NEW YORK, NEW YORK: Small town school in The Big Apple

Thomas Broadley

‘Wow, this is just like the Transpeak bus!’, exclaims Harry Beal, as we travel down a freeway in a large American coach, skyscrapers soaring either side of us and NYPD patrol cars passing us every few hundred metres. Putting this apparently random comparison down to the strain of an 8-hour flight and the stress of America’s rigorous customs, I just nod and agree with him. After all, I’m in no mood to argue, having just purchased a limp sandwich and a bottle of water at the airport, for roughly the price of a small car. My mood doesn’t improve upon arrival at the hotel, where I learn that I’ll be sharing a room with, amongst others, Will ‘medical liability’ Knox, a diagnosed diabetic who could well die in the middle of the night due to a lack of sugar. And he’s my responsibility. Perfect.

After settling into the hotel, everyone’s ready for an early bedtime. Saturday dawns bright and early, and we find ourselves fully awake at the crack of dawn due to the joys of time zones. With nothing else to do, I head down to the hotel’s fitness suite, where I’m met by the majority of ‘the lads.’ I decide not to join in with the grunting and heavy lifting, and instead opt for a quick run and cycle, before thoroughly regretting my decision to be healthy this early in the morning. I wobble to the lift and back to the room for a quick shower, before heading out into the city. Led by Mrs Warrington, the group heads confidently towards the nearest subway station, and descends upon the ticket machines. How hard can they be?

What feels like 3-5 business days later, all tickets are purchased, and we set off through the depths of New York city. Emerging on the other side, we make for a long queue of people waiting to enter an airport-standard security building in order to sail to liberty island. Approximately an hour later, and now very safe, the boat sets off towards where the Statue of Liberty calls home. Pulling out her small NYC travel guide, Miss Ingham keeps the group entertained by giving interesting facts about the history of the island and the statue that resides upon it. After a glance around the island and a few failed group selfie attempts, the ludicrously expensive gift shop is given a quick visit, and we head back to the boat.

Back on dry land, Loren Withey gives $25 to a group of street performers, Mrs Warrington gets it back, and I give my full name to a woman in a sandwich shop, before

the group visits ground zero and the accompanying 9/11 museum, which is both vividly interesting and incredibly sobering. Afterwards, the group is free for the rest of the day. What I did can’t have been terribly exciting, because I can’t remember what it was. That evening we headed to times square, where Jack Flint paid $8 for a picture with some Indonesian ladies dressed as Disney characters, and a man dressed as the Hulk. You’d have to ask him why.

On Sunday I feel like a proper New Yorker. I buy donuts, get a MetroCard, and ride in a yellow taxi. The morning is devoted to the Natural history museum, which was met with differing opinions from different members of the group. The exhibits are slightly more upmarket than Buxton museum’s stuffed bear, including multiple real-size dinosaur skeletons, and numerous features from night at the museum. After the museum, we get lost in central park, then find a place to rent bikes. Most people decide to head off into nearby shops, though some stick around to cycle around central park, a thoroughly worthwhile experience, and my personal trip highlight. An hour later, and offensively sweaty, we re-join the others and follow Mrs Warrington once more through the streets of New York, heading for the Rockefeller centre, locally known as ‘The Rock,’ where the hand soap smelt of cherry bakewells. Up at the top, there’s a commanding view of New York, and a strong breeze, along with a lot of Asian tourists. Taking pictures is a nightmare.

On Monday, we have a bit of a change – Mr Warrington takes the navigator role to lead us to the UN, where we sit on a cold stone wall for about half an hour while Mrs Warrington and Miss Ingham queue for yellow wristbands. It’s about as exciting as it sounds. However, once we’re in, and through yet another security building, it seems strangely quiet – I was expecting Greta Thunberg and Donald Trump having a showdown while Boris Johnson watched on. But no – there are some coloured bands painted on the floor. Inside the building, though, it’s a bit more grand, with aerial shots of the UNs most recent projects printed onto large canvases in a large polished wooden lobby. After standing around for a while, Mrs Warrington gets annoyed with her husband and an incredibly enthusiastic tour guide turns up. She shows us around the main points of the building, points out the negatives of nuclear weapons, and takes us to the general assembly room, where I feel right at home thanks to my previous UN experience (please see Buxton Bugle issue 1 for more details.) Afterwards, we visit the gift shop and I buy some tiramisu. It’s been a strange visit.

Once we’ve left the UN, Mr Warrington takes us to a café he’s found, where everything Is $2! It’s not very good, so we go to the pizza place next door. After standing on a corner for half an hour eating pizza and getting in everyone’s way, the majority of the group heads off to grand central station, which is a bit like an underground Downton Abbey with trains. After finding our platform, we board a train to Dumbo, Brooklyn - think of Moss Side plus Americans. It’s a joyous place. Then we set off back towards the city over Brooklyn bridge, which sounds like a fairly simple endeavour. It’s not. Every 10 metres a man descends on me, trying to sell me paintings, CDs, or fruit, while hundreds of people on bikes try and wend their way through the crowds, dinging bells constantly. It’s like a very enthusiastic church fair, condensed to a 5-metre width, with the addition of a man with a snake wandering around and offering a picture for $5 a go. Loren ‘charitable moneybags’ Withey obviously can’t refrain from an opportunity to throw money at wandering New Yorkers, so the man slaps his python around her neck – careful.

Once off the bridge, we’re let off to wander for a while as the teachers go and (as eloquently put by Ted Johnson) ‘hit the bevs.’ Afterwards, I’m sent off to navigate the subway with a fairly jolly Mr Warrington – as you can imagine, this goes perfectly. After picking up the rest of the group from the hotel, we set off back towards times square, and a place called ‘Ellen’s stardust diner,’ where Broadway hopefuls swan around singing the hits while dressed in stage costumes, delivering burgers and chips to diners. It’s very American, and quite charming to begin with, but after an hour the joke begins to wear a little thin. To keep the mood up, we decide to celebrate Harry Beal’s birthday four months early in the hope that our dragon costume clad waiter might sing him a birthday song, but to no avail. Even so, it kept us very amused. Harry less so.

We return to the hotel, tired after our day of walking. So much so that I begin to hallucinate, convinced that a bottle of deodorant is a cat. It’s been a long day. Waking on the Tuesday morning, we pack up and clear out of the hotel, with a few hours left to explore the city before we leave. I head to the highline with a few others including the Warringtons who, by this point in the trip, are looking very likely to divorce by the time we get home, due only in part to Mr Warrington’s ceaseless hunt for a fictional nightclub from a Netflix show, somewhere in New York. With google maps on his phone, he leads us to an old warehouse in the meatpacking district, before turning and gesturing towards the building with the air of someone revealing the grand prize on a 1980s gameshow. This is it. As you can imagine, everyone else is thrilled that they’ve spent their last day in the city searching for an abandoned industrial building. We leave fairly swiftly and head to Macy’s, a huge department store roughly the size of school, only spread over 6 floors and arranged in rows. After getting lost inside for about an hour, we return to the hotel, pick up our bags, and clamber back on to Harry Beal’s Transpeak bus. After making it through the airport and onto the plane, we jet off back across the Atlantic towards home. Halfway back, after being awake for roughly 15 hours, I manage to drift off to sleep for about an hour, before being awoken by a Scouse air hostess offering duty-free shopping. Joy ensues.

Back in the UK, we’re greeted by a bald man with a Birmingham accent, and a large Greggs sign. Mrs Warrington buys me a birthday steak bake, which is surprisingly good at 6:30 in the morning. Looking around, I can see a sign for toilets rather than restrooms, a counter full of sausage rolls, and a middle-aged man sitting on a bench in high-vis clothing and work boots, eating a ham sandwich. It’s good to be home.