I COULD HAVE WALKED ALL NIGHT

I left the office in Midtown with every intention of taking the subway from 51st and Lexington Avenue to The Lower East Side. I didn’t even have proper walking shoes on. I was wearing some tanned colored Hush Puppies. I think they were Hush Puppies but I am not sure. I don’t even care if they were Hush Puppies or not. I just love the sound of those words. “Hush Puppies.” If I don’t own a pair I may just go out and buy a pair and then i can talk about my Hush Puppies all day long.

My office is literally a stone’s throw away from the subway station. The weather outside was hot and steamy. It was close to ninety degrees with a similar number as measured by the humidity. It wasn’t pleasant. It was, what I describe as New York City shower weather; meaning that you need to take one immediately after walking three blocks. My destination was four miles away, due south. For some unknown reason I passed the subway station and turned right to walk down Lexington Avenue. I still don’t know why I did this. It was as if my feet had mutinied against my brain and had set off on their own journey, totally disregarding all logical thoughts. It proves that it doesn’t really matter what you are thinking at any given time since the feet have a mind separate from the rest of your body.

It was blisteringly hot. My feet didn’t care. They were on a mission. I was sweating profusely and begging for them to stop and do a u-turn back to the subway but this didn’t happen. A hundred yard leisurely stroll turned into a four mile hike, battling the elements and dodging a few pedestrians and cars to boot. Before I knew it I had turned onto Third Avenue as I instinctively knew the walking route I needed to take to arrive at my destination on time.

There really isn’t much to admire on Third Avenue. There are a whole plethora of office complexes and below average restaurants and delis. It is a pretty uninspiring walk. I was reluctant to continue my adventure but the feet insisted. They would not accept any compromise. I started talking to them as I was walking, in a vain attempt at trying to reason with them but they simply ignored me. They continued to point the way and carried on striding towards Downtown. It wasn’t until the final mile when they showed any sign of letting up. They suddenly became tired and achy and were very irritable. By this stage I was so upset with them that I insisted that they completed their task. I was cutting my nose to spite my feet.

By the time I arrived at the Bowery I was drenched. I probably smelled none too clever either and I resembled the many homeless who had started to gather outside some of the more famous shelters that house them. I was furious with my feet for having senselessly put myself through this unnecessary ordeal. The blaring, torturous sun had clouded my thoughts and I began to yell at my feet threatening all sorts of punishments that I could unveil if they ever did this to me again. Without fully realizing it, other pedestrians began to cross the road to avoid me. The last thing they wanted was a confrontation with a disheveled sweaty lunatic who was contemplating self foot torture.

It was only when I arrived at the bar downtown, that happened to be the correct destination and I started to suck in the sweet, cool, refreshing air conditioning, that it suddenly dawned on me. Walking in New York City is a tremendous pastime. It saves on cab fares and the discomfort of overcrowded trains. The grid system makes it very difficult to get lost. The one drawback is that in the Summer, the heat is so stifling and disorientating that it plays tricks on the mind and encourages a foot coup d’état.

INDEPENDENCE HEART BLOCKAGES.

The mass exodus has started. Panic and mega planning take over this city during this time of year as those who leave spend more time calculating what the best time to depart is, than their actual journey. This year the 4th of July falls on a Monday. We finally get a legitimate three day weekend as opposed to a brief midweek work stoppage .



At this point I would like to voice a complaint against the 4th of July. Not because I was born in England and still hold joint nationalities. It is however quite ironic that I celebrate a day when the English were kicked out of here for no taxation without representation; yet I was a green card holder for 8 years paying tax and not being able to vote. I complain because the 4th of July holiday should always be on a Friday or a Monday allowing for a three day holiday. On the three occasions it falls smack in the middle of the week it turns out to be an inconvenient holiday rather than a joyous one. The 4th of July should be mandated to fall on a Friday or a Monday. It doesn't really matter if we celebrate it on the 6th or the 7th of July. Three day weekends should always be the norm. In England the holidays are always Bank Holiday Mondays for that reason alone. Otherwise it becomes too disruptive.



Those who leave, do so in patterns and in droves. This year as I stare out of my office window into the abyss, I can already cast my tired eyes down on the Thursday night exiting brigade as they frantically attempt to miss the Friday rush hour disaster scenarios. I do have some rather bad news for them. The Thursday night rush hour ain't that much better than Fridays and may even be worse. Because of their early departure, Friday may have less traffic. Thursday nights include the normal rush hour crew plus the early get away folk adding to congestion.



The smarter folk leave in the dead of night as Thursday turns to Friday. They depart after 10pm and experience very little traffic. The problem is they are so tired when they start their journey that they are a much greater risk for an accident than their earlier peers. The journey during the wee hours is clearly conducted in the dark and is more terrifying but does seem to present a much quicker escape than those who peril the same routes just hours before.



The Friday morning choice, just after rush hour provides NYC leavers, with most likely, the best time slot. They miss the morning madness and sandwich themselves between the rush hour commuters and the holiday travelers. Those who have no choice but to wait until after work Friday to get away to their holiday destination , are in for a nasty surprise. Even a ten per cent increase in traffic over the normal mess creates total havoc on New York Streets. Comparing the roads in and out of New York to a dodgy heart is a fair one. The arteries get clogged because of bad driving habits of its citizens and the sheer increase in volume on the roads adds stress to the heart because the arteries cant pump the blood fast enough to allow New York to breathe. Without any stints or a prospect of bi-pass or open heart surgery, New York City's ticker gives up causing massive heart failure on those days just before the start of the holiday weekend.



I have a really good solution to this problem. Do what I do. Go nowhere. Be a stay at home family. Gather in large amounts of food and drink from New York's finest grocery stores, lock the doors and relax in good air conditioning, thus avoiding the pandemonium below. Take a stroll on the 4th of July and watch the fireworks and then stroll home again. You therefore don't ever have to deal with the utter insanity of getting away. Don't forget that those who have left have to come back and repeat this painful exercise on Monday night, many of whom scramble to get back while I am gazing into the sky at the bright lights and loud sounds celebrating the fact that 235 years ago they kicked my lot out of here.

SUNDAY NIGHT VACATION.

There is nothing better than avoiding all of those who leave Manhattan for the weekends and head off to the beach. It’s not that I don’t like my 8 months of the year fellow city dwellers. I just prefer it when they are gone because then I can enjoy this truly wonderful city without having to lie and beg for reservations at some of New York’s finer eating establishments.
I pray every Sunday that good weather hits the tri-state shores and stays all Sunday afternoon allowing those on the beach to stay where they are until the very last minute. I then focus on creating as much traffic as is feasibly possible on all approach roads to the city during Sunday late afternoon and early evening, preventing the weekend away crew from getting back in time for dinner. With this strategy in place, my wife and I venture off downtown to New York’s finest without a reservation and get greeted with smiles and a happy to see you and we will provide excellent service to you look from MaitreD’s that until we arrive, have been staring at empty tables.
I enjoy these Sunday night escapes. Last night we ate downtown at Aquagrill. It was fabulous. We felt like we were on vacation. We drove there. We found a free parking space on the street and we could walk the sidewalks hand in hand after without having to step into the streets and avoid the crowds. It was sheer bliss.

All was going swimmingly well until we arrived home to find three beach families returning, blocking the driveway to our garage and fighting over which family got the only luggage cart first. It developed into a full blown argument with the three Dads out of the car yelling incomprehensible stuff at each other and the Mothers hurling catty insults though open car windows. I was very calm, considering I had just arrived back from my dinner vacation and so I just waited in the car for the hullabaloo to die down. I was pleased to see that my city peers had enjoyed a thoroughly relaxing weekend and that the benefits of being away at the beach had worn off after five minutes of being home. I had spent one hundred and fifty bucks on a tremendous evening out. They had spent that on gas alone getting to and from their weekend retreat and were none the more relaxed for all their escapades. Long live Sunday nights in Manhattan. I choose being here over anywhere.

WALKING CHOICES FOR COMMUTING.

A couple of weeks ago I was complaining vigorously about the weather here in our beloved metropolis. It seemed as if we could never get a break from the precipitation that graced us on a daily basis several times a day. Now that the weather has done a complete 180 degree turn, I propose doing a Native American Indian rain dance to facilitate some rain. The humidity has become unbearable and its not even summer yet.



The weather extremes of New York city have officially eradicated two of our favorites seasons. In a few decades time kids living here will ask " what was Spring like Daddy?" They will never experience days of 65 degrees with no humidity and a refreshing cool breeze that accompanies it. We all remember with glee the endless days of shorts, t-shirts underneath and a sweatshirt draped over the shoulders just in case the temperature falls below 50 . I remember walking in central park breathing in the aromas that permeate the air from the freshly cut grass or the sprouting of spring buds. It is my favorite time of the year. Mother nature has decided to steal these fleeting moments of contentment away from the inhabitants of New York and instead punish them with rain and now humidity.



I walk to work and back each day . In the morning I chose to walk down Park Avenue because there are no buses. I include this piece of useful information not because of the fact that I agree with the no bus policy on Park Avenue. I mention this fact because I am always tempted to abandon my walks and jump on a bus when walking down Second or Lexington Avenues. I even hang around bus stops in anticipation of a bus relieving me of my exercise. On Park I cannot do this so I chose this route to work in order to complete the two mile walk without evil bus temptations.



On the way back I have many choices. I leave work around Five. The last thing I ever want to do during the afternoon rush hour is hop on a bus or a subway unless I absolutely have to. I don't like being that intimate with strangers if you can picture how close you have to stand next to someone crammed into a sausage like structure either below or above ground. I enjoy walking home. On Fifth Avenue I encounter the tourist aimlessly patrolling the retail Mecca of the world. I am often stopped for directions on Fifth Avenue and oblige with first class orienteering recommendations. It is an arduous task weaving in and out of tourist traffic congregating at all the wrong places. If I chose Fifth it adds at least five minutes to my journey, blamed squarely on the other pedestrians unfamiliar with the walking habits of New Yorkers. The one advantage of taking Fifth is I can make a slight detour and wander into Central Park at 59 th street and then walk the next mile in the park avoiding the mass of alien invaders on Fifth.



The walk on Madison Avenue is quite different. The advertising crew are out in force and are better dressed, better looking and considerably younger. This is the Avenue of gorgeous people and I often find myself walking into lampposts or other pedestrians staring at something half my age and flimsily dressed. I tend not to chose this route home often because it hurts my neck and I try and refrain from appearing to be that creepy old guy that many cross roads to ignore.



Park Avenue is a fine choice for the commute home. I tend to be the salmon swimming against the tide as the office buildings spew out their workers like clockwork at five in the afternoon and the vast majority of them trek down a few blocks to Grand Central Station hurrying to catch their trains at times past the hour only New York State Transit Authorities could come up with. Higher up on Park Avenue I witness hoards of plastic surgery patients with bandages on faces and heads and extraordinary large breasts trying to avoid eye contact with those in the know. I have counted at least fifteen plastic surgeons in the sixties and seventies on both sides of Park. Clearly those who want to be more beautiful gravitate to one of the most stunning avenues in New York to get treatment.



Lexington is nothing short of a zoo. It is a combination of office workers, construction workers, students from Hunter college, nannies with babies in strollers and lower end retail customers all jockeying for sidewalk room heading in both directions. It is impossible to cleanly navigate ones way in a straight line without bumping into several people. I try and avoid bodily contact at all times with aggressive commuters and so by-pass Lexington regularly.



Third Avenue is quite similar to Lexington in its pedestrian make up. Its sidewalks are much wider though making the journey that much easier. You do have to contend with the Bloomingdale's crowd in the low 60's but they tend to not even be on the sidewalk as they are half in the street hailing cabs with brown bags flying around as they hoist their flapping hands high above their heads. Once you have passed the shopping brigade the coast is clear and Third Avenue is a nice alternative to Park.



Second Avenue is another hustling bustling commercial street with many restaurants , bars and delis that come to life after six when happy hour is in full force. In the seventies it becomes the largest continuous construction site seen by New Yorkers as the Second Avenue subway line engulfs every aspect of avenue life. It is horrendous and should be avoided at all costs. It is the bubonic plague of the city and i pity anyone who has to deal with the noise, sights, smells and sounds of what will be for sure a complete waste of public finances.



Choices are what makes New York so different from many other cities. When the weather holds up and its not too hot i encourage City folk and visitors to walk the city streets and take in the different vibes. Excluding downtown the City is built around a grid making it very difficult to get lost. I have touched on just a few Avenues that vary quite considerably. The only challenge to walking is that one has to deal with other walkers like me. New Yorkers are pretty set in their ways and plan out their walking routes well in advance. There is nothing more annoying than large families spread out hand in hand taking up the whole sidewalk. You will be harassed by the local population and will be told quite clearly how you should be walking. Buses and subways should only be used when the journey is too long or when the weather plays up. Otherwise walking is the preferred mode of transportation as nothing is worse than sausage stuffing!

THEY DON'T MAKE THEM LIKE THIS ANYMORE.

New York has many distinctive neighborhoods. There is Little Italy, Chinatown, German-town and Spanish Harlem to name a few. In the old days pre- the 1970's when everyone moved out because of an escalation in crime, New Yorkers generally conducted their business within a very short distance from their homes and spoke whatever language they had used back in the old country. Life was a lot simpler then and definitely more community based . New York has changed and with the exception of Chinatown , there is a lack of distinct neighborhoods with their own language and culture. All other sections of Manhattan seem to blend into one.

My Great Aunt Katche was a holocaust survivor from Nazi Germany. She fled her homeland in December 1938 a few days after Krystalnacht and managed to secure a visa to what was then then British Mandate Palestine , now better known as Israel. She settled in Jerusalem in a neighborhood called Rehavia. It was 99 per cent German. Just like the Old Italian, Jewish and Asian nationals of lower Manhattan she kept to her own. Her lawyer was German. Her accountant was German. Her banker was German and the candy store her and Uncle Alfred owned and ran catered to German immigrants . She lived in Rehavia from 1938 until 1993 when she passed on. For fifty five years she never spoke a word of Hebrew, which is the National language of Israel. Every thing she did was in German including the reading of newspapers, the listening to the wireless and the once a week German news program on the television that she watched religiously.

All Aunt Katsche's friends were German and they all seemed to live in the same cocooned life, refusing to assimilate with the general population. It reminds me very much of what i see in Chinatown here in New York. Thousands of elderly folk go about their business shopping at Chinese grocery stores, buying the same foods they used to purchase back in the old country. They all appear to know one another and live their lives as if they have never left the Mainland. It is a wonderful thing to witness. Adopting this type of lifestyle, traditions are maintained and thank goodness we live in a free society where immigrants can exist within worlds they are accustomed to supplanted far away from their birth place without the added pressure of assimilation. That is left to offspring to fulfill.

This trait of being stuck in their ways and refusing to comply with unfamiliar surroundings has a direct affect on the way certain immigrants deal with situations that challenge this whole way of living. An example of this occurred in the late
1980s with my Aunt and her Great Niece Michelle who was studying in Israel for a whole school year. She was in her late teens and was extremely considerate to my Aunt and Uncle. Michelle visited them every Thursday at 4pm for a cup of tea and a piece of cake. She couldn't show up at 3.45pm because they were both napping. She also could not turn up at 4.15pm because they were German and being late for a scheduled appointment was punishable by the death penalty just after a phone call to the missing persons bureau. So Michelle every Thursday would take the number 28 bus to their neighborhood and wait until her watch showed 4pm and visit for a couple of hours. Michelle was from New York City. With Anutie Katsche and Uncle Alfred she spoke perfect broken German. She barely understood the conversations and tended to smile a lot and agree with whatever they were saying. Friends of the old couple visited regularly and Michelle found herself nodding profusely to the assortment of questions that came her way.

When the visit was over Auntie Katsche and Uncle Alfred escorted Michelle to the bus stop and insisted that she got on the number 9 bus back to her dorm. The problem was only the number 28 bus went to her dorm and not the number 9 but Auntie Katsche and Uncle Alfred could not have possibly known that since they never left their German neighborhood. Michelle often tried arguing with them about which bus she should be taking but they were incapable of listening and changing their incorrect viewpoint. So every Thursday late afternoon at 6.05pm Michelle stood at the bus stop and watched the bus she needed stop and leave without her. Five minutes later like clockwork the number 9 bus arrived. She begrudgingly boarded the wrong bus and waved goodbye to her relatives. She then turned around and pressed the stop button and got off at the next bus stop . She then walked back to the previous stop and waited for the next number 28 bus to take her home.

Michelle claimed that this was a small price to pay for keeping the old couple sane and content. She always told them that they need not accompany her to the bus stop at all but as she was a female they felt obliged to make sure she got home safely. Michelle inconvenienced herself for the sake of allowing two very nervous people to feel good about their actions in looking after what they believed to be a lost visitor to their city who they assumed knew nothing about how to navigate correctly aroundit. This scenario continued for several months. Auntie Katsche and Uncle Alfred always went straight home after making sure Michelle was on the bus. Only once did they spontaneously, out of character, decide to do some shopping in the hood. When they returned from their grocery run they were dismayed and somewhat startled to find Michelle sitting at the same bus stop. They had literally just put her on the number 9 bus, not ten minutes ago. She had gotten off at the next stop and as per normal walked back to the bus stop awaiting the next number 28. It duly came. She tried to get on it. Aunt Katsche wouldn't hear of it. Another number 9 arrived and so for the second time in twenty minutes, Michelle boarded the wrong bus . The old couple quizzed Michelle why she had reapperaed at the bus stop and when she told them the truth they disassociated themselves from her answer claiming that she was being irrational and quite stubborn. This time Michelle got off two bus stops away and jumped into a taxi. I guess she couldn't risk going back again.

The funny twist about this story is that some Immigrant New Yorkers behave in a somewhat similar fashion. They love their newly adopted home and claim to know every nook and cranny in this hustling and bustling city. The truth is they never learn the native language, cant read the street signs and rarely if ever leave their own neighborhoods. Two months after Michelle boarded two wrong number 9s within a very short period of time , it was time for her to return to New York City. She invited Aunt Katsche and Uncle Alfred over to her dorm for them to meet her friends and some of her teachers at a farewell bash. They duly accepted her invitation. They didn't drive and wouldn't get in a taxi because of language constraints. So they took the bus from their place to Michelle. They were 40 minutes late. They were German. Germans are never late. Michelle wasn't worried. When they finally showed up the two of them weren't talking to each other and looked very flustered. Michelle kissed them both on the cheek and they sat down on a sofa resting their walking sticks on their laps and she asked them if they had found the dorm without any problems. Auntie Katsche looked at Uncle Alfred and gave him a nasty glare and he kindly returned it. Michelle sheepishly asked them if they had taken the number 9 bus the 6 miles to her dorm knowing full well it didn't go any where near her temporary home. Aunt Katsche smiled at Michelle and responded, clearly lying,
" No .We walked . We needed the exercise." They certainly don't make them like that any more!

I THINK I HAVE TO MOVE

I thought I wanted to spend the rest of my life in New York City. I love it here. I never get bored, I always have a few exciting plans and sleep, work and play here for the vast majority of days in each and every year. However something has changed inside of me. I just can't take the weather any more. It's driving me completely crazy.

By my calculations it has rained for 15 of the last 22 days. It's May. Showers are supposed to occur in April. May should be the one month when it's not too hot and the sun shines every day. I have almost forgotten what the sun looks like. Every morning I wake up hoping for blue skies but when I peer out of my apartment window it is misty, and gray with a hint of moisture and the complete opposite of bright. I used to never carry an umbrella in New York City but now it is permanently attached to some part of my body. My umbrella is now my American Express card- " I don't leave home without it."

The doorman in our building is kind and considerate enough to leave a note up informing the tenants that it is raining. Many proper soakings have managed to persuade me to overcome my fear of umbrellas and I am now of the persuasion that they are indeed quite useful accessories. The note has been up for a whole week. It just doesn't stop raining. Noah from the book of Genesis would feel at home here and ducks are starting to fly in from far away places after hearing that some of the Avenues of Manhattan are prime for swimming. When is it all going to stop? I turn on the Weather Channel and all I see are dark clouds and raindrops scattered over the display showing theremaining days of this week. Apparently we won't see the sun again until Sunday.

I grew up in a climate like this. London is notorious for grim weather and miserable people. New York City is now exactly the same. I thought I had escaped the long continuous stretches of rain that accompanied my childhood and youth. The expression that " you have brought the weather with you," takes on a whole new meaning. I really feel like EE-AW from Winnie The Pooh , walking around with a dark cloud hovering above me unloading large droplets on my face every time I look up.

I really can't take it any more. Winter was harsh this past year but it was nothing compared to the miserable Spring we are living through. Summer will naturally be a scorch fest with temperatures above 100 degrees every day for weeks at a time sapping any remaining energy I have left. If things don't start improving soon I will pack my bags and stand at my front door contemplating much friendlier climates until reality bites and I unpack realizing that I can never leave this city as I am too entrenched, in spite of its bad weather.

POTTY TRAINING

We need to go back to basics in the bathroom. I work in an office of around 100 people on a trading floor. Seventy per cent are male. Half of those males go out binge drinking every Thursday night. We have one bathroom with two urinals and two stalls. On Friday mornings you can wait for hours to get into a stall and when you finally get in you wish you hadn’t tried.
I am determined to find out who the phantom non flusher is. Time after time I open the stall door to be met with an open toilet bowl full of very unpleasant surprises. When I find out who the culprits are I will confront them over whether they do the same thing to their wives/partners/kids in their own homes. I am convinced that those responsible are not from the younger generation. Generally speaking those born after 1980 are more health conscious and into proper hygiene. They all sit at their desks with their anti bacterial lotions and don’t even touch the bathroom door handle on exiting, choosing to grab a load of bathroom paper towels to turn the infected handle. So I am on the look out for an older gentleman who is unhygienic and walks towards the bathroom area on a Friday morning. I can’t just wait outside the stall nor peer in to see who it is in there because that invites a whole host of accusations flying my way. I will though, find the person and humiliate him to such an extent that he will never non flush or block the toilet again.

To avoid blockages at home we installed a policy of single sheet or very thin double sheet toilet paper and educated the kids how to thoroughly do whatever needs to be done post usage using the smallest amount of tissue. It has worked. The plunger basically sits upright on the floor and is used maybe once a year when my youngest son purposely blocks the toilet in order to use the plunger. He has been missing it terribly and asks about it constantly. In a corporate office there is no plunger available for immediate use so when the toilet gets blocked; the reason for the clogging sits there stewing for hours until maintenance comes to fix it. Apparently when I challenged a young crew member from the building he informed me that several plungers had been stolen on different floors. I still fail to see the demand for used plungers but I guess every house needs one and it’s not normally on a wedding list or a present you bring someone for a housewarming party.

I have taken measures into my own hands now. I no longer even attempt to use the bathroom on my office floor on a Friday. Instead I head over to the Waldorf Astoria hotel armed with a newspaper. I have my favorite stall and it is so clean you could almost eat off its floor, which of course I never would. It is so civilized there. After finishing my business an attendant runs the tap, squirts liquid soap in your hands and offers towels to dry all for a non requisite dollar bill. Until the phantom is caught in my office and brought to trial I am conducting my “business” elsewhere.

BOARD MEETING OR BORED MEETING!

I just returned from the Annual General Meeting of my co-op board. When I finally left after an hour and a half I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. There are 95 apartments in my building and on average maybe 20 people show up each year to question the board on a whole range of subjects. I am convinced some of the attendees have prepared questions months in advance. I am also of the persuasion that for some of the folk there this is the first time they have left their apartment since last year's meeting.

I arrived late. Not because I had other things to do or because I had lost track of time. I chose to be late. I knew that the first fifteen minutes were a review of the building's financials which I had been present for in previous years and had almost nodded off on several occasions . This year I knew better. I walked in twenty minutes late and was shocked to see that the evening's entertainment hadn't commenced due to a lack of quorum. In modern English that meant that a certain number of people had to be present in order for the meeting to be legitimate. I have been called many things in the past but never Quorate which as it turned out was another way of describing Quorum. As soon as I walked in to the church hall. a board member looked at me and screamed out " Quorum is here." I looked behind me expecting to see a Mr Quorum. There was no one. I took my seat thinking that I have been called much worse things in the past.

It is amazing the lack of interest in the general operation of the co-operative that all tenants are a shareholder in. Most tenants pay their monthly dues to keep the building running without ever questioning a single board member on how their hard earned money is spent. It really is quite incredible the amount of apathy in New York City. I guess these tenants have faith in those who are involved and those who vote for elected board members every year. This year the Board is uncontested meaning that there are seven empty spaces and seven people running. So much for choice! Even if a candidate gets no votes they still get elected. So really the building I live in operates similar to a Banana Republic. A small powerful group, never properly elected rule over the masses, who don't challenge the leadership as long as their own lives are not affected.

The meeting began. I dozed off immediately before I was awoken by my wife who arrived unfashionably late, forty five minutes after the meeting was supposed to start. She questioned me if I had heard anything that had been discussed or if I had slept through the entire proceedings. I told her my new name of Quorum and that she could call me Quor for short. Janet didn't bite the bait. She seemed to be listening quite attentively to what was being said by the President of the Board. The subject being covered was the cost of the maintenance and real estate taxes. I had no choice but to listen as I was being jabbed in my side every thirty seconds by Janet after the President mentioned each and every increase for the next financial year. The net result was an increase of 7 per cent and my very bruised abdomen. So for me the outcome of the evening's events would be that I would be both financially and physically in pain. One was immediate and one I would feel in a few weeks.

Janet' main reason for attending the meeting was to challenge everything the Board had to say about the A/C units we were required to install in our apartment by the board that do almost everything apart from pump cold air into our rooms. Janet fought hard and argued well and made several points that met with nods and smiles from the general masses. She left the meeting feeling she had accomplished a lot. I attended the meeting to see the full force of all the crazies in our building come to life and propose the most ludicrous things to the board. Its sheer entertainment and worthy of any Broadway comedy script. The floor was opened up to any questions and comments. The list of items of concern raised by the resident lunatics included; the need for a fake orchid in the lobby , hop scotch chalking on the sidewalk in front of the building, what you can and cant do on your balcony, delivery men and their bladder issues and children's bad behavior in the lobby. I couldn't stop laughing. I hadn't spoken the whole evening but in response to all the children bashing from the spinster crew just in front of me, I suggested that the building should immediately expel all badly behaved children and that they should never be allowed back. One spinster started clapping. The meeting ended on that note since they realized that I was mocking the whole process. I can't wait until next year when I bring my kids with.

WHAT'S WITH EASTER? HOLIDAY OR NOT?

Having grown up on foreign shores I am very used to everything coming to a complete standstill on the Easter weekend. In most of Europe , work stops half way through the Thursday and restarts again first thing Tuesday morning. Good Friday there is little open. Easter Sunday; forget about buying anything and Easter Monday shop like crazy because everything is open and on sale. The United Kingdom is the least religious country in the world, yet Easter is observed en mass in a non religious way.

The United States is so religious, that it decides elections. Everyone says God bless this and God bless that. The President can't make a speech without referencing God at least twice. Yet with all this devotion to God it is unclear if Easter is actually a holiday. The banks, normally a great barometer for who works and who doesn't are fully open. The stock market and bond markets are both closed. Shops are open. It is most confusing.

I have to work tomorrow. I will come to work in jeans which in itself is a rarity reserved for those non holiday-holidays. I get a day back for working on Good Friday. I will do little to no work tomorrow. I will listen to music, watch T.V, play video games, speak on the phone and nap at my desk. I have to be present just in case the world blows up. If it does there won't be much I can do about it since anyone who I could trade with will be at home.

Less than two per cent of the United Kingdom attend church services at least twice a month. More than 30 per cent of Americans attend religious services monthly. Even with these statistics weighing heavily in favor of a religious holiday, The United States finds it very hard to make it a National Bank Holiday, forcing most businesses to close. The only religious day off is Christmas day. So millions of would be practicing Christians have to work on Good Friday because of the separation of church and state argument making it near impossible to impose a day off for religious activities. In the United Kingdom this is completely the opposite. Millions are off work for a religious holiday they have never been to church on.

Good Friday in New York is a heaven for those selling fish. New Yorkers of THE faith eat fish in abundance on that day marking the start of the Easter weekend. Many attend midnight mass and non Catholics flock to church on the Sunday celebrating Easter in full with a big family dinner following services. Outside of the U.S.A the average Joe couldn't give a hoot about the religious significance of Easter but milks the holiday so much that they even have the Monday off. Yes that's right. There is such a thing as Easter Monday, a term Americans have probably never heard of. Me, I am still stuck in Passover mode. I have been off work the past two days eating cardboard and other well known digestive blockers. I always work Good Friday. I allow my practicing Christain colleagues to not have to work on their Observant Day. I am not alone. Most of my Jewish friends in NYC are at work tomorrow relieving those who need a day off to celebrate Easter. We co exist so well here in New York. Everyone scratches each others backs. So I end this blog with a great "God bless New York City" for all who live here and take off the non holiday- holiday and those who work to allow the non holiday-holiday celebrations to flourish.

THE FINAL JACKET CHANGE

For the past four weeks the biggest question has been, "when will Rob finally put his ski jacket in storage and revert to a lighter variety of outer clothing?" I played soccer last night in the rain in sub forty degree weather out on Roosevelt Island. I may swap my ski jacket for a large animal hide plus fur soon if the weather doesn't improve.

Pundits everywhere refer to Global Warming and its horrendous affects on the environment. I don't mean to challenge any expert on the subject but following one of the harshest winter's in New York history I am now more convinced about the existence of New York cooling. The climate has a profound influence over people's mood swings. The drearier and colder the weather the more miserable I certainly seem to be. After five months of consistent precipitation I am officially declaring that I am waving a white flag to Mother Nature. I give up. She has won hands down. I have never been so depressed about the weather here as I am right now.

I must openly admit that in the month of April,I have put my Spider Ski jacket away no less than five times already. It is almost a month into Spring and every time we get a day of glorious Spring sunshine, coupled with a gust of warm air from the South, my mood improves and the jacket gets retired. This false hope usually lasts a maximum of 24 hours until depression sinks in again as I reach deep into my closet for the aforementioned jacket. I have had enough. I am declaring war on New York weather. What happened to the four distinctive seasons we all used to cherish here? Springs and Falls were the best but now they seem to have meshed themselves into either a freezing winter and a scorching summer. On behalf of all New Yorkers I give an official warning to all weathermen and women who may read this. If you appear on T.V or radio and announce any more daytime temperatures below 35 degrees for the month of April, I will form a committee whose sole aim would be to banish you from New York City until next Winter.

It seems like I am faced with two choices. I can wear my spring jackets and freeze to death on the way to work or continue to be dressed for the tundra until it finally warms up properly and consistently. Living in New York City used to be so pleasurable because it wasn't too cold and was only too hot for a limited amount of time. Spring and Fall weather more than made up for the discomforts of the occasional extreme cold or hot climate. This is not the case any more. I now fear all weather forecasts. I dread getting up in the morning because I am petrified of precipitation. This may seem strange considering I grew up in one of the rainiest cities in the world but the difference is that this is what is expected when one lives or visits London ; not so New York City.

So here we are in the middle of April. The air conditioning units are being cleaned for use in May, the shoots of Spring tried to peep up out of the soil and say hello back in March but even they needed ski jackets. They couldn't survive the cold nights and so a whole blooming crop went to waste. Of course we will re plant again and again until we get flowers; such is the resilience of all things New York. So I will continue to wear my extra layers of clothing and protect myself until one day I will wake up in a complete sweat as Mr. Summer will arrive sending Mrs. Spring on her way without even giving her a chance to unpack and settle in.

New Yorkers - Nicest People on Earth!

New Yorkers have an awful reputation of being arrogant, unfriendly, and most of all unhelpful. Visitors to many major Metropolises complain about their inhabitants in the same way. Paris certainly doesn't escape criticism and nor does London. New York City is certainly near the top of any list describing how awful the locals are. In my view this couldn't be further from the truth.

I heard an amazing New York City story this weekend that made me not only smile but made me feel extremely proud of the people who live here. I was not a witness to what transpired as I was out of town for the duration of the weekend but I was told of the events first hand by someone who was there and was instrumental in the happy outcome.

A woman from Texas was visiting New York City this past weekend and meeting up with a whole bunch of friends at a classy New York restaurant on Saturday night. It was a reunion of sorts but I am unaware of what the event was. A feast was eaten by this woman and her friends and drinks were flowing. The dinner party disbanded at around 10.45pm and the participants went along their way with many of the visitors returning to their hotel rooms so as to rest before the long journey home the following morning.

A New York City native left a trendy midtown restaurant at around 11.pm, Saturday night . She had been out with a fellow New Yorker for dinner. Her husband was away and she didn't want to stay home with the kids. She hailed a cab on departing the restaurant and headed home. She climbed into the taxi and gave her destination to the driver. She suddenly felt a lump in her rear end. She had sat on something bulky and metallic. It was a camera, that had clearly been left behind by a previous passenger. The question was now what to do with this piece of lost property? The natural thing to have done would have beeen to inform the driver of the lost camera and let him hand it in to the taxi authorities. I have always been a follower of the policy of wash your hands of any potential problem. Not so this woman.

She reached her apartment building and got out of the cab and went inside with the camera and made it her mission to find out to whom it belonged. They was no address or name on the object and so at first glance no easy way of finding out any information relevant to returning the camera to its rightful owner. This lady would not give up. It was a digital camera . There were numerous photos of a large party gathering at a restaurant that were the last photos stored. It was impossible to tell from the photos who the camera belonged to and even if every photo was of the same person what good would that have done? The scrolling continued in a desperate attempt to find something. It was then that she stumbled across a photo of a restaurant check. She used the zoom function so as to first notice how large the check was for; over $3,000 dollars. She then focused on the name of the restaurant which was also on the check and that it was that evening's date on the check, which it was.

She put down the camera and called the restaurant. She asked the employee at the other end of the phone line if anyone had reported a camera missing. The question was answered in the affirmative and a contact number was handed over. First thing Sunday morning a phone call was placed and a message left. Later that afternoon a woman with a strong Texan accent called my wife Janet from The Lone Star State and burst out crying on the phone. She had been celebrating a college reunion in New York. She had taken a whole host of photos of friends she hadn't seen in years because of the distance involved. She thought her camera was lost forever. She couldn't believe someone had gone to such great lengths to retrieve the phone and locate its owner. She ended the conversation so thankful as well as appreciative of how friendly and helpful she had found New Yorkers . What a great story. The camera has since been picked up by a friend of hers in the City and memories of a great night out have been kept intact. I reached two conclusions from this event. A few bad apples may spoil the New York crop but in general New Yorkers are kind, considerate and aim to please and that my wife is a superstar.

A TALL STORY INDEED

It's not often you stumble across a five foot eight, nine year old. Add hockey skates to the equation and the young boy stands almost five foot ten. Put him against a four foot three, eight year old on the ice and it doesn't take much to work out what the result is.

For six months of the year my youngest son Bradley plays ice hockey for the House League at Chelsea Piers. I think he is a Squeak or a Mite or some other minature term describing the under tens hockey teams that assemble every Sunday morning between six a.m and eight a.m for a highly entertaining and somewhat nerve racking competitive match. There is practice for each team either on weekday afternoons or on 'off Sundays' and Bradley's mood for the remainder of the weekend is pretty much determined by the outcome of the game.

The Spring season is a little light on players as there is a direct relationship between an increase in the outside temperature and the reduction in the number of players from Chelsea Piers available for selection. With that in mind, the powers at be invite two other clubs to participate in the Spring league. One team is from Harlem and the other team is from the land Jack visits when he gets off from climbing the beanstalk.

I helped get Bradley ready for his game. I tied his skates nice and tight, the way he likes them. I adjusted his helmet so as to allow his mouth guard to fit properly and so that the protective headgear was properly in place. He was ready to get on the ice when both Bradley and I spotted him. He was wearing the same hockey jersey as the team we were about to play. We both found this a little confusing. He couldn't possibly be....no, there was no way... you've got to be joking ...how can this be? He was playing for the other team. He was a good foot taller than anyone else in his team and then add some more for the distance between the top of his head and the tallest head in our team. I looked at Bradley and assured him that height didn't matter in this game. I told him he was probably a bad skater and not to think of his height advantage at all. That worked wonders as after fifteen minutes the other team were winning 6-1 and the giant had scored five of them.

I am not one to say nothing. Just ask anyone who knows me. I couldn't resist searching out his parents ,who, upon observing them weren't that tall. I slid behind them in the bleachers and opened up with some small talk. " That number 48 is sure having a great game," I chirped, waiting to engage the parents in some truth seeking conversation. I was now in
"fact finding mode." They responded with a polite and somewhat modest ," thank you, our son is doing well today."
" So how old is he then?" I quickly came back with, not one to beat around the bush. I was still sipping my coffee between the dialog and almost choked to death on one fateful slurp, when they replied that he had just turned nine. I just couldn't believe that this kid was nine years old. It bothered me. I did not accuse the parents of lying, far from it, and my next remark was meant to be humorous rather than confrontational but it probably came out wrong. I asked the parents if they carried with them a copy of their son's birth certificate. They completely ignored my comment and wisely carried on watching the massacre unfolding in front of us on the ice.

Without any hope of finding proof of any age embellishment I returned to my seat dejected. Another parent asked me if I had found out the truth and I revealed somewhat sarcastically and in a raised voice so that certain partieS could hear me' that not only was this kid nine years old but that he had just turned nine. I tried to make a joke of the whole incident by announcing that this same nine year old had driven to the game by himself and had parked next to my Volvo. The other parents from Bradley's team were amused and laughed along with or at me. Not so the relatives of the hockey giant. They moved further away from me in protest. I didn't want to make any more fuss and so I resigned myself to the annoying loss for which Bradley and company could do nothing about. After the game when we were all helping our kids get back into civilian clothes I noticed out of the corner of my eye the Giant standing at the concession stand quietly awaiting his turn. I needed one last banter to help me get over the losing hump that I was feeling. I joined the line immediately after him and waited until he placed his order. He chose a bagel, toasted with butter. The server then asked me what I wanted and I replied " I will have 20 of whatever he is eating." I enjoyed my parting verbal jab. It made me feel so much better and so I retreated back to the four footers who were eager to leave after having been mugged on the ice by a teenager and his friends.

CLOTHING STORE LINE-UP

Faced with the choice of having no birthday presents at all and receiving at least some, even though I would be buying them for myself, I wandered down Fifth Avenue in search of something I needed. I am an extremely efficient shopper. I need no help in choosing what I want and can decide within seconds whether or not I will make a purchase in a store almost instantaneously. With this tremendous shopping ability in tow I set about my task.

In all fairness to those who feel the need to buy me something for my annual anniversary commemorating my arrival date in this world, they do persist in pushing me for an answer to the age old question of what I want for my birthday. I am not one who has everything but I am one who needs very little. I don't do gadgets. I usually don't like others buying me clothes even though my wife points out to me constantly that someone should. I love buying my own wine and picking out my own books and music. In essence, I am a birthday present buyer's nightmare. So these days I am told to buy what I want and give it to my wife the day before my birthday so that it gets wrapped and presented to me once again by my kids and wife on my actual birthday. I am worthy of an Oscar nomination based on my surprise and delight in receiving such fantastic gifts and thank the kids profusely for picking them out so dilligently. All of them play along with this charade as they try to convince me of the huge effort they took in finding me these presents.

I walked in and out of three stores in quick succession. The clothing was either way too trendy with lots of bells and whistles on them or they were geared more for the middle aged golfer who always wears pastels and plaid shorts. Not for me! I was looking for shirts I could wear for work and then double up their role at the weekend for use as smart casual ones. I was finding it very difficult to find the aforementioned particular type of shirt. At each store where I thought there was a possibility of finding decent clothing, I was approached by a very helpful sales assistant who tried to point me in the right direction. They always greet you with the coined phrase ," hello sir can I help you?" I always responded." Yes please. I am looking for a couple of shirts. I prefer blue or gray or mauve but not too mauvey or blueish. I don't like dark blue and sky blue doesn't really suit me. The gray can't be really gray. It has to be lighter than gray . Oh and one more thing, these shirts are for work where it is business attire and also for the weekend where I am much more casual." By the time I have finished with my perfect description the sales assistant has usually vanished. I wait for a couple of minutes to see if they will return armed with bundles of choices but instead I normally find them hiding behind pillars or hanging out in the fitting rooms.

With visions of a first present-less birthday my spirits were becoming more and more downtrodden, reflected in my hunched up posture as I ascended Fifth Avenue. I was running out of options. I then stumbled across a store whose window had tons of shirts that fitted my description. I entered through the revolving doors and was immediately met by an employee who asked the usual question. I walked straight passed him, my eyes fixated on the business casual shirts displayed on a shelf a few paces away. I held a few up into the light and then put them against my body to work out the correct sizing. The employee was hovering over me asking me if I needed help in deciding which shirt and what size. I was too excited to pay him any attention whatsoever and instead I scooped up a couple of my soon to be birthday gifts and headed over to check out.

The first question I was asked in trying to pay was, " did anyone help you today?" I replied that someone did indeed hang over me for an extended period. I was asked a whole series of follow up questions. I answered, "no, I don't know his name; no, I don't know what he looks like; no, I don't know what he is wearing and no, I have no idea if he has an accent." The cash register operator was aghast. This had clearly never happened before. She continued to hound me about the missing identity of the sales assistant and wouldn't ring my shirts up. I begged and pleaded to just pay and leave but she then informed me that all the salesman were dependent on commissions. I felt awful. I had to find out who the mystery man was so I demanded a line up.

" What do you mean by a line up sir?" she retorted, looking ever so slightly confused, represented by a downward movement in her eyebrows. After a short consultation with another member of staff it was hastily arranged. Nine friendly, well groomed and eager to earn commission staff duly lined up by the cash register. Each one was dressed in the clothes they sell in the store and no one looked familiar at all. I walked up and down and looked them close in the eyes trying to jog my memory. The truth was I had not had any eye contact with the staff at all since I entered the store. It was hopeless. So I simply said out aloud, " You know who you are . The one who clung to me when I entered the store. I know who you are but I want to see if anyone else is trying to be dishonest." At that moment one person raised his hand. I would never had guessed it was him since he had really spiky hair and was the weirdest looking out of all of them. He had a tattoo on his neck. He had a large crucifix hanging around his neck . He spoke with a rather bad speech impediment. Only a blind brainless buffoon couldn't recognize him.

With this ordeal out of the way I shared the check out counter with three other customers who had waited rather patiently during the line up. I hastily handed my credit card over , signed the slip and grabbed the bag and ran. I was extremely pleased with my two shirts that I would receive the next day for my birthday. I jumped in a waiting taxi and went home. When I walked in to my aprtment, my wife promptly ushered me into the bedroom and asked to see what I had bought so that she could wrap them before teh usual dinner mayhem started. She took the two items out of the bag and removed the flimsy protective paper. She loved the pastel sky blue sweater and dark gray shorts I had bought. After all that I had grabbed the wrong bag. I smiled back agreeing, knowing I would never wear them!

THE WORST PLACE IN NEW YORK TO BE DELAYED

I am not the greatest fan of leaving New York City but when I do I want the process to be as smooth and quick as possible. The recent increase in air traffic over New York City has led to incredible delays at its three airports. The top five delayed airports in the country feature all three of New York's flying hubs . It makes for disaster when traveling to and from this metropolis. The whole process of leaving New York is made that much worse by the lack of facilities at one Gate area at La Guardia Airport that I seem to get stuck at on a monthly basis.

Air travel should be equated with the solitary word 'misery'. Just thinking about flying out of La Guardia gives me bouts of depression. Even if you have enough common sense and arrive ninety minutes before the scheduled take off time, having already printed out the boarding card, checked to see for any delays and packed only hand luggage; the process is still so daunting. The passenger still has to go through security; the luggage needs to be scanned and then they have to wait near the gate ; board the plane and sit strapped in, on the aircraft waiting for a take off spot. Nothing mentioned above is a pleasant experience.

Even the most seasoned travelers struggle with the moving goalposts of Homeland Security regulations. One week something is permissible and the next it is declared capable of bringing down an aircraft and banned completely. An example of this is mouthwash. Up until a few weeks ago small bottles up to 200 ccs were allowed in hand luggage. Last Friday I had my 150 cc bottle confiscated. The amount was changed to 100ccs becuase of increased securtity measures. The Homeland Security officer said I could finish it before I went through security. I replied that my breath was bad, but not that awful. A special search was then reserved for me following my bout of sarcasm. Mouthwash is still allowed on board but only in tiny quantities. I would hate to be a victim of mouthwash terrorism , as fresh breath could clearly cause airplanes to dive out of the sky for reasons no one can explain to me.

I do consider myself an expert in avoiding the luggge scanning machine and body search apparatus. With the exception of mouthwash I never travel with liquids. I buy any provisions I need at my destination. I wear lace-less shoes so that I can slip them on and off. I don't carry any weapons and avoid objects that could be confused with guns, knives or bombs. I refrain from wearing a belt or any jewelery that would ring the bell unnecessarily. I normally breeze through all surveillance machines and providing there isn't a long line in front , it goes quite quickly. There is nothing worse than being stuck behind the passenger who knows nothing about air travel. They usually are carrying enough liquid on them to be classified as a small stream. They have so many sharp objects in their bags that they resemble a traveling dentist. They have a tendency to wear boots with laces that wrap around fifteen clips per boot and take half an hour to remove, per foot, and have no idea about the removal of all metal objects including chewing gum wrappers, coins, pocket knives and rapper type gold chains. Being immediately behind one of these novices can cost an extra fifty minutes of frustration and mental torture.

This brings me nicely to THE "A" GATES at La Guardia. This is the home of Air Canada, Continental and Jet Blue. I think as it starts with the letter A it was the first wing of La Guardia. It is so antiquated that I imagine this part of the terminal was built in 1652 some two hundred years before the invention of air travel. It was updated during the prohibition period because it is impossible to be served any alcohol once through security. I guess the planes that latch themselves to the A Gates get so delayed that the authorities dare not serve alcohol to passengers because they would either get violent in response to all the delays or they have so much drinking time while waiting that the majority of the passengers would pass out before the flight took off.

What is made even worse is that at "Gate A land" the passengers cant even sit down for a meal either. Their are literally no facilities at all for the waiting ticket holder. There is a pretzel making kiosk and a sandwich shop that sells rubbery things Saran wrapped so thick that it is impossible to see what is really inside. The food and drink services are so bad it makes even the die hard New Yorker like me want to get the heck out of town as quickly as possible. Some of my finest experiences in air travel have been at airports where there are plentiful supplies of food and drink and delays and cancellations don't feel that bad because you get to eat drink and be merry with other customers. I honestly believe that spending time at a New York Airport and in particular La Guardia is like receiving a jail sentence. You have to go through strict security controls, there is literally only bread and water available, you spend huge amounts of time inside and if you argue with the authorities the chances of getting out get smaller and smaller.

BACK TO SCHOOL

I was asked to make a presentation in front of my son's class this morning on the subject of immigration. I jumped at the chance. I am an immigrant. I may not be typical of those that come to America to live but I have been through the same process nonetheless. I have not experienced the same hardships as those who come here from very different cultures and with little knowledge of English but I do have a wealth of funny stories that happened to me on the road to becoming an American.

My journey began in 1996 when I suddenly woke up one morning in the Center of London, with a strong desire to move across the Atlantic to New York City. I dismissed this ridiculous idea and carried on my normal schedule but that yearning feeling inside of my head continued to grow, enticing me to the Big Apple . Some three months later, I had secured a great job, applied successfully for a three year visa and had packed my bags and was gone from London. I was here in New York City.

I explained to my son's class the differences between how I came to The United States and how previous generations had struggled to get here. The time period they are studying involved mass immigration by boat, landing at Ellis Island where Citizenship was automatic on condition of passing a basic health test. As long as the immigrant didn't die during the health interview or cause a major epidemic in the waiting room, then entry to America was granted. With a stamp that provided automatic citizenship it wasn't rare for the newly landed to hug the immigration officer on duty on completion of the process. I arrived at J.F.K on an American Airlines flight from London Heathrow at the same time as an Air Jamaica flight from Kingston and an Air India flight from what was then called Bombay. I waited three hours in line to be seen by an immigration officer who was so rude to me that all I wanted to do was turn around and go back to England.

Once on American soil and cleared of all red tape and formalities the new immigrants of the Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries usually moved into squalid conditions in a neighborhood that had familiar people already there from the "Old Country." This usually involved staying with relatives who had made the move previously. Many were crammed into tight living conditions. Most jobs available were manual labor with very long hours and little pay. Times were very hard. After I cleared immigration and collected my luggage I was picked up by stretch limousine, taken into Manhattan to a five star deluxe hotel where I stayed for a week , and then went to work two days later at an infamous Investment Bank in Midtown. I had some family living here but they never offered that I should move in. It didn't cross my mind either. I moved into a swanky Upper West Side doorman building after my stay at the hotel came to an end. All accommodation for the first year was covered by my employee as they had invited me to move far away from home and so gave me a very generous package.

Large scale immigration the past two centuries has had such a profound affect on the fabric of American society. New York City is still home to a vast majority who were born outside of this country. In the past it added such a flavor to the composition of its population. New York was not really a melting plot as nationalities tended to live amongst each other and kept themselves to themselves. It was more like a tossed salad with various ingredients lying separately brought together by a common dressing that is American citizenship and the freedom and opportunity that came along with it. By the time I arrived the immigration process was much different. Manhattan has become much more elitist and many newcomers posses amazing qualifications in their field. Nowadays, New York now attracts the creme de la creme in most white collar professions with a special emphasis on Finance, Law, and The Media. Long gone are the days of mass unskilled labor arriving looking for work. There is very little industry left in New York City. The factories have closed their doors here forever. Only in the service industry do the poor and unqualified still fill the vacancies in what is perceived to be the bottom of the to-tum pole.

Being back at school and standing in front of a bunch of eager to learn kids addressing the subject of immigration, I felt a bit of a fraud. Compared to what they are learning, I have had no hardship at all. What I do share with most who have come here is that we all feel that this is the best place on earth to live and raise a family disregarding whatever it is we have had to go through to make it here!

The Clogging of the Arteries

My son Bradley has an ice hockey practice or a game on Sunday mornings starting somewhere between 6 am and 8 am. I am the usually the designated parent. Nothing makes me happier than waking up at 4.45 am on a weekend and heading downtown to freeze to death watching eight and nine year old children attracted to a puck, following it around the ice, as if it were a magnet.

This past weekend I was blessed with the fact that the practice didn't start until 8 am. Compared to the very early starts this had a feel of a lunchtime session. My alarm went off at 6.15. I showered and got dressed and then awoke Bradley at about 6.45. His clothes had been taken out the night before and he is very adapt in getting dressed and leaving the apartment in about ten minutes. We were car pooling that morning, picking up his friend and co hockey player with his father, a little further North than our street.

The logical thing to have done would have been to head North on First Avenue and cross 87th street to pick up his friend and father. This sensible straightforward plan was put on hold by the demands of my son in sticking exactly to tradition and habit in what we always did, when not car pooling. Instead we had to drive southwards to Dunkin Donuts at 75th street, park up and go get his two chocolate frosted donuts and me my coffee with skim milk. Bradley was quite perturbed that the server who knows Bradley's order off by heart wasn't there . Bradley informed me that this was a really bad sign. I of course ignored his superstitious thoughts and told him that his notion was not only wrong but ridiculous. The fact that the usual donut server had a day off had no bearing whatsoever on anything that could happen going forward. Bradley ordered an extra donut for his friend, we returned to the car and set out on our slightly changed route.

We picked up our car pooling party outside their building and then continued on straight until we couldn't go any further. I took a left onto Fifth Avenue to the sound of donut munching coming from the middle row. The boys were scoffing their faces full of the deep fried dough covered in chocolate sugar and little sprinklings of cholesterol. Most of the frosting missed both of their mouths completely and instead extended horizontally across from their face bi-passing their enticing lips. They both looked like The Joker from Batman, similarly foaming at their mouths and laughing in a slightly evil way. It was clear that operation cleanup would have to commence before either boy could take to the ice.

We reached 85th and Fifth Avenue, a major artery in Manhattan and a point in the journey worthy of at least a mini discussion between the two grown men in the front seats. We were heading for Chelsea piers at 23rd and the River on the West side. We needed to go West but had a choice of either taking the West Side Highway and crossing now or continuing on Fifth Avenue and crossing later or until we reached 23rd street. So I posed the question. "What should we do here?" Logic told me to take the West Side Highway. Not many lights, a faster speed limit and four lanes. My navigator did not express a preference either way so I went with my gut and turned right and headed across town.

Ten minutes later we were turning around and heading back East. The West Side highway was closed for no apparent reason. We had not noticed any of the portable signs telling us so, because we were all either engrossed in deep discussion or knee deep in donuts and had continued along our preferred route until a police car told us to do a 180. The West Side Highway is perhaps the most important road in New York, particularly for those heading downtown from the Upper West Side, West Harlem, Riverdale and the surrounding Bronx areas and Westchester-Connecticut commuters. It is one of the most direct routes in Manhattan. If you want to get anywhere substantial from North to South then this highway normally features in your plans. We were therefore forced to use local avenues en lieu of speedier options. With the closure of this main artery, Western Manhattan came to a complete stand still. We didn't move for ages on West End Avenue. We stood motionless on 9th Avenue for what seemed an eternity and instead of arriving in time to lace the boys up we were now staring at the prospect of being late for practice.

We arrived in Chelsea some forty minutes later. And yes we were running a little tardy. We couldn't even get near the Piers since a half marathon was taking place on the actual highway preventing us from parking at the rink; and hence the road closure. The two thousand participants were doing their best to keep their veins pumping with blood and stay healthy . In the process they had clogged one of Manhattan's main arteries causing a huge blockage and heart failure for residents looking to move around freely on a Sunday morning. I had to park half a mile away from the ice rink and walk in the somewhat cold temperatures and was visibly upset by this whole ordeal. The boys were caked in chocolate and were stuffed, unable to walk fast, as a result of consuming a full dose of heart attack inducing nourishment. I muttered how insane New York City was for staging these types of events when Bradley informed me whilst giving me a 'I told you so kind of look', that it would have been different had the normal server been there at the donut store.

A THROWBACK TO THE 1920's.

It's not often you get transported back in time but that is exactly what happened to me last night. At a fashionably late time of night, Janet and I headed West to pick up our close friends and drive South to the outskirts of the West Village to eat at a restaurant no one had ever heard of. It was one of the best evenings I have had in a long time and I have had many good ones.

We were eating at a new restaurant called The Darby. We had a reservation for 8.30pm. We decided to drive as one of us, ( not me) wasn't going to drink. We had the address and the cross street reference. You would think the restaurant should be easy to find when one is armed with all the correct information of its whereabouts? So we dropped the girls off where we thought the restaurant should be and drove off in search of a parking space. The aim was to find somewhere to park, preferably free, within walking distance of where we were going. I am not a fan of parking a long ways off and then having to get a taxi to the restaurant because what is the point of bringing the car then? You might as well leave it at home.

We started the first of what we perceived to be many circles that we would have to make and were frantically searching for the golden parking spot when my cell phone rang. It was my wife. She informed me that they needed to be picked up and that we should immediately return to whence we had dropped them off. Certain things came to mind. The restaurant has never existed and was a figment of my wife's imagination; the restaurant was so dirty that even the placing of one foot inside could risk contamination and weeks of isolation at the Hospital for Exotic diseases and so they had refused to enter; or we had the wrong address.

I was so deep in thought that I didn't hear the wife mumbling about not being able to find The Darby. This is a summary of her conversation with me. " Hold on , come get us, it's on the East Side, wait a second, what's this? Yuk it can't be this place. Maybe it's here. It's next to the subway. Found it. It's not next to The subway , its next to a Subway store." And then she hung up. I hadn't said a word. My friend in the passenger seat was still looking up the address when I suddenly found a parking space. Mission accomplished. I could now go home. And then I remembered that I was going out for dinner.

My friend and I walked to the restaurant and opened the entrance doors that were heavy and wooden. When we entered I was taken aback by two things. The dining room was spectacular, a complete throw back to the Supper Clubs of the 1920's that combine musical entertainment with an evening meal. There was a stage with a five piece jazz band playing, including clarinet, bass, keyboards, percussion and a vocalist. I was quite mesmerized. I had no idea that there would be live music. What a treat!
The second thing that I observed was that my wife and friend were not looking too happy. They had not been seated since the party of four wasn't complete, due to the parking search, and a request for a booth was turned down by the rather aloof staff who then chose to ignore the two women until we arrived. It wasn't the best of starts.
I never understand eating establishments that don't provide excellent service. It just doesn't make sense. I am sure those who invested heavily in recently getting this venture off the ground would not appreciate unfriendly, unhelpful staff with an attitude. However, that is exactly who greeted half our party on arrival.

The evening did improve somewhat because of the delicious food, fine beverages and tremendous live entertainment. The female vocalist had on one of those tasseled dresses that oozed 1920's style and the music, though loud, was a mixture of throw backs to bygone years and contemporary songs that raised smiles of recognition from most seated in the dining room. This was how it must have been at one of the many supper clubs that used to be dotted around the City before costs and lack of demand drove them all away. I am so happy that one has emerged out of the ashes of the combination of live music mixed with sumptuous food. They are onto something good here. I never lived in the 1920's although some will argue that I look like I have , but this is the closest I will ever get to reliving the golden era of nightlife in major cities in America. If only The Darby could rid itself of its snooty attitude because when we finally got up to leave at 11.30pm , the last thing we noticed were the two unoccupied booths that we fought hard to be seated at , that we were denied and that hadn't been used the whole time we were there. I will go back but only if I have it in writing and notorized that one of those booths will be mine at any future soiree i chose to spend there .

A SEA OF GREEN

To all my Irish friends and those of Irish decent I wish you all a Happy St Patrick's day. It is a fabulous celebration of a tremendous nation that has survived famine, war and oppression. Today, for the Irish, it is a day to celebrate, and they are the best in the world at doing just that. The most incredible statistic I saw about the Irish population of the Tri-State area is that there are more of them here than there are in the whole of the Emerald Island. That's a lot of partying people out on the streets and in the pubs, particularly in the City.

Many at work consider themselves Irish. A few are Immigrants straight off the boat having been raised formitavely in Ireland. A smaller group have Irish parents who came over in the 1970's when the whole of Northern Europe was pretty grim and the troubles in Northern Ireland prevented their economy from growing. Some have one Irish Grandparent making them 1/8th Irish. One of them claims to have an Aunt who once visited Ireland twenty years ago and came back with a Shamrock covered tea cozy on display in her dining room. If you take into account all of the above, then everyone in New York is sort of Irish. On St Patrick's day the Irish connection is measured similar to the game of the nth degrees away from Kevin Bacon ( who is of Irish decent).

I have no Irish in me at all. I used to live opposite millions of Irish, across the Irish sea when in England. There is a large Irish population in London and they are an important and vibrant section of the cosmopolitan nature of the city. The big difference between the London Irish and their New York cousins is their visibility. On St Patrick's day most of the celebrations take place behind closed doors in the Irish neighborhoods of London. The party is generally not open to the general public but behind these doors, festivities are wild and boisterous. In New York it is customary to not only celebrate in style but also to do so openly for others to see. Showing off a heritage is part and parcel of New York life. Citizens of this great country are American of course but they always put their real Nationality first. They are Irish American, Italian American, Hispanic American and many others.. This is not a divided loyalty issue at all because we all unite under the American flag but in such a vast country made up of mostly immigrants and descendants thereof, it is so important not to forget where we came from and what makes us who we are.

I am not wearing green today. I don't need to. I won't be drinking and celebrating either. It isn't my holiday and I don't feel the need to jump on the band wagon. That hasn't stopped me from wishing strangers clad in various shades of green a Happy St Patrick's day and hoping that they have as much harmless fun as is feasibly possible. Being an English American it is difficult to try and pretend to be anything else and for those trying to connect me to the largest community in New York via the Kevin Bacon game good luck with that one!

WHAT IS IT ABOUT THE RAIN THAT NEW YORKERS ARE SO AFRAID OF?

Maybe it's because I grew up in London where it rains 250 days a year, that makes me a little different from the average New Yorker regarding how to deal with the skies opening up. Since I have moved to New York City it seems that every year we get more rainy days and a greater amount of total rainfall.

In reality May and July are the rainiest months as measured by the 4.7 inches on average that New York City gets during those months. In total New York City receives about 50 inches of rain a year. Mobile, Alabama witnesses on average 60 inches a year and that is the most for any city in this Country, using data going back 30 years. London gets around the same rainfall a year as New York but it rains on twice as many days in London meaning we get downpours here.

Rain is good. Yes New Yorkers. Rain is a good thing. We need rain in the Tri State area and we need rain in New York City. It beautifies the parks and makes them luscious and green in the spring, summer and fall. It helps the trees sprout stunning floral blossoms in spring that line its famous avenues. It washes the sidewalks of all the dirt, dog excrement, chewing gum and spit that are deposited in bulk on our streets every day.
It brings a fresher yet different kind of smell to the city in contrast to the humid, and let's face it quite dreadful odor of the garbage that sometimes sits outside in the baking sun , rotting beneath the flimsy bags that hold it all in.

I bless the rain every time it falls. For me it represents life. It allows New York to continue to flourish and prosper. It is the earth's sustenance and we should react positively like the farmers do whenever they witness rain. New Yorkers hate the rain. They are afraid of the rain. They plan their days around not having to be outside when it falls. They huddle under awnings, waiting until it passes and they never leave home without an umbrella if there is more than a one in ten chance of precipitation.

This morning I didn't even check the weather forecast before I left my apartment. My doorman had posted a pretty picture of an umbrella inside the elevator implying that it was raining outside so that the petrified New Yorker, on seeing the sign, would head back to fetch an umbrella. I thought nothing of it. I arrived in the lobby and was handed my daily newspaper after an exchange of morning greetings. I wished the doorman a good day and tried to head outside. My path was blocked by the doorman, refusing to open the door. He told me it was raining. I acknowledged his climatic observation and again tried to pass him but with no avail. He asked me if I had an umbrella on me and I replied that I did not. He then suggested that it was raining quite heavily outside. I swayed a bit to the right and peered outwards and confirmed this with him. Eventually after this stand off had gone on for way too long I told him that I hardly ever carry an umbrella. I calmly explained to him that my coat, which was waterproof had a hood that protected me from the wetness and that I didn't mind the rain at all. He stood aside ,shaking his head, not fully comprehending how anyone could venture outside during what he determined to be a monsoon.

Once outside I felt the patter patter of the refreshing cold rain against my cheeks. It wasn't falling that heavily but it was definitely umbrella weather for those who fear water. I was smiling, reminiscing about my wonderful childhood days in London which I always associated with this kind of weather. I was standing next to Third Avenue, awaiting a light change to cross, when a truck came hurtling by at great speed trying to make the light. It rode over a crevice in the road sending a whole spray of water into the air , landing exactly on my pants where I had no protection. An umbrella wouldn't have saved me either. I was soaked through to the skin. I turned around and walked home. The doorman opened the door and said, "have you come back for an umbrella?" I looked at him and replied that I was fetching my wet suit. He looked confused. I went home and changed and left again via the underground garage

HOTEL LOBBIES - LIVELY OR JUST SLEEPERS?

Most people I know use hotel lobbies as a meeting place especially if one of the folk happens to be staying in the hotel. Hotels in Manhattan are situated close to the business and entertainment sectors of the city, notoriously in Midtown and Downtown.

Hotel lobbies vary in size and in what level of service they offer the paying hotel guest and the general public who come in off the street to have a coffee or an alcoholic beverage. Some hotels are more exclusive than others and hotel staff may challenge those who try and use the facilities in the hotel and venture inside from off the streets. Hotels certainly do not want the homeless, the drug dealers, the pimps and the prostitutes congregating in their lobbies but those responsible for policing these areas that are open to the public have a hard job sifting through who is desirable and who is not.

Manhattan hotels are by and large busy places. The vibe on the streets tends to follow people through revolving doors and spreads itself out once inside hotel lobbies, bars and restaurants. Not only are they meeting places but they act as temporary business centers and dating venues . Some lobbies serve refreshments and are amply furnished with tables and chairs so that the customers who use them can generate extra revenue for the establishment. Others chose to provide little or no place to sit down , preferring to lure the guest into restaurants and bars , leaving the lobbies barren and uninviting.

I tend to use hotel lobbies frequently in Manhattan. There is one particular lobby that comes in very useful when I am feeling exhausted. I work in Midtown and have at least twenty hotels in waking distance from my office. I have done scouting trips to most of them looking for the most desirable one to pass some time during the day. If I get an hour free on days when I am in recovery mode from the previous evening's activities, I tend to gravitate to one hotel that helps me rid myself of fatigue. This particular lobby does not have bar service and is fairly busy. It has extremely comfortable armchairs for resting in. It is ideal for catching forty winks or slightly longer cat naps.

I usually arrive at the hotel with a firm intention of snoozing just like any other rate paying guest. The difference is, I obviously don't want to purchase a room for my endeavors and even if rooms were available by the hour my payment could be misconstrued as being instead for a more illicit activity. I always come well prepared for my little 'meeting.'. I carry under my arm a large newspaper to act as cover and have my blackberry, so as to be able to set an alarm. I don't ever want to sleep for more than thirty minutes. The worst case scenario would involve a much lengthier snooze that would involve having to explain my absence to my employer. I leave work under the disguise of going to get lunch. I arrive at the hotel and immediately look for an empty chair to sit down in. They are very comfy with fluffy pillows and deep seats. When positioned in the sitting pose, I unfold the newspaper and start reading. It isn't long before I have dozed off to never never land , with the tiniest drop of saliva drooling from my slightly open mouth. Thirty minutes later my alarm goes off in my pocket and I refold the newspaper, compose myself and get up and return to work.

The trick is to look as if I am meeting someone in the lobby. When I first arrive, I glance at my watch, look around the room as if I am searching for someone and/or something and then sit down. I make sure others, particularly hotel staff are aware that I look like I am meeting someone so that I am left well alone. If confronted while I am sleeping I have the perfect explanation. I am meeting someone. They are late. I fell asleep. A quick apology would suffice, with a facial expression of slight embarrassment and the matter would be resolved, leaving only the quest for a new lobby . I am pretty good at staying off the radar screen. I dress conservatively and don't arouse any suspicion. What is amusing is that I am not usually alone in the lobby as far as nappers are concerned. Most chairs are filled with other non hotel guests doing the exact same thing. Therefore in New York City I would argue that hotel lobbies are sleepers rather than anything else.

OUR DAD IS A COMPLETE FRAUD

My in laws were in town, visiting from sunny Florida for the weekend. The big question on Sunday was, do we try and cram eight people into a seven- seater car and take everyone up North to Westchester county to watch my daughter Marlee play in her travel soccer team? We pondered long and hard about it. We had worked out who would sit on whose lap and were about to leave when the two boys voiced their opinion and staged a mutiny.

Its not often that I refer to my two boys as "revolting" but that was the stage they were in, and they were adamant that they should not have to be lifted out of Manhattan and transported North for two hours to another County. The Grandparents definitely wanted to see their granddaughter play and my wife wanted to spend the day with her parents, so I kindly volunteered to take the boys out for the day in Manhattan.

My eldest son Jonah on hearing that he didn't have to watch girls soccer, immediately requested that we do something outside of the cocoon between 68th street and 86th street on the East Side. He wanted downtown. And in that context we planned our day, just the boys, including me. Of course we were not allowed to venture outside of the neighborhood until a whole list of chores had been done, including the fetching of baseball uniforms, the preparing of dinner and general clearing up of the apartment.

I do love taking the kids out exploring in Manhattan as there is literally so much to do and many distinct neighborhoods to uncover. We decided on Little Italy, a good four miles south of my street and a great place to get desert. It is impossible to just visit Little Italy as it has all but been swallowed up by the ever expanding, encroaching Chinatown. Thus we decided to include both neighborhoods on our tour. We left the Upper East Side via the subway and took the thirteen stops south to our destination. We disembarked at Canal Street. We ventured up the few steps to ground level and found ourselves immersed in the hustle bustle of a busy market place. We were immediately approached by street sellers looking to fob off their fake designer merchandise and many people selling watches. It didn't click that the watch sellers were trying to dispose of illegal watches as the time change was still on my mind as my internal clock was off by an hour. I honestly thought these pushy salespeople were selling watches because of the confusion of the time change ,so early in March. Then my teenage son pointed out that the watches were either fakes or stolen and realized he is much more street smart than me.

Being the only adult present, I immediately took charge as to where we should be walking. I am not very good with directions once the numbered streets run out in Manhattan but I wasn't going to admit this to the boys. So we crossed the street and headed in what I thought was the right direction. After walking for two minutes I suddenly realized that we had made the wrong turn. So I gave the excuse that I had missed showing the boys something in the other direction and we about turned. I honestly thought that Little Italy was North of Canal street but that is Nolita. So when I had led my boys for forty minutes on a wild goose chase they both turned to me and said, " why don't you ask someone?" And so I did.

I turned towards a kiosk and quietly approached the candy and tobacco seller with my question about Little Italy. I spoke with THE strongest English accent that I could muster ,with a small heaping of pompousness thrown in on top. I sounded like a completely lost tourist which was my intention. I did not under any circumstances want to appear like a confused New Yorker. The kiosk person gave me exact directions which were totally simple to follow. We were in the right area just the wrong neighborhood. I had experienced a momentary lapse in "common sense of direction". Little Italy is indeed South of Canal. Anyways the boys started laughing as we walked towards our chosen destination. I asked them what was so funny and they retorted. " Dad, you wrote a book about New York and you know nothing about it!" I had no response. At that instance, it was true.

THE WEEKENDERS

New York City is a popular destination for those looking for non-stop excitement over the weekend. For many who work here Monday to Friday, they cannot wait to get on the train/bus and head back to the suburbs for some peace and quiet at the end of a hard week. I don't fit into each of these two categories. I love New York City seven days a week. I am grateful to those who come in here and work their socks off, helping to stimulate the economy by spending their money on clothing, food, entertainment and transportation. I also love the weekend revelers who come to appreciate and utilize all that is good about the New York City life and continue to spend on the above when the workers go home for a couple of days.

Weekends in New York for my family involve a lot of activities within our immediate neighborhood. The Upper East side is very residential. Within a few blocks of our apartment building is our place of worship, plenty of parks and playgrounds where organized sporting activities take place, there are movie theaters and a whole plethora of restaurants. We have chosen our location to live based primarily on the amenities available and the vibe of the whole neighborhood. The weekends are clearly quieter as many New Yorkers have second homes outside of the city and who experience city life during the week and suburbia and countryside at weekends. What is noticeable is that with schools being closed on the weekend and many off work the hours of busy street activity varies dramatically than what is witnessed during the week. There is no rush hour as such. There is a noticeable increase in pedestrian activity around lunchtime as families venture out for brunch or lunch on each weekend day.

In the evening it is just as difficult to try and hail a free taxi between seven and nine o'clock as it is from five to seven during the week; as the whole world and his wife look for transportation to the theater in midtown and or to restaurants all over the city. On every conceivable corner of the Upper East side, there are hoards of people frantically searching for cabs on Saturday nights running up and down avenues trying to outsmart all the other potential competitors. Sprints break out at the sight of yellow lights on top of taxis and fights break out when an injustice has been committed. The problems of taxi hunting on Saturday nights is exasperated by the fact that at the weekends the number of taxis on the roads of New York City is considerably reduced. With the exception of the prime time two hour spurt and the immediate half an hour after Broadway spits out its customers ,post shows ; the demand for cabs is so much lower than any weekday. Thus the drivers stay at home to be with their own families.

I love weekends in Manhattan. I get to spend a lot of time with my family and explore my own neighborhood as well as venture into others . I take my kids to new places all the time. We spent one Sunday in the West Village. We have spent others in Little Italy, Nolita and Chinatown. We have very little to do with the tourists who flock to more notorious sites in Manhattan. We don't feel the need to ride to the top of the Empire States building or visit Times Square at night or at all. We are grateful that there are less people around and that the pace of live is considerably slower. It is even possible to stroll hand in hand with my wife on the sidewalks without being bowled off our feet by those visiting midweekers who frantically move about the city.

New York City at the weekend can be anything you want it to be. I have spent evenings dancing the night away and some tucked up in a cozy little cafe engaged in political conversation. We often visit the theater for live entertainment and frequent our local movie theaters for just as thrilling taped presentations. What I don't like about the weekends in New York is that they fly by so quickly. Before I can even blink its Sunday night and even my thoughts start speeding up just to keep up with the blistering pace of life that springs into action first thing Monday morning.

"BANKHATTAN"

It's a real shame. New York City is rapidly losing its character. The small family run stores on our Avenues are fast disappearing as rents increase and profits fall. In their place arrive the big conglomerate banks that bear down on Main Street New York and take over every available corner.
What is quite amazing is the speed at which a store closes and a bank opens in its place. Just last month I walked into a men's store to buy a shirt that I saw on display in the shop window. There was an " everything must go." sign in the window, as the store was closing down for the fourth time in five years. I thought nothing of it. Many stores in Manhattan announce they are having a closing down sale and then miraculously survive following the sale. I bought the shirt and took it home to show the wife. When the kids were in bed I took it out of the bag and had a mini fashion show for the wife.
" What do you think?" I asked, expecting a nodding approval accompanied by a few complimentary adjectives, thus justifying my purchase. Instead , she took one look at it and retorted, " this is the last time you ever wear that with me in the same room. What were you thinking?"
So the shirt went back in the bag and a week later I returned to the store to find a Chase Manhattan bank open and servicing customers in its place. How could the sale of clothing have ended, the store stuttered and then converted to a brand new spanking bank all in a week? It takes four months for a contractor to put in a fifty square foot bathroom in Manhattan and one week for a five thousand square foot banking facility to be built from scratch. The next time I do renovations in my apartment I am walking over to a site where a bank is due to open and grabbing the building crew for my project.
Why do we need so many commercial bank branches? In England the trend is completely different. If you need cash from an A.T.M or cashpoint (as it is known across the pond) , you cant find a bank for miles. It is impossible to get cash out and for good cause. Petty crime is rampant in London and so banks don't even want to open in fear of their customers being mugged outside their premises. In New York there is a bank on every block now. I have accounts at Citi and Chase and my options are endless. Within half a mile of my apartment there are five Chases and four Citis. How do they all make money? I understand that after the financial crisis of 2008 many folk got nervous that their hard earned savings were not secure. The banking insurance only covers up to a certain amount and so many bank depositors spread their accounts thin, giving every financial institution a little bit of cash so as to preserve their capital. Hence the abundance of bank branches. A really good friend of mine has twelve separate accounts at different banks. It would take him a whole day to withdraw from all of his bank accounts.

These bank branches are destroying the fabric of Manhattan neighborhoods. They are ugly in appearance, they contrast with the artisan nature of New York stores and represent everything bad about big business. They are solely profit driven , are engaged in mass mundane advertising campaigns that spill over into window displays and add very little to a neighborhood feel. Sometimes I get so overwhelmed with the sheer number of banks here that I refer to where I live as " Bankhattan." I hope this trend reverses at some stage.