or 10.

So, I'm sure you're wondering what domestic air travel here in the US is like in the post-COVID era. The answer is: pretty much identical to what it was like before COVID. The airports are now basically packed the way they were before, as are the planes. There are a few face masks on show, but nowhere near as many as you might like. If there's a more efficient way to distribute respiratory illnesses, then it's yet to be discovered. I'm sure Elon will get right on it if we ask, but forget I ever said that - that's how the conspiracy theories start!

I flew with the esteemed Alaska Airlines, who are currently advertising themselves as the most caring airline, presumably something that's in the same category of oxymoron as the most helpful estate agent, or the best value lawyer. Anyway, I'm sure they care a massive amount, but somehow not quite enough to give you anything to eat on a 5.5 hour flight across the continent. Thanks for that, Alaska, and thanks a lot for forgetting to tell me about it so I could make appropriate preparations.

But don't worry, the outbound trip got even better once I'd arrived at New Jersey's delightful Newark Liberty airport. Liberty in these parts means the freedom to get a flight down to Myrtle Beach, North Carolina whenever you want. Myrtle Beach is, of course, super classy. UK readers, in the classiness stakes it's just a shade short of the seedy seaside resort of your choice. Without wishing to sound snobby, it's, ah, a different demographic to Palo Alto, shall we say.

Sadly, Newark Liberty struggled to grant me liberty: getting out of the airport was surprisingly hard. As ever, I summoned a Lyft driver using the 21st Century equivalent of rubbing an oil lamp three times (that's an iPhone app in case you hadn't guessed). That driver started messaging me:

• "Where are you going?"

• "Manhattan. Tribeca."

• "Oh sorry. 2 hour traffic. Cancel"

Hmm, I wonder what this means. Funnily enough, this phone I'm using to summon a driver also has a mapping app that's aware of current traffic levels; well, 2 actually, one from my current employer and one from the phone manufacturer, and they both report that it's a 38 minute drive from here to Tribeca with current traffic levels. How strange.

So I cancelled the ride and summoned someone else. This driver actually phoned me.

• "Hi, this is Daniel, your Lyft driver. Are you going to the city?"

• "Yes, Tribeca"

• "CLUNK"

And that's the last I heard of Daniel.

So then I joined the yellow taxi queue, just like we used to before Steve Jobs, along with everyone else coming back from Myrtle Beach. After about 20 minutes waiting, I finally got into a Newark yellow cab, so I'm immediately aware that this is going to be an even more interesting ride than NYC taxi rides usually are.

And indeed interesting it was. As well as the mode of transport being from before the smartphone era, so was the driver.

• "Where are you going?"

• "The Smyth Hotel in Tribeca"

• "Do you know where it is?"

• "It's on West Broadway… pretty sure it's the corner of Chambers and West Broadway"

• "Do you know where that is?"

• "Well, ah, I've never driven there but I guess I've got a rough idea"

• "OK"

So off we go. In terms of driving style, I'd say this person was definitely a tailgater. Following literally inches behind the car in front at New Jersey Turnpike speeds is only made more exciting when the vehicle you're in quite obviously has extremely warped brake discs, presumably from all the heavy braking you need to do to avoid hitting the car in front, making it vibrate like a washing machine winding up for the spin cycle every time the driver hits the pedal.

I eventually navigate the driver to the hotel by coming out of the Holland Tunnel and peering at road signs, then help him use the tablet he's been issued to take my payment, which clearly he doesn't know how to use. By now it's 10:30pm and I haven't eaten since breakfast on the West Coast (thanks again Alaska, although many, many genuine thanks to my darling wife, once again my saviour, who had furnished me with PASTRIES before I left). Fortunately I'm in New York, where it's possible to get food at that time of night on a Sunday, not in Palo Alto where everything shuts at 9pm.

I've not visited New York City since 2019, for obvious reasons, and throughout the week, the place is an absolute revelation to me. Whilst we don't live in the city, when I think of city life I tend to be normalized to San Francisco now. In the old days, I used to think New York was this dirty, gritty metropolis, quite like London but just a bit dirtier and ruder. But compared to San Francisco it's incredibly clean, has lovely parks, looks vaguely like they've finished building it so you don't trip over the holes in the pavement every 10 yards, and was a lot more to my liking. Yes, I spent my days walking between a nice hotel in Tribeca, through the West Village, up to a lovely office on the top of Chelsea Market, so my sample is a bit of a rarified bubble within NYC, but I have to say I loved it.

Just to give me the quintessential New York City experience, on my penultimate night in the place, there was a colossal car accident right outside the hotel at 3am, followed by an hour and a half of people shouting at each other like Travis Bickle. Something like this always happens in New York City.