Periodically, I will use this blog to tell stories. Some will be recent, some will be memories from years ago. All will be true — slightly embellished, perhaps, but that’s half the fun.
Each story post will have a theme. The first? New York. Let’s get into it.
A Grate New Year (2001)
Times Square felt different that year. With the collapse of the twin towers still fresh in the city’s collective consciousness, New Year traditions — shreds of paper raining from the sky; firework explosions; sirens — had suddenly acquired a sinister context.
There was talk of Times Square being a terrorism target. But there was a simultaneous need to celebrate the city — to converge within its most famous, garish, ridiculous attraction and toast to the survival of its spirit. So when December 31 arrived, my sister Claire and I decided to go. Not knowing any better, we dressed in the Australian version of winter attire: light coats, jeans, jaunty scarves and borrowed hats.
We stepped out of the 51st Street subway station at about 6:30pm. There were only a few entrances open to Times Square, and at each “checkpoint”, the police requested that we open our coats and hand over our bags for inspection. After passing through two of these security checks we settled on a place one street away from the ball drop and stood to wait.
We waited. And waited. And got cold. And got colder. And started to complain to each other. The frigid air cut through our feeble Antipodean coats and chilled us to the core. But surely — surely — we were strong enough to endure this short-term discomfort. Just as I was reaffirming our need to suffer heroically and without comment, I glanced up at the clock on 45th Street and realised we still had five hours to wait. We weren’t going to make it without some form of warmth-giving intervention.
Leaving our spot, we walked in search of heat. Attempts to gain access to Dunkin’ Donuts were thwarted when we realised that they were charging $10 just to walk in the door. Only in New York would people have the chutzpah to demand a cover charge at a fast food outlet. Cast back into the street, however, we serendipitously stumbled upon the Holy Grail: a steaming Sewer Grate (hereafter capitalised in reverence).
From this fetid chasm rose a cloud of warmth. We planted our feet on the metal grid and sighed in contentment as the steam wrapped us both in a malodorous hug. The only problem: this whisper of excremental heat left a trail of condensation on our clothing, which gradually became water that soaked through every layer. This, we realised, was the trap of the Sewer Grate — initial sweet relief cruelly offset by later anguish.
Despite the obvious smell, we managed to convert a a few shivering bystanders to The Way of the Sewer Grate and its fragrant goodness. A memory that will never leave me is that of sharing the Grate with a nonplussed French man who was leaning on the police barricade reading The Glass Menagerie.
Time marched on, and, aware that we were likely exposing ourselves to an alphabet of E.Coli, we finally wrenched ourselves from the stench and returned to our previous spot in the holding pen.
Earlier on in the evening, I had used my last remaining $10 to purchase two pairs of gloves for our frozen hands. Well, I used them for my hands, but Claire put them on her feet, because the silly girl had fronted up to Times Square — ambient temperature: -11 degrees celcius — in little pantyhose socks. How she managed to walk with five extraneous glove fingers shoved into the toe of each shoe, I have no idea. Regardless of what extremities the gloves were supposed to be protecting, they were just not fulfilling their job description, and we began to complain bitterly once again. To make matters worse, the two bottles of soft drink I had recently consumed with reckless, regrettable abandon, were beginning to exert excruciating pressure on my bladder.
If you have ever visited Manhattan, you will be aware of the complete lack of public restrooms on the entire island, even on regular, non-end-of-year-celebrating days. If nature calls and you’re on the move, the options are to find a patch of shrubbery or throw down a few bucks for a coffee at Starbucks, then request a key to their grotty facilities. Thus, my vain hope to find a free restroom in the vicinity was, in short, absurdly laughable.
It was at this point that I seriously considered going home. I had had it — I could barely walk without wincing due to my urgent bathroom needs, and was certain that at least four of my frostbitten fingers would require amputation. And I hadn’t purchased that damned travel insurance policy.
At that most crucial turning point for my sister and me, that the second miracle of the night happened — the first being the Sewer Grate, of course. For in my hour of darkness, he was standing right in front of me, speaking words of wisdom, “I have a ticket to get into Dunkin’ Donuts, I have a ticket to get into Dunkin’ Donuts”. An anonymous, benevolent, saintly man held the key to our salvation in his hand — a ripped, red “admit one” stub. Apparently, all we had to do was flash this baby at the Dunkin Donuts “doorman” and we would immediately receive the gifts of warmth and toilet facilities. This ticket-giver was my saviour, and possibly my guardian angel. Or at least my patron saint of urinary relief.
The only catch was that the ticket, being “admit one”, only allowed a single person to go in the store at a time. As firstborn, I pulled rank. It was only fair. After Claire had taken her turn in Dunkin’ Donuts, we rendez vous’d at the original viewing spot, where the crowd had swelled to party-size. By this time it was 11:30, and we had cheered up immeasureably.
The sight when the ball finally dropped was spectacular. Multicoloured confetti poured down on us from all directions, swirling and spiraling in the wind on the way down. We yelled and danced and hugged strangers. We gathered paper flakes from the ground and threw them in the air. Smiling through the shivers, we were happy to be two silly girls, at the crossroads of the world, smelling distinctly of poo.
