Last year we spent a few days in New York, New York, so good they named it twice. It is my favourite city because I happen to love the scandal and the vice. Travelling with the four children seemed like a good idea when we originally booked it, one cold snowy night in December. The children are all old enough now to pack their own suitcases and pull them through the airport, which has made our travelling experience much lighter than ever before. This trip should have been a breeze. However, once at the airport the reality soon kicked in.
Our teenage daughter began to repeat the same sentence over and over again, as we entered the terminal building, checked in and went through security. “When can we go to Abercrombie and Fitch?” “When can we go to Hollister?” Never mind the Empire State Building, The Museum Mile or a New York bagel all she cared about was visiting a hoody shop. My son had other ideas. “I want to go home,” he repeated as we headed to the departure gate. The only travel that he is interested in at the moment is time travel. That Dr Who DVD that he got for Christmas has a lot to answer for. New York will never live up to a parallel universe or a chance encounter with a Dalek.
Once on the plane, two daughters fought and bickered for the entire journey. My husband and I put on our headphones and concentrated on two movies on the way over. Sometimes the best thing to do is simply to pretend that they are not ours. Had it not been for headsets and in-flight movies that they too were watching, our fellow passengers might well have asked the pilot to divert the plane and have my entire family removed at Shannon.
We had done our preparation well and found ourselves a great hotel for families, The Cosmopolitan in downtown Tribeca. It is situated two blocks up from the Twin Tower site and a train from JFK airport took us right there. In advance we bought a ‘City Pass’ that would get us into all the top attractions and allow us to skip the queues. Up at the crack of dawn, we were pretty much first in line at all the attractions. Yet it wasn’t the buildings, the people or the big yellow taxis that amused our son.
On each subway train he made a beeline for the metal pole that is supposed to offer support to standing passengers in rush hour. Between stops as the train picked up speed, he would spin himself round and round the pole as fast as he could. So much so that he would become dizzy, laugh hysterically and fall to the ground before doing it all again. One passenger leaned over to him and whispered, “You know what I know son?” our lad shook his head. “I know that you are going to be the 54th President of the United States of America one day”. If pole spinning were the only skill required I am in no doubt that he could be a world leader.
We headed for the Abercrombie and Fitch shop on Fifth Avenue. It would be hard to miss it; there was a crowd outside the front door. Everyone’s eyes fixed on the ‘display’. But this was very different to the display that you may see in Debenhams or Dunnes stores. The display in Abercrombie and Fitch consisted of two very good-looking models, one male and one female. Despite being a cold February morning, they were casually dancing in a bikini and pair of swimming trunks, inviting us in. Once inside the dimly lit store, similar models stood dotted about the place, swaying and looking very cool. We found a hoody and queued for an hour to pay in the dark, club like store that is so huge with teenagers around the world. Next it was time for a bit of culture.
We went further uptown to check out the small memorial garden in Central Park located outside the Dakota Building where John Lennon was shot. A sign asked visitors to be quiet and still, this was a place for reflection. Before we had even set foot inside I gathered up the children and asked that they be respectful to the memory of John Lennon. “Who’s he?” they asked and I explained that long ago, he was the equivalent of Justin Bieber.
We lasted two minutes in ‘Strawberry Fields’. “I’m hungry”, “She hit me” “I’m bored” bickered the girls whilst our little boy busied himself by rolling up an enormous snowball and making loud squeaky noises. It was ironic that we were paying homage to the man who wrote the line “imagine all the people living life in peace”. At that moment, I couldn’t. We headed out, across the avenue (still with the giant snowball) and down the side of the Dakota Building to find something to eat.
At that very moment, the side entrance gates opened and out shuffled an elderly woman with her assistant. My six year old, still clutching the snowball, raised his arms and with his entire mite, threw it ahead of him. He was aiming it as his sisters ahead. It whizzed past the elderly woman at about thirty miles an hour. “HEY!” she shouted dramatically. “THAT KID JUST THREW A SNOWBALL AT ME”. I grabbed his arm and marched him up the street, looking back and apologizing.
At that moment I recognised her. She may be 88 but still knew how to command an audience. My son’s giant snowball almost landed on Hollywood actress Lauren Bacall. “Oh my GOD, he could have killed Lauren Bacall,” I hissed to the rest of the family. “Who’s Lauren Bacall?” asked my teenage daughter. I explained that she was a legend, the fifties version of Angelina Jolie who was once married to Humphrey Bogart, the fifties version of Brad Pitt.
She wasn’t impressed. She had other more important things on her mind. “Can we go to Hollister now?” she asked. Next time we go I shall pack earplugs.
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