(THIS ARTICLE IS MACHINE TRANSLATED by Google from Norwegian)
My daughter-in-law had never been to New York, and when my son was going to spend a trip on her (like a delayed 40 year-end gift), he took the leaf out of his mouth and wondered if we could take care of our two grandchildren (five years and three years) during their long weekend in this crazy city; it's not going, said my wife, you have to take a whole week, and I added; we can be a babysitter over there just as nice as here.
And so it was, with direct flights – seven hours – from Oslo to New York; tight-fitting as always, and always there is one in front of me who, on death and life, has to lower his back and I get equally annoyed every time, even during dining; it's like taking a meal in a cage – brought in hair loss and dandruff from the type in front of me – both arms close to the body and the impossibility of having to use knife and fork after spending a quarter getting the food wrapping paper, cutlery foil as well as a plastic glass of beer that was about to fall into the lap of the sideman, who was, by all means, my daughter-in-law; her youngest had the window seat.
She was sitting on a stick when she saw Manhattan illuminated; it was evening, so she missed the Statue of Liberty's narrow silhouette at the mouth of the Hudson River, but all the lit candles were overwhelming, and she stretched her neck to see as much as she could; after landing, after the luggage terminal (our son and daughter-in-law had a lot of luggage), we were left in a taxi queue and again I smelled; this was in March, because in the summer, the other times I've been to this city, when in Manhattan itself, it smelled of smoldering and roasted chestnuts; here in the queue it smelled of cigarettes and a mixture of oil and gasoline.
We split in two and I was sitting with my son and his son, without the intention of the cab ride being gender segregated; we had to cross over to Manhattan, but I don't remember which bridge we took, we were going to Sixth Avenue, a hotel between 34th and 35th street; we had rented rooms next to each other's room just to be a babysitter.
From the bedroom, we looked right at the top of the Empire State Building (ESB), and before we got to the berth I got chipped up one of those typical American windows that can't be opened, and this time so much so that I could hear the alarm from the city; there was buzz crossed with constant sirens and some weird dumb bangs, like something was shot down the ground.
When we woke up very early, as if the jetlag had already turned on, we were notified via SMS that the family of children was ready to discover the city, and we met in the foyer, to go to a diner and then straight to the top of the Empire State Building ; for our daughter-in-law, for our grandchildren and for anyone who can't get enough of this city's fierce views and skyscrapers, since it's not just here and there; all of Manhattan is full of them and one can't help but think, how much does Manhattan weigh?
A step out of the hotel doors – like a heavy black American with a hat open while he said Have a good day (New Yorkers are polite and I've grown so old that I appreciate it) – so I got the fresh eime of the city, as some had flushed the sidewalk, straight up the nose, as well as the smell of pizza, exhaust, oil and anything else unspecified; we went to the right, down towards – what then? As the street was full of diners, cafes and squatters – the first door that could give us a bite to eat, and it wasn't a diner, but a scoop of hot food that put together a menu for you if you pointed, behind a long glass counter, on what you wanted.
The road up to the ESB is winding as we were guided away times, up a flight of stairs, away several times and in and out several lifts – before the one elevator itself pulled us straight up, and so quickly that I got a daughter in the ears, and up there ; a door opened and stiff breeze met us – mid-March may be cold in New York, and at the top of the Empire State Building there were storms and few degrees of heat, but the views are far too much and I get a little unwell and caught sight of , far west toward the bottom of Manhattan, the new tower, after the famed terrorist act of 2001; the new tower is 541 and a half meters converted from 1776 feet, which is the year of the American Declaration of Independence.
After glancing towards the new tower, I stared straight down at Fifth Avenue, and then you see how many yellow cabs there are in this city, and there was a kind of whispering seriousness among the tourists, and no one was raving, like the height and the view do something about us; the massive top of the towers and houses on all sides gives off a sense of how enormous this city is, and a type of roughness, if not roughness along with hardness, becomes its airy pressure.
Some have written that Norway should be seen and thought from the peaks of our ancient mountains; maybe one can say the same about New York's roof, but also from its ground level, between the skyscrapers, like a double vision – from the bottom up and from above to grasp its boldness and roughness, because it's not for nothing that this is the most mythologized city in the world, and perhaps one of the most fussy.
There was something liberating about taking the elevator down and again walking the labyrinthine corridors and out feeling this fierce, slender concrete mountain in the back, the broad fifth avenue right in front; close to fast cars that chronically honk, and a great many people and as always; where are we going now and as always my wife has a plan; how about a trip to Central Park Zoo, she asked our granddaughter, son, and daughter-in-law, and there we can go to a cafe, I said; yes, said my wife, said my son, said my daughter-in-law; ice! cried our grandson.
Right in the bottom of Manhattan, after taking the subway to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, and at one of the smaller stations, the subway train stopped, and a very intoxicated type juggled in; he was large and trembling on both hands, without saying much; the cunt sitting across from me was lightning fast, and smart, with picking up a banknote, my son a few coins, thus the big grown, unsteady kind of went to the next stop; it takes a while to get to the bridge, from the bottom of Manhattan, via some winding roads, up stairs, for the bridge itself begins at its lowest span as it shoots its back across the highway, and it again over the subway rails; to the left of the bridge, up to the walkway, a narrow cycle path with cyclists who were a bunch of reckless grobians; they used the bicycle bells to scare us away.
Midway it got hot, after the scarves were gone many cell phones appeared to photograph everything that could scratch and go; New York is not just skyscrapers, but surrounded by water on all sides, and I could smell the ocean, and the heated wood from the walkway; I stopped to put on the bridge's cables, before the top with the pointed gate openings, reminiscent of a Gothic church – its double tower, cables instead of walls and ceilings are like a church of the water and at the same time a sea air church for the strolling.
The bridge is almost two kilometers, and before we reached a watering hole, it was as if we had walked three miles; it was a seemingly sad-looking pizza bar we fell in on, but it was a big bar with cold draft beer; raw, strong brick walls, high ceilings, and nice waiters and even a clean and tidy toilet with soap, hot water and towel; badly we took the subway back; that's great about New York City, there are subway stations everywhere and trains run non-stop, that is, if one of the lanes is out of service, as they often are, but then a yellow cab pops up.
My son of course has a smartphone with a gps guide of the best eateries that was recommended online, and on the way to one of these eateries; in Soho – we had walked from a subway station some distance away since my son and his wife had got blood on their teeth from all the shops; their desire to buy was also great because they had saved money – a tired and dirty district, and before we found one cul-de-sac, we were called by a passing middle-aged lady, if we were Norwegian, yes, of course we were, we replied, so she said that she had been happily married for 15 years to a Norwegian, born in Kristiansand; so am I, I replied, and she then asked, very American, about my name, in the case of her husband, etc., forget it, I said, I have a long name and there live about 80 there.
After trudging along Central Park, up 77th street, we walked into one of the city's best museums; American Natural History Museum, and there my wife, while taking care of our oldest granddaughter, managed to sneak in a heavy queue that had a little mess, all the while it flowed with American tourists from several large buses, and that she, with our grandson , managed to walk past everyone without thinking she was sneaking, and was really put in place by a upset lady; then, before the queue had arrived, I had stood by a paved sculpture to represent the new, young America; Theodore Roosevelt, straight-backed, tall to horse, with a black man on foot, in a long, open coat on his left, and a feathered, thin-skinned Native American on his right.
But the herd of stuffed (if not cast?) Elephants that one encounters right inside the doors are amazing, as are all the African also stuffed (?) Animals, reproduced in their topographic environment, behind glass, and all the handmade and enlarged, roof-hanging insects , not to forget the raisin in the sausage, which is not all the lizard fossils, but (the non-stuffed) blue whale; it hangs on the ceiling and crumbles down to the floor – the food hall in the basement is really miserable, and there we were, something that happened several times on this trip, but not before, made note of by the waiters, who pointed the bill, to tell that they would have 10, 15 or 20 percent in their drink.
Quite inadvertently, we went straight to the new tower and saw the large prints after the double towers; they were heavy, deep, dark holes, down in the ground, like the imprints of atrocities, filled with running water and at the top, like a broad frame, all the names of the dead Americans; it was very moving – that is, moving and uncomfortable, and the new tower was colossally high, in all its stubborn defiance and resistance to say that this city did not bend.
Ole Robert Sunde is an essayist and author.
His latest release is the essay collection
The world without end (Gyldendal 2014).
