Start Spreading the flus
Yes, I know, I know, I’ve been slack. Thanks for the messages reminding me to write (Sarah’s was my favourite: “Something that’s not too chessy please”). I managed to ignore such promptings until some began to worry about my safety – because, naturally, only my kidnapping could explain such a large hiatus from the writing. Unfortunately, the reason isn’t anywhere near as exciting. I’ve been ‘focussing on other priorities’, which is of course office jargon for excusing laziness and poor time management skills. Lo siento.
The little Spanish throw-away isn’t to make me seem cultured (nor even linguistically talented – my Spanish has dwindled to virtual non-existence since the Peruvian adventure), but because I’m writing this while listening to retro Spanish music and eating a brunch of Huevos Rancheros with pico de gallo. I am, of course, in New York, where as far as I can tell, Spanish may as well be an official language. Suddenly the phenomenon of most of my US friends busting out their annoyingly fluent Espanyol seems explicable.
It’s not my first trip to New York – I was here briefly when I was 16 for the World Schools Championships, in which I got squeezed by Kasparov and met Sting and the Police (embarrassingly, I didn’t know who they were at the time). But I was too young to appreciate the city, which so far has managed to live up to almost every stereotype I’d managed to form from cheesy TV series and popular cliches. Almost. The skyscraper city, the hustle and bustle, the city that never sleeps, the place aliens would settle if they ever came earthwards – all the sayings seem true.
I guess we’re kind of lucky (I’m here with some fellow Amsterdam phd students) in that our apartment is right in the heart of Manhattan, pretty much halfway between Central Park and downtown. Things here really seem to go all night – I can barely notice any lapse in the nose outside between the end of the nightlife and the early birds starting each new day. We’re opposite a concert hall and next to a bollards centre that stays open til 3am, but after a few days here I’ve realised that that’s a relatively early closing time. Around the corner is a cinema, a24-hour Ukrainian restaurant, two Starbucks (of course), a church, a psychic (!), a tattoo parlour, and the list goes on. Within 300 metres from my bed I’ve so far discovered four cafes with high-qualified baristas serving coffee so ridiculously good it blows any brew I’ve tried in two years in the Netherlands out of the mug. Now I’m no coffee snob, but after a week here, I can’t promise I won’t turn into one…
The coffee has been a lifesaver. New York and in fact most of the east coast of the US has been hit by a brutal cold snap. My flight almost didn’t land due to a vicious blizzard with heavy snow, strong winds and temperatures plummeting to -20 and below. That’s Celsius, before you ask. Since then, things haven’t really improved; last night’s slightly tipsy walk home from the conference drinks was in -10 degrees chills, but the real-feel stole another 6 or 7 from that. The wind is a real killer. You know how people say things like “it’s like your face is being cut with shards of icy glass”? Well…fortunately that’s never happened to me, so I can’t really compare. (In fact I’d wager it’s never happened to the people saying that either.) But it’s pretty frigging Siberian-cold. Not only that, but New York is currently going through an influenza outbreak, so NBC and FOX News keeps telling me. I’ve just started recovering from the Amsterdam head cold that brought in the new year with me, and the question I had was whether it was the same strain or a different bug. If it was the latter, I’m not sure I could cope with cross-continental bugs in this sort of weather. So far, so good, however. At least the extreme cold helps freeze a runny nose. I’m sure you wanted to know that, right?
On my first day, while hunting for cockle-warming caffeine, I stumbled into what can only be described as the Ground Zero of the hipster movement. For those of you who aren’t aware, hipsters don’t really have anything to do with hippies, and certainly not the good old hippies of the ’70s. Hipsters typically own an iPhone, iPad, iPod and some sexy Apple laptop that similarly screams iPaidTooMuch. The guys spout copious unkept facial hair, the kind that might suggest some essence of manliness if it wasn’t betrayed by the shiny, meticulously maintained haircut on top. The philosophy staunchly maintains “I was doing it before it was cool”; the credit card balance suggests otherwise. As far as I can tell, an alternative, more fitting motto could read “I regularly overpay to deliberately ensure my status of high maintenance and douchiness.” This cafe had all that and more. The music (which was cooler than the weather) was blasted from a ridiculously expensive record player, which was a nice decorative touch, except that the already overworked waitress had to rush and change the side every 20 minutes. Fortunately, I’d once again forgotten my razor and had a beard that camouflaged me nicely within the male cohort. However, my backpacker’s beard didn’t quite give me the “I’ve never really grown facial hair before” look that seemed mandatory, and my holey shirt didn’t quite cut the retro mustard required to complete the outfit. The conversations (at typically New York subtle volume) were hilarious, and easily worth the price of my expensive Cappa-mocca-frappe-something coffee. You know that amazing tone of voice of which some girls are capable, which sounds like a strained, secretive whisper even if it’s actually at the volume of a quiet yell? Kind of like the speaker is performing on stage, pretending to tell a secret. Well, I don’t know whether the girls at the table next to me knew or cared that most of the neighbourhood was a captivated audience to their conversation (I suspect neither), but it sure sounds like Julia has some explaining to do to her boyfriend after last weekend.
I’ve almost managed a whole post without chess (you’re welcome, Sarah), and to make sure of it I’ll leave the first part of the report here. Actually, I’m off to play a tournament tonight at the Marshall Chess Club, perhaps the most famous chess club in the entire world -and, completely coincidentally, only a few blocks from my apartment. Though a strange sequence of events I’vebeen roped into a short rapid event tonight, thanks largely to the one noticeable violation of New York stereotypes I’ve encountered here. People in New York are – how do I put this – ridiculous nice. Well, okay, I have a small sample to base my claims on, but every interaction I’ve had with a stranger since stepping off the plane has been charming, congenial and helpful. Not a simple piece of rudeness or annoyance. I’m sure I must have jinxed myself by saying this, so stay tuned for (a more chess-centric) part two.
4pm, and -4 degrees. All signs point to a fourth cup ‘o Joe, huh?