When it's hip to be square

Courtesy of Wikipedia

If they can possibly help it, New Yorkers will avoid Times Square at all costs.  It's definitely dazzling the first couple of times you see it, but the longer you settle in this City and the more at home you begin to feel, the further away from Times Square you will want to be.

There are only two exceptions to this general rule that I can see.  One, is the idea of heading into Times Square for the ball drop on New Year's Eve.  Any New Yorker who raises this as a viable option for ringing in the new year obviously hates you.  Either that, or they have excellent connections at the NYPD and can get you through security barriers so you don't have to wait around for hours in the freezing cold without bathroom breaks.  Rare, but possible (and probably worth investigating).

The other exception that will bring New Yorkers into Times Square voluntarily is when they have tickets to a Broadway show.  This is what brought me into the trenches this past weekend - not once, but twice.

I had tickets to see matinee shows on Saturday ("No Man's Land") and Sunday ("Waiting for Godot"), which starred the same four-man cast, including the talented and very charming Sir Gandalf the Grey and Sir Jean-Luc Picard. It warrants saying that I would probably pay to watch these two larrikins read the phone book, so I'm probably not the most unbiased critic.  However, I will say that while I very much enjoyed the experience of watching the plays, I'm not 100% sure I totally understood them.  But who hasn't said that after a theater experience, right?

And being a bit befuddled after seeing a show in New York is totally fine, because you can always workshop the experience with friends afterwards, as I did in the bar at The Renaissance Hotel on Broadway.  Even if you're not a guest of the hotel, you definitely need to go there - especially towards nightfall.  Head into the hotel's lobby and take the little elevator to the right. You'll come out at the bar which has floor-to-ceiling windows and has a fantastic view over Times Square.  For the price of a glass of wine or cocktail, you can silently watch the craziness of the street below.  A treat for tourists and locals alike.

Island hop till you just can't stop

My last full day of vacation came around before I knew it.  Rather than let that get me down, I played the game of "depression suppression"by resolving simply to make the most of the time I had left.  Fortunately for me, there was still so much to see and do, so when the alarm went off at some ungodly hour on Wednesday, I didn't even mind the early start.

Wednesday - Hey Sister!

Like a pair of decaffeinated gluttons for punishment, S-West and I lined up before 9am on Wednesday for a coffee at Rituals - this time at their store in the St Kitts capital, Basseterre.

We needed the fortification that day; not simply because of the time but as a way to steel ourselves for some tourist pushing and shoving aboard the 45-minute ferry ride from Basseterre to Charlestown, the capital of St Kitts's sister island of Nevis.

When I'm in New York and have the good fortune of taking the ferry, I like to stand outside to get the full benefit of the cool sea breeze, and the occasional splash of water or sea spray.  Fortunately for me, the ferry to Nevis catered to my particular whims, only this time I didn't have to jostle anyone for space (phew!).  We all had ample seating on the top deck - no pushing or shoving required.  The waters were calm, the sea breeze was beautiful, and the notion of going home the next day was banished from my mind.

Did you know that there are no traffic lights on St Kitts or on Nevis?  I don't know what their car accident rates are, but not once was I ever worried about my safety on the roads.  And when you get to Nevis, driving is not even something you have to think about.  Taxis are plentiful, though they're not the yellow cab kind that New Yorkers are accustomed to seeing.  Taxis in Nevis are well-maintained (and blessedly air conditioned) passenger vans that you can actually hire for a simple transfer, or charter for the whole day.  A friend of Kitty's mum had pre-arranged the latter option for us and our guide (named Ford) was fantastic.  Once we were all settled in, Ford distributed laminated maps of Nevis; he strapped on his microphone headset; and we were on our way.

After pointing out some of the historical buildings on the main street of Charlestown, Ford took us to the site of the Bath Hotel which was constructed in 1778.  It had been the first tourist hotel in the Caribbean and the celebrity hang-out of its day.  The Hotel is now used for Government offices, but just across the street you can still splash about in the Bath Spring.  Ford told us that the water in the spring is said to contain minerals that have a soothing, medicinal quality and people come for miles to soak their aching bones.  But you can't soak for too long - the water is maintained at over 100 degrees Fahrenheit.

On the day that we arrived, an old man was having a restorative bird bath in the hot water, stark bollocks naked.  Our visit caused some consternation amongst the neighbourhood gentlemen, who scurried around, urgently stage-whispering, "He's got no pants!".  We waved them off and surged forward, nonchalant New Yorkers who have seen much weirder stuff on the subways.  All the same, rather than joining the mirthful bather, S-West and I instead decided to dunk our feet in the smaller pool.  When we emerged a few minutes later, you could clearly see the red rings around our legs where the hot water had been.

As we continued driving through the winding streets of Charlestown, Ford told us about the "skirt and blouse" houses - the photo's not so great but see how that house has stone on the bottom storey and wood upstairs?  This type of architecture is really common in the capital, and I really liked the fashionable analogy.  Easy to remember.

Further along, we passed the Jewish cemetery, marking the resting places of the mostly Portuguese Jews who had fled persecution and settled in Nevis.  There isn't a huge Jewish population in Nevis these days, but nevertheless I found it interesting to learn - particularly as in Nevis (and in St Kitts), Anglican and Catholic churches abound - so why not Jewish synagogues?

Our next stop was the local cricket ground, which on the day we visited was being used by a school group running track races.  A dry pitch (nothing that a decent rain wouldn't fix) and it was no stretch to imagine the West Indies cricket team belting the ball around there.

Like St Kitts, reminders of the sugar industry are everywhere in Nevis.  The sugar mills seem to be better preserved here though, which is something that became immediately obvious to us when we pulled into the very glamorous Montpelier Plantation Inn.

Ford had just finished telling us that the late Princess Diana had stayed at Montpelier with her boys back when they were small, and it remains one of the most exclusive accommodation options on the Island.  Guests guard their privacy zealously but I couldn't resist taking a few snaps of the immaculate grounds, including an old sugar mill that had been converted into a private dining space.

Leaving the glitterati behind, we jumped back in the car and drove to The Botanical Gardens of Nevis. We wandered through the beautiful grounds in 30 minutes - twice as fast as the brochure recommends - but we still had ample time to appreciate the diversity of the flora, and even the fauna (in the form of some cheeky parrots in the rainforest enclosure, and a lizard that posed for a photograph before scuttling up the wall).

All this culture and learning had made me quite hungry. Can you believe we'd already seen so much and it wasn't even lunch time yet?  

I remember feeling rather relieved when Ford revved the taxi van's engine and steered us ever skyward up the steep Nevis hills to Golden Rock - a beautiful resort with a rather elegant restaurant, owned by American artist Brice Marden (whose colourful work we had earlier admired at Montpelier).  On this property too, the sugar mill had been repurposed - this time into the lovely bridal suite.  After lunch, S-West and I went exploring and quite by chance we happened upon the suite, but we saw a pair of men's boardshorts draped over the chair out front.  Rather than peer through the windows, we figured we'd leave the new Mr & Mrs to their business (whatever that might be!).

Our ferry back to St Kitts was scheduled to depart a little after 4.30pm, and Kitty and S-West had said there was one last place in Nevis that I needed to see.  Ford drove us through the expansive grounds of the Four Seasons complex but we kept right on going.

Finally, our destination came into view.  Sunshine's was one tourist destination I didn't mind visiting.  It's the most popular beach bar on the Island, with a world-famous knockout rum punch called a "Killer Bee".  Of course I had to have one, cause if a drink's good enough for Beyonce and Jay-Z, it's good enough for me.  We also met the owner, Mr Sunshine himself, but he was famously coy about the ingredients of the celebrated beverage.  Our expert powers of deduction however concluded that a "Killer Bee" contains about a million different kinds of rum, pineapple juice (or was it passionfruit?), and a sprinkling of nutmeg on top.  Served with lots of ice, it was a tasty and welcome beverage to round out our day - but one drink was definitely plenty.  I was just so glad that Kitty and S-West made sure Ford brought us there.

Admittedly the day had taken it out of me and I was a bit more subdued on the ferry home to St Kitts.  Nevis is less populated than its sister island and for all the sight-seeing we did, I think Nevis is much more tailored to the "rest and relaxation" set.  If I ever get a private jet, I'm taking it to Nevis and staying at the Four Seasons - you heard it here first.

For my last night in St Kitts, S-West and Kitty had yet another treat in store.  This time we went to Sprat Net in the capital, Basseterre.  I'm disappointed my photos didn't work out because when we went, the place was packed and there was a live calypso band playing.  A bunch of middle-aged white tourists with no discernible rhythm also got up to dance, which was embarrassing for everyone really.  I didn't get out of my seat, but in between mouthfuls of succulent chicken wings and tasty fries, I definitely grooved on the spot.  After a couple of ice-cold Caribs, S-West and I indulged in a local rum (CSR) with Coke.  We stopped after one, but that did seem a shame.

After 5 full days in St Kitts and Nevis, I was sunburned, tired, and totally blissed out.  The previous two heinous weeks at work were definitely behind me, replaced by the best Caribbean memories.  I will remain grateful to S-West and Kitty for making sure we took this trip, and of course to Kitty's mum for opening her home to me and making sure the tastiest local treats made it into my belly.

As I flew back to New York on Thursday morning, I realised that this was the last overseas holiday I would be able to take before my passport expires.  But the travel bug has bitten me once again and it's time to start planning the next adventure.  Where will it be?

I choo-choose to take the tourist route

New Yorkers are no stranger to the subway; indeed, for many of us the train system is an essential part of our daily lives.   In St Kitts, the public transportation system is not so diverse but that doesn't mean that you can't enjoy a fantastic rail journey to hit the high points of the island.

Tuesday - Rum punch, railways, and relaxation
After the long road trip around St Kitts on Monday you'd be forgiven for thinking that we had seen all that the island has to offer.  But you'd be totally wrong.

By this point in the holiday it warrants saying that I was well and truly decaffeinated.  Coffee in St Kitts is very much like coffee in Asia - hard to come by, and when you do encounter it, it's not always the best (by caffeine snob standards).  Cue a visit to Rituals, which is a total unapologetic rip-off of Starbucks but for those of us suffering caffeine withdrawals, we were willing to let any unflattering similarities slide.

Fortified by even semi-strength coffee, we bravely fronted up very early on Tuesday morning to ensure we were in time to catch the St Kitts Scenic Railway train.

Because we arrived a few minutes before take-off, and most tourists were already settled into their seats, I didn't get to sit next to Kitty and S-West for the journey; but at least we were in the same carriage and I got to sit just opposite them.  On the day we rode the train, the sun was beating down, so I can't tell you how beautiful it was to sit in the top of the carriage and enjoy the beautiful cross-breezes.

The good thing about the St Kitts Scenic Railway is that it is constantly narrated throughout the three-hour journey.  The guide sits up in the front carriage and his narration is broadcast through speakers in the following carriages.  He revealed himself to be enormously knowledgeable in all aspects of the island's history, politics, and geography.

Each carriage of the train also has its own waitress, and even though it was before 9am, we were all offered our choice of beverage.  Resorting to Aussie stereotype, I chose a cup of rum punch, and S-West had a tasty pina colada (bless her).  Why not, right?

As we tootled through the countryside, a three-person a capella choir worked its way from carriage to carriage, singing some lovely local songs - of course I was particularly taken with "Kingston Town" and "Rivers of Babylon", two songs I already knew very well.

The scenic railway journey takes you along the coast and also inland for about 3 hours, going over some amazing bridges that extend across really deep ravines.  The tour guide is really helpful at telling you how just how deep the ravines are.  But rather than waiting until you're safely across, he tells you just as you're about to head over the chasm.  GAH!  I started to understand the rationale for offering us rum punches!  Well, at least we knew when to have our cameras ready to get the best photographs.

What I liked the most about the journey was the reaction from the residents along the roads - they smiled and waved as our train went by.  Indeed, as we passed the primary schools, kids flocked to the windows, yelling and waving.  It was impossible not to wave back.

The scenic railway is only a one-way journey and once you reach the end, there are little mini-buses that pick you up to drive you back to the terminus.  The mini-bus tour is a narrated one too though, and our driver had an astonishing case of verbal diarrhea!  Why say 3 words when you can ramble 300 of them?!  But you know what?  That was totally okay too - I just stared out the window and listened to his stories.

Kitty's mum met us at the train station a little before noon, and we drove to a part of the Island we hadn't yet visited; an area known as "The Peninsula".

As its name suggests, it has some of the most beautiful swimming beaches in St Kitts and we called into one of the loveliest resorts for lunch.  The Carambola Beach Club is the sort of place you find a bunch of fat, white tourists - but its price tag guarantees a more refined, less embarrassing crowd.  After a delicious lunch under a massive beach umbrella, we noticed that some uniformed school kids had taken over the restaurant inside.  Believe it or not, they were being hosted by the Prime Minister of St Kitts and as Kitty has worked for the Foreign Ministry for years, he was kind enough to introduce us.  The PM was gallant enough to ignore my fat white tourist beach hair and my sunglasses tan.  Gold star.

At this point in our journey together I feel comfortable enough telling you that I didn't bring my bathing suit on this trip.  I don't have the body confidence to shoe-horn myself into bathers anymore, but that didn't stop me from hiking up my summer dress and wading out into the ocean to soak my feet and legs.  The water was so warm out there, almost like bathwater.  I could have stood in that spot, sinking into the soft sand, all day.

But all good things come to an end, and before long S-West and I were dashing up the scalding-hot beach to wash our feet off and get back into the car.  Flashbacks to our childhoods in Australia for sure.

The Peninsula area offers tourists a lot of different beach clubs catering to all tastes and budgets.  As we drove around, we visited a couple of them, including the very touristy Reggae Beach Bar.  Within two seconds of arriving in the carpark, I knew that this was the sort of place tourists come when they have no idea that other (better) options are available.  There is nothing wrong with the bar per se - I mean, it has cold beer and a lovely swimming beach, but it's also the sort of place that chartered taxis will bring you to sit alongside a bunch of other tourists for the day.  Not something I would want for my holiday.

Leaving that bar behind, we drove on a bit, to places that suited me much more.

We walked through the fantastically-modern Spice Mill restaurant and then drove over to the super-exclusive private development of Christophe Harbour Resort.  As rain started to fall (which felt AMAZING on my hot skin), me and S-West ran out onto the pier at the (closed) public events centre called The Beach House, but when we tried to drive up to the much fancier Pavillion Beach Club on the private estate, we were sadly denied entry.  Didn't they know who were are?!

The rain didn't last long though, and the heat never dissipated anyway, so after a little nap at home we were ready for our next feed (are you seeing a pattern here?).  

Kitty's mum and sister joined us for dinner on Tuesday evening, and we went to a great place called Buddies Beach Hut, another restaurant on "The Strip" at Frigate Bay.  I remedied my mango drought by enjoying a delicious mango margarita with my chicken wings (an excellent pairing), and when the night was over and we were back home, I fell into an other satisfying and deep sleep.

We be (road) trippin'

I don't know anyone in New York that owns a car.  Everyone is a backseat driver of course, and residents seem content to leave the steering, braking, and horn-honking thing to the taxi drivers.  In any case, New York is such a congested city that a road trip here is very much a stop-start affair, and more stress-inducing than such a journey really ought to be.

In St Kitts however, we made maximum use of the open road for Day 3 of our big adventure.

Monday - Sarongs, Soldiers, and Sugar
After the gluttony of Sunday, I had the good sense to wake up on Monday morning with no real appetite for breakfast.  Having said that, a friend of Kitty's mum had made us a delicious cake in honour of our holiday, so of course I had a small piece.  You know, just to take the edge off.

I think I was probably really buzzing too, because before we left New York, Kitty had said he'd wanted to take us on a road-trip to explore the Island.  He wanted to do this early in our holiday - similar to a road trip he had done with S-West on a previous visit.  I needed no convincing whatsoever.

S-West was kind enough to let me ride shotgun, by virtue of my being the newest arrival in our group - and the first thing I did was to wind the passenger side window right down; that now-familiar sea breeze was too wonderful to waste.

We sped down the Kim Collins Freeway, named in honour of the track & field sprinter World Champion who hails from St Kitts.

Our first stop was for provisions, and we pulled into the Marriott Hotel complex at Frigate Bay (near where we had dined the night before) to pick up sunscreen and snacks.  S-West and Kitty had both been here for Conferences before, so they were keen to show me the property.  We agreed it's very much like any Marriott anywhere - except for the hot sun and gorgeous pools - and I found some excellent postcards for my Grandmas in the hotel gift shop, so I was a very happy girl.

On the road again, we hugged the coast tightly before venturing slightly inland on our way to the only place in St Kitts where you ever need to buy souvenirs.  Trust me on this.

New batik designs drying
under the hot sun

When you pull up at Romney Manor, you're immediately struck by the immaculate grounds, and all the lush greenery.  It's currently the dry season in St Kitts, so the Manor property stands in stark contrast to the brittle countryside that surrounds it.

The old plantation house was once owned by the great-great-great grandfather of former US President Thomas Jefferson.  Spread out over 10 acres, Romney Manor is now home to Caribelle Batik, a fantastic and one-of-a-kind operation in St Kitts that produces colourful and creative local products - not the "Made in Taiwan" stuff you'll find in gift shops elsewhere on the Island.

The ancient Saman tree

Laden with souvenirs, we moved outside for refreshments at the Rainforest Bar, and sat in the cool shade of the 400-year old Saman tree, whose broad branches spread far too wide to be photographed properly (at least by me).

On our way in the car once again, it wasn't long before Kitty pulled over on the side of the road and we could see an old man hobbling towards us. On his shoulder, he carried a green monkey wearing a diaper.  I've obviously been in New York too long, because that sight didn't even make me blink twice.

We declined the man's repeated offers to have photos with the monkey because we were here to see something much more important.

Kitty had brought us to this spot to view the only surviving remnants of the Caribs, the original inhabitants of St Kitts.  The country has preserved some unique petroglyphs carved into the black volcanic rock, on the site where the Carib chief welcomed the first Europeans to St Kitts in 1623.  The designs may be small, but I thought they were very reminiscent of Australian indigenous artwork and the fact that they are so beautifully fenced off and kept safe was great to see.

Our next stop was Kitty's favourite place on the whole Island, the historic Brimstone Hill Fortress National Park.  Set on the very top of the sheer limestone cliffs, this is real mountain goat territory.  We bought our tickets and an audio guide, and Kitty expertly steered the car up the steep slopes to the very top of the hill.  On the way up, Kitty told us that as a child, he and his school friends would do walk-a-thons to the site, to raise money for various causes.  That this steep climb happened at the end of the school walk-a-thons seemed crazy to me, but Kitty brushed it off as nothing special.

Don't talk - just climb!

But of course the car could only take us so far and we had to haul ourselves up the stone path to the Fortress's Citadel.  Yikes!  Once we got up there though, I could plainly see that the hard work of walking up those hills would have been worth it.  The views from the Fortress are simply stunning - you can really see for miles up there.

The first cannon was mounted in Brimstone Hill in 1690 by the British forces, who were trying to recapture a nearby section of the coast from the French.  The British realised how valuable it would be to attack from above, so they claimed Brimstone Hill and tasked African slave workers with building it to the specifications of British Army engineers.

Brimstone Hill really is a photographer's paradise, but for trivia geeks like me, the onsite museum is a treasure trove of history, memorabilia, and national pride.  Despite bearing the brunt of extreme weather, including the devastating hurricanes in 1989 and 1998, Brimstone Hill is undergoing loving restoration and the effects are obvious.

All this military history and walking around in the hot sun had worked up an appetite and we retired for lunch to another beautifully scenic place, Ottley's Plantation Inn.

The Great House at Ottley's

The sugar cane industry, and the slave trade associated with it, is such an ugly part of human history - and yet in St Kitts, nobody hides from it.  In fact, the old plantation houses - once the site of barbarism and exploitation, have been restored into magnificent leisure properties (though I would still argue they still exist for fat, white tourists).  Now that doesn't take away from the beauty of Ottley's though, don't get me wrong.

Looking back at The Royal Palm
Restaurant at Ottley's

Regrettably we got there a little late for the lunch rush at The Royal Palm restaurant; however, the waitress was kind enough to rustle up some sandwiches and glasses of wine for us - and we couldn't fault our view.

With our bellies full of food and our brains full of culture, we returned to Kitty's home for another quick nap.

How we found room for dinner that night I'll never know, but we couldn't resist a trip to the much-loved local haunt, Fisherman's Wharf - part of the OTI family (where had dined for lunch on Sunday).  Why didn't I pack stretchy pants for this trip?!

A Caribbean feast for the senses

To say the sun shines brightly in the Caribbean is an understatement.  But to see it reflect off the Basseterre Bay on a warm Sunday morning when you're on holidays?  Well, that's just the thing to convince you that you've made an excellent life decision.

Sunday - Sights to See
The roosters woke me up on Sunday morning, bright and early.  I have never heard fowl quite so chatty.  Rather than just simply herald the day and get on with it, the roosters in our neighbourhood seemed to have had an awful lot to say to one another.  They constantly crowed back and forth, and I'll admit for this City girl it was a very strange noise indeed (but it sure beat the conventional alarm clock!).

Our view over Basseterre Bay

Bleary-eyed but otherwise very well rested, I padded out to the living room and took in the sights that the previous night's arrival had denied me.  From Kitty's balcony, I could see right across Basseterre Bay - and I fell in love with that calm blue water and the welcome cool breeze coming off it.  I remember asking Kitty how he could ever leave all this to come to New York, but then I laughed at myself because Australians who travel get asked that very same question all the time.

Kitty's mum was busy in the kitchen and so I popped my head in the door to see what was going on.    Breakfast preparation was in full swing and again, Kitty's mum was on a mission to delight my tastebuds with all things local.  Rather stupidly I passed on the super-fresh papaya and mango (not home-grown, though the tree outside would be heavy with mangos around April).  Instead, I waited for the saltfish, the national dish of St Kitts, which Kitty's mum served with toasted "long bread" from the local bakery (which looks like a baguette but I'd say tastes more like brioche).  I'm much more a savoury fan anyway, and I think I pleased Kitty's mum when I told her I liked the spice of the dish - garlicky, peppery, and just the thing to get my heart started on my first full day of holidays.

Sunday really is a day of rest in St Kitts but it was a great way for me to relax into island life. Once we had enjoyed our light and leisurely breakfast and had got ourselves all ready, we piled into the car and drove to The Ocean Terrace Inn (or "OTI" for short), a hotel and resort not far from Kitty's home whose restaurant offers guests and visitors a fantastic buffet of local foods.  The salad bar was fresh and tasty, but everybody knows that you don't visit a buffet and fill up on salads - what a rookie error!  So I put some lettuce and tomato on my plate, but I loaded up with the corn pudding (so creamy!), beans and rice, and the fall-off-the-bone chicken.  I regretted bypassing the pork dish, but a girl without stretchy pants has to have her limits.

As we walked through the immaculate grounds of the OTI resort to explore (and let our lunch settle), I was struck by how similar the Caribbean and Australian heat feels.  The biting sun was just like back home, and although I was taking some time to adjust to it, I was really enjoying the experience.

As I mentioned in an earlier posting, this holiday came off two heinous weeks at work and I'm almost ashamed to say that I was averaging about four coffees per day by that stage.  When I found myself in St Kitts I didn't realise (at the time) that I was signing up to live in a no-coffee household, but by late afternoon on Sunday the decaffeination had hit me full-force and I had the requisite splitting headache to prove it.  Combine that with the heat, sunshine, and full belly, and I was ready for a nap back at home.

Several hours later, I was feeling fit and fabulous and fortunately Kitty and S-West felt likewise.    Hard to believe, but we were also ready for our next feed.  So come nightfall, off we went to the locally famous (and delightfully named) Mr X's Shiggidy Shack on the Frigate Bay area known as "The Strip".  While there was no music at our bar, we benefited fully from the ice-cold Carib beers, the steel drum band next door, and also from the crazy screaming DJ further down the beach.  Feeling a little too world-weary to face the DJ party, after our meal we retreated next door to the Sunset Cafe at the Timothy Beach Resort, where the steel drum band had regrettably packed up for the night, but the beers were still on ice.  Blissful.

When we retired for the night on Sunday, the Strip was still buzzing and full of people.  How do these party-hard Kittitians possibly get up for work on Monday mornings?  The mind boggles.

Getting away from it all

Sometimes one of the best ways to preserve your sanity in New York is to leave it behind for a while and escape to somewhere else.  Fortunately, there are loads of places close to the City that will give you just the break you need.

In my case, I recently swapped the island of Manhattan for two other islands not so far away - St Kitts and Nevis, located in the West Indies, a little less than 4 hours direct flight from JFK.

And while I only enjoyed a six-day break, the heat and hospitality were the most fantastic tonics to a dreary and seemingly endless New York winter.

For the next little while, allow me to share with you an unashamedly detailed write-up of my sun-soaked adventure.  We might have to spread this write-up over a few days, but I am confident you'll bear with me.

Saturday - Departure Day
After two heinous weeks at work, surviving on very little sleep and wrestling with a shorter-than-usual fuse, I was so relieved to wake up early on Saturday morning with the smugness that only comes with the knowledge that you are staring head-long into a week of holidays.

Rather uncharacteristically for me, I hadn't even thought about packing for my Caribbean adventure.  But I figured that six days of sun and sand wouldn't require a lot in the way of wardrobe, so I dug out all my floaty, summery tops and dresses, and before long my little suitcase and I were ready to go.

My travelling companions for this summery jaunt were S-West and her husband, Kitty (who grew up on St Kitts and has been keen to share his homeland with me for a long time).

We got to JFK Airport a few hours early for our flight and it was a bit of a dead zone, but that just meant that check-in and security screening were all smooth sailing.  Lunch and a couple of pre-flight beers at "Bobby Vans" and we were on our way.

Because I had booked separately, I wasn't able to get seats with S-West and Kitty but I was OK with that, given the flight was only short and I was pretty sure I would fall asleep soon after take-off anyway.  Indeed, no sooner had the plane reached its cruising altitude and I nodded off.  I awoke to become almost instantly irritated with the two ladies sitting in my row, both of whom were New Jersey's answer to "Shirley Valentine".  They were even trying to chat up the young (and admittedly very good-looking) Kittitian guy sitting across the aisle from us.

St Kitts Airport

A little over three hours later, at around 8pm, we arrived in Basseterre, the capital of the Federation of St Kitts and Nevis.  Disembarking from our American Airlines plane, we actually walked across the tarmac to the immigration hall of the Robert L Bradshaw International Airport (more about Mr Bradshaw later).  The wall of heat that met us as we left the plane was heavenly.  It was a night-time heat mixed with the most beautiful sea breeze you've ever felt.  Blissful to know that the polar vortex was far behind us now.

While Kitty queued up in the residents line of the immigration hall, S-West and I inched forward at a glacial pace through the most congested visitors line you've ever seen.

The population of St Kitts and Nevis is only about 54,000 people and because we were staying with a resident family, we knew that people would know Kitty was home before long.  Sure enough, when S-West and I finally made it to the immigration agent, we had to confirm where we would be staying during our visit.  When we gave Kitty's address, the immigration lady's surly expression softened in recognition, and she actually smiled at us.  We had arrived.

Kitty's mum and sister had come to the airport in their cars to greet us and I can't tell you how amazing it felt to take the 10-15 minute car ride to Kitty's family home, with the front passenger window down and the sea breeze blasting in.

Heading up the stairs into Kitty's childhood home, we were treated to our first of many displays of Kittitian hospitality.  Kitty's mum had made it her mission to ensure I sampled as many of the local delicacies as possible (as if I would ever complain about that!).  So at around 9pm, we sat down for a light meal of local fare.  Kitty's mum had prepared a traditional rice/beans/chicken dish (alternately called pelau or cookup), some tasty local fish, boiled sweet potato, some white potato salad, and a delicious stew called "goat water" (a hearty dish that Kitty assured me is amazing to line your stomach before a heavy night of drinking).  Our beverages of choice were similarly local: Carib shandies (ginger and sorrel varieties), the grapefruit soft drink called Ting, and a bubbly pear-flavoured drink called Peardrella.

After such an hospitable welcome and start to our island adventure, it's not surprising that I fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow - to the soothing sounds of the crickets chirping outside, and the occasional belch of an unseen frog.  No traffic or people sounds at all.

New York City really did seem half a world away.

Adult supervision recommended

These ain't Skittles, kids.

I guess it had to happen.  After the crazy week at work I've woken up this morning with a really nasty headache and a sore throat.  You know when you can just feel the gross germs percolating inside you?  Not great.

Now there are some people in my life who will ride out this stage of things.  They'll up the vitamin ante; they'll sip herbal teas; they'll sweat it out; and they'll soldier on.  Not me, baby.  When I feel this way, I head for the nearest CVS or Duane Reade and medicate myself properly because for me, the over-the-counter medicine aisles in these places are the real American dream!

I'm talking almost floor-to-ceiling stashes of every pharmaceutical that will clog you up or clear you out.  And you'll find these pharmacies/drugstores on pretty much every second corner in New York, so you're never too far away from feeling better.  Trust me.  When you get to the US, go into a CVS (most of which are open 24/7), and just have a look at their "cold relief" or "allergy relief" aisles - you won't believe the rainbow of pills and potions on sale.  Having said that though, there are some products, even over-the-counter ones, that CVS & Duane Reade won't sell you unless you have a valid United States ID - they're not totally irresponsible.

For visitors to this city, there is one particular product at the CVS that I always recommend people buy.  Melatonin is one of the greatest over-the-counter pills that you can get in the American pharmacy.  I've never seen it for sale in Australia, which is a shame because it is hands-down the best jet-lag cure I think I've ever tried.  In recent years, the jet-lag has always been worse for me on the Australia-US leg, taking almost a week to subside (if not more).  Taking a melatonin pill just before bed has proven to be a wonderful sleep aid and regulator, which is not habit-forming, and does not leave me feeling groggy in the mornings.  I definitely recommend it to all my colleagues who come over here on work trips and need to be at their best within 24 hours of landing.

But if you know that the over-the-counter stuff is not going to be strong enough, and you feel that your butt is about to be kicked by a seriously nasty cold, you may have no choice but to go to the doctor.  Let me tell you outright though, that the United States of America is a wonderful country, but it is not the place you want to get sick if you don't have health insurance.  If you're uninsured in this country, the costs of just seeing the doctor are ridiculous, and that's before you've purchased whatever you get prescribed.  If you're planning to come here on a holiday, you must buy travel insurance that covers you for medical visits, including ER consultations.  Don't muck around on that front, because it's just not worth it.

There, rant over.  I've got some ibuprofen to buy <<cough, splutter>>

Make "cabbage" part of your New York diet

Photo courtesy of
Melissa Ryan (copyright)

I've had a really busy week at work, hence the 'cyber silence', but the hectic schedule has certainly given me pause to consider one of the most essential skills you need to acquire when you come to New York: catching a cab.  I've had a lot of experience with taxis this week - early mornings, late nights, they have been the one constant in the craziness.

New York City taxi drivers are just like its residents: some are quiet, others are loud, some are sane, others are nuts.  It really is a mixed bag.  But to find out what your driver is like, you first have to catch the taxi in the first place.

There's a bit of etiquette around "cabbage" in New York.  Articles like this one remind you to only hail cabs that have their little roof lights on, and don't even bother trying to get a cab during the shift change (which also, rather inconveniently, aligns with evening rush hour).  Forget about cabs on rainy days - they're always full - and after theatre shows, it pays to walk a couple of blocks away from the crowds and hail a cab elsewhere.

Keeping an eye out for other New Yorkers trying to wave down a cab is very important.  Steal someone's taxi - even by accident, and you'll be headed for a fight.  It's just not worth it.  There are tips online for how to make yourself obvious when trying to hail a cab in New York too, but I've never found that doing star-jumps or waving cash around is needed.

A frustration that I've often found is that cab drivers will pull up, the driver will wind down his window, and he'll ask me where I need to go. If he doesn't feel like taking me, he'll drive right on.  That is totally illegal, but it does happen.  I've never been too aggrieved by this to take action, but if I wanted to report the driver to the NYC Taxi and Limousine Commission, I'd be totally within my rights to do so.

Another irritation for me is the "gypsy cab".  They are usually nice-looking cars that see you trying to hail a cab and will pull up next to you, offering you a ride.  There's nothing wrong with them - they're not trying to abduct you or anything, but a "gypsy cab" doesn't have a proper meter.  The driver will try and negotiate a fare with you - usually way above what you'd normally pay in an official yellow cab.  In times of desperation (inclement weather, traffic chaos) you might be tempted to take a gypsy cab, but I have never felt the need.  It's easy to just wave them along and wait for a yellow cab to drive by.

When you finally do get a taxi, it really helps to know where you're going.  That sounds like common sense, but when you're only visiting here, you might not really have your bearings yet.  I mean, some places are obvious.  If you want to get a cab to JFK Airport, or to the Empire State Building, the taxi will know where to take you.  But if you've got an exact address (like 980 Sixth Avenue), that's not necessarily going to help too much.  It's often better if you can Google map ahead of time where that address is - what it's cross-streets are.  That way you can get in to the cab and confidently tell the driver you need to go "to Sixth Ave, between 29th & 30th Streets".  Then you'll experience the full G-forces of a NYC cab driver taking off in exactly the right direction you need.  Whoosh!

The blessing of NYC cabs is also that they take credit cards, so you don't need to worry about having cash with you - and you get to process your own credit card in the backseat using their touch-screen technology.  Fancy.

But you need to remember that tipping is a thing in taxis too.  When I lived in Chicago, the maxim on cab tipping was always "round up to the nearest dollar, and add a dollar".  Here in New York it's a bit different.  Because I tend to use credit cards all the time, I just add the 20% tip on the touch screen when I'm completing my transaction.  20% on a cab fare may sound like a lot, but it's the minimum tip offered and it's hardly much in the scheme of things.  And airport journeys have flat-rate taxi charges, so you just need to remember to add some extra tip for any additional passengers in the car with you, or any help the driver gave you with your luggage.

In the three years of living here, I've never felt unsafe in a NYC taxi.  They have always been reliable modes of transportation, ferrying me safely from place to place at all times of day.  And taking a taxi in New York is one of those things that's just like in the movies.  You walk out into the street, lift your arm into the air, and before long a yellow taxi will pull up in front of you and whisk you away.  They make often break all kinds of road rules and honk their horns incessantly, but isn't that all part of the fun and craziness of being in New York in the first place?

Subterranean warfare

It must be said that I am a magnet for crazy people, particularly on public transportation.  I don't know what cosmic or magnetic pheromone I emit, but it's powerful enough to bring every nutter on the subway into my carriage and right next to me.  Tonight was no exception - a woman serenaded me with her own version of "Let It Be" (and the song is now wedged in my brain), and then I was caught between two very drunk men and their suitcases on my second subway home.  Awful.

But in making sense of the NYC transit system and the humans who rely on it, I've learned that the trick is to ignore what's going on, and master an expression that blends "total indifference" with "amused acceptance".  You'll get a lot of practice at this, so don't worry if you can't get it right first time.

In addition to your everyday commuters, there are all types of people on the New York City subways:  homeless people, singers (good and bad), dancers (ditto), kids selling chocolates for school fundraisers, acrobats, and gypsy families playing the piano accordion.  You think you see everything in New York above ground?  Think again.

The lovely "New York Magazine" crew published a great article on navigating mass transit in NYC as part of their Urban Etiquette Handbook series.  It's not really a big surprise - don't put your feet on the seats; surrender your seat for a pregnant woman or the elderly, that sort of thing.

A few years ago, a New York graphic artist reached breaking point and drew up etiquette posters, beseeching the more offensive subway commuters to monitor their behaviour.  The posters have since been removed (to the city's collective cultural detriment, I feel).

Then there's this step-by-step guide to taking the subway - complete with links and pictures - that is intended (I presume) to help tourists look and feel less like tourists.  I can tell you that a lot of New Yorkers ignore about 90% of this one.

But all jokes aside, and if you're really stuck, there are helpful web pages like this one to give you the right idea.

The two best pieces of advice I can give you when navigating the NYC subway system are as follows:

1. If the subway stops in front of you and the carriage is empty, there's a reason for it.  The smell will hit you when the doors open.  Move to a more crowded carriage and live to fight another day.
2. Treat your subway journey like shopping on Christmas Eve:  put your pointy elbows out, and take no prisoners.

Bon voyage!

Strangers in the night

A fairly accurate representation
of my evening

I had a bit of a Bridget Jones moment last night.  You know the drill (or maybe you don't): a bottle of red wine, apartment karaoke, Party of One.  Thank heavens for solid brick walls in this building.  Ugh.

When I peeled off the Emirates eye mask this morning, I cast bleary eyes around the apartment.  I surveyed the carnage of unwashed dishes and take-out containers lining the very limited shelf space in my tiny kitchen.  I chugged a Diet Coke from the fridge, grateful to the universe that my drunken self hadn't realised it was there last night.

And then I got down to the very serious business of finding someone to bring me breakfast.  Because in New York, someone is always out there - any time of the day or night - just waiting to deliver food to your door.  Within 30 minutes, the uniformed representative of the diner down the street showed up at my door, bearing bacon.  Wonderful man.

Apartment living is really strange, you know.  I'm confident that my neighbours heard me warbling on and off last night, just as I'm sure they hear me every morning on my way to work - locking my front door and stomping down the stairs.  And I hear them too.  I can tell you that my next door neighbour and his girlfriend test drove his new bed about a month ago, and the upstairs neighbour has a dog that sniffs and snorts at my door every morning and night on his way outside.  The guy across the hall is in a band, and he has a little yappy dog that doesn't know when to go to sleep.  The guys who live in the granny flat out the back decorated the dumpsters with fairy lights and it looks incredible.

But do I actually know any of these people?  Nope.  I couldn't even tell you who lives where or what any of them look like.  We all hear each other's lives, but we do our best to stay out of them.  Our apartments are our sanctuaries and keeping to yourself seems to be the name of the game.  Besides, I'm not sure I could look my neighbours in the eye if one of them asked about my resounding Whitney Houston solo (unless he was complimenting me, obviously).  And really, given how my head felt before the bacon took effect this morning, I was definitely smart to remain under house arrest, safe in my anonymity.

Some time with me, myself and I

You'd think that in a city as densely-populated as New York it would be hard to find space to be on your own.  People are always rushing to get somewhere, jostling you and getting in your face.  But you don't have to hide out in your apartment to get some peace and quiet.  There are places in New York - public places - where you can be alone, and take some time to just soak up the City and relax.

The Great Lawn, Central Park
In the middle of Central Park, from 79th Street to 85th Street, you'll find the Great Lawn.  They have concerts here during the year, but on sunny days the lush lawn becomes a haven for picnickers and sunbathers of all shapes and sizes.  Bring a rug or beach towel, a good book, and spend a few hours just soaking up the rays.  A good trick if you're coming in from the Upper West Side is to call into Zabars first and grab some lunch to enjoy when you finally find your Park spot.

Madison Square Park
Similar to the Great Lawn, but this green oasis is just closer to my house so it's my go-to hangout in summer.  This location has the added advantage of being opposite Eataly, so if you need the bathroom or a coffee or gelato, you're on a winner.  Don't bother lining up at Shake Shack, unless you want to be reminded of all the reasons you wanted to be alone in the first place.

Theatre/Cinema
It seems weird to think you could be alone in a crowded theatre or cinema, but nobody pays any attention to you when the lights go down and the show starts.  And buying a single ticket to a Broadway show is often an easy way to get the greatest seats, even at the last minute ticket booths.  But a warning - Sunday matinees are usually full of old, fairy-floss haired women who try and engage you in conversation during intermission.  Use this time to busily sort through your purse, or study the Playbill intently.

Battery Park
I love coming down here in sunny weather.  There are wooden benches overlooking New York Harbour and you can see the Statue of Liberty.  From that safe distance away, I like watching the tourists pushing and shoving each other to get on and off the cruise boats to Liberty and Ellis Islands.  Euphoric kids, exhausted parents.  And I like this location because there are always food trucks down there, usually selling churros.  Never a bad thing.

This is just a random selection of my favourite New York spots to go solo.   Getting out of town is also a great tonic, but not always possible, so I think it's important to find the places you can be alone here. The noise and the crowds and the craziness can do your head in otherwise.  And when you're in the right headspace, you feel calmer and you can appreciate the city, and the people who occupy it, a little better.

Ariel Sabar wrote a great book called "Heart of the City", a collection of "nine stories of love and serendipity on the streets of New York".  The people in these true stories aren't all from here, but the City certainly brought them together in a variety of ways.  In telling their stories, Sabar takes you on a tour of New York, from the city's iconic sites to the residential neighbourhoods of Brooklyn and the grimy back streets of Chinatown.  It's a wonderful book to make you look differently at New York, and remind you that while alone time is good, it is sometimes a good thing to actually engage with people, even in this crazy town.

It takes an army to look this good

I read somewhere that when Tina Fey was casting for "30 Rock", she offered a cameo to a real NY dermatologist named Dr Zizmor.  He is one of the most recognised people in the city, even though most of us have never had an appointment with him.  Dr Zizmor advertises prolifically on the subway, so "strap-hangers" across New York know his face well.  He promises to eliminate acne scarring, remove moles and other imperfections, and do it under all types of insurance and with specially-negotiated payment plans.  You can tell I've taken the subway more than once, can't you?

But Dr Zizmor is just one person in this City dedicated to making us feel better about ourselves.  There are also thousands of nail salons, waxers, and places you can get all manner of massage and makeover.  You can have things sucked out of your skin, or put back in.  You can have teeth removed, or you can have some added.  You can pay someone to change everything about your outside, to help you feel that little bit better on the inside.

I am no stranger to this practice either.  I'm not a touchy-feely massage person, but my guilty pleasure is a hair salon appointment.  I've written about this before, but as a textbook Leo, I'm fiercely loyal to the men and women I trust with my hair.

When a woman moves to New York, it won't be long before she's looking for a hairdresser.  But in this City, I think it's rare to find one person who will both cut and colour your hair.  You end up establishing a relationship with a stylist and a colourist quite separately - each has a very different area of expertise and you come to rely on that, and often pay dearly for it.  A new arrival to New York is often unaware that when you go to pay your bill, it is customary to not only tip your stylist, but also your colorist (and give a few extra dollars to the person who shampooed your hair and/or gave you a scalp massage).  There are little envelopes at the register so you can perform this ritual discretely.

Now in the interests of a little bit of promotion, allow me to introduce the two amazing ladies who are part of my self-confidence team.  Gina and Karen are both at the chic and trendy Patrick Melville Salon and I get to visit them at the beautiful Soho location.

Gina Kleinschmidt - Stylist
A behind-the-scenes regular, Gina can be found backstage at the MTV Video Music Awards and New York Fashion Week styling for Carolina Herrera, Rachel Roy, Carmen Marc Valvo and Vena Cava. Her work has been featured on The Rachael Ray Show and The Today Show, as well as in print publications including People, OK! and Celebrity Hairstyle. Gina specializes in men's cuts, extensions and special occasion styling.

Karen Conlon - Colorist

A native New Yorker, Karen immersed herself in the fashion scene early on. She’s been featured onOprah, Rachael Ray, The Today Show and Good Morning America, but is best known as the resident hair colorist on TLC’s What Not To Wear. Respected among industry pros and clients alike, Karen’s knowledge and expertise has earned her a noteworthy reputation in the salon business. Her work has been featured in several print publications, including InStyle, Glamour, People and Ebony.

Visiting professionals as accomplished as Gina and Karen can often get expensive.  But every woman will tell you there are also the intangible things that a good stylist and colorist can give you.  By and large you leave their company feeling happier, more confident, and more relaxed.  And to my way of thinking, in the hustle-bustle of New York, that kind of mindset is priceless.