In New York last month I was struck by how friendly people were. We stayed in the same place as always – our friend’s apartment in a large building on the Upper West Side – and this time people talked to us in the elevator, something I don’t remember happening on previous visits, all of which were pre-COVID. Did the pandemic make New Yorkers more outgoing?
I was also struck by how often, when we mentioned where we were visiting from, people told of a connection to South Florida. Everyone seemed either to have family here or to be snowbirds themselves. It was like being in Ireland and saying you're American.
The folks on CBS Mornings this morning made it clear that the tourist who scrawled a message on the wall of the Colosseum was not an American – he was a Brit. Which seemed to confirm what the New York Times, a number of years ago now, said about today’s tourists. The Brits, the paper mused, were the new Americans, loud and obnoxious. The Americans were the new Germans, keeping a low profile because we know we’re unloved. The Chinese were the new Japanese, traveling in groups and taking lots of pictures. And the Russians were the new Arabs, buying not just souvenirs but property.
I'm reposting this essay from four years ago - now that overtourism has returned - in the hope that some people might embrace its message.
https://lithub.com/standing-room-only-on-overtravel-and-the-joy-of-the-unsung/
Tuesday afternoon last week Hania and I made our way to the 39th Street ferry terminal – not far from where, one fateful day in 1975, I boarded the QE2 for Europe – and sailed across the Hudson to Hoboken. Though a native New Jerseyan, I had never been to the hometown of Frank Sinatra, which, in the last few decades, has become a hip, and pricey, alternative to Manhattan.
We strolled the wide sidewalks of the main street, passing shops and restaurants. There were few chains, and few empty storefronts. Young people walked good-looking dogs. Turning down a side street, we found a small bookstore in a neighborhood, fittingly, of Irish pubs.
Around 5 we made our way to Leo’s, an Italian restaurant whose walls dripped with framed photographs of Sinatra. Soon my two brothers (life-long Jerseyans) walked in the door with their wives and joined us at a round table in the corner.
We ate a wonderful meal – penne ala vodka, eggplant parmigiano, cheese ravioli – during which someone asked us if we’d brought our masks. Are people up here still paranoid about COVID, I wondered. Then we were told of the smoke that had descended from wildfires in Canada. Coming over on the ferry, and looking back at the Manhattan skyline, I had noticed a haze, but thought it was just the accumulated smoke from all the marijuana cigarettes.
Last Tuesday, Hania and I walked the High Line, gazing north toward a skyscraper out of which a diagonal observation deck jutted. I waited until two people who looked like locals passed by, and asked them what the building was called. I thought I’d like to go there for the view.
“This is terrible because we’re locals,” the one woman said sheepishly, “but I don’t know. And I used to work in that area.”
A little while later I learned from a visiting Brazilian couple that the building was called The Edge.
We had lunch at Chelsea Market – pastrami sandwiches at Friedman’s – and then cookies and tea, which we consumed at one of the outdoor tables. As we were leaving, I saw the women I’d approached earlier sitting nearby.
“Just for your information,” I said, “that building is called The Edge.”
They laughed, then invited us to join them. They were mother and daughter; Hannah was now living in Queens; her mother in Asbury Park, though she’d been born in Lviv. We talked about Eastern Europe, the Jewish exodus, the Jersey shore, Miami, which is where Hannah thought she belonged. It was a lovely moment, and at the end of it we exchanged cards.
I’m off to New York tomorrow, the city that has sent me rejections – with the occasional acceptance – since 1974. Thought I’d visit before the 50th anniversary. Back here on the 12th.