Like Londoners – and, I assume, Parisians, Berliners, Muscovites and long-time residents of Beijing – New Yorkers pride themselves on being instantly recognisable to each other as locals, in contrast to the ranks of aimless tourists who clog up the city. It is a moment to be relished when, walking around Times Square, the tour bus touts take one look at your scowling face and head-to-toe black wardrobe and drop their pitch, or, emerging from the subway, you know instinctively and without looking for landmarks, which way is uptown.
There is, however, one test that even the most professional New Yorker can’t always pass, a challenge akin to negotiating the most intricate parts of London’s one-way system, and that is the dead spot in the middle of Central Park.
Last week I lost a friend who has lived in the city her entire life – 40-odd years – to the Central Park Triangle for almost an hour, a twilight zone into which she fell while trying to walk across the park, east to west, to meet me for lunch. For those who haven’t attempted this, I should point out this is not like taking a stroll through Hyde Park. The paths twist and turn, there are myriad forks in the road and infuriating spaghetti junction-type interchanges. Twenty minutes late, she texted me in a panic to say she was in an overgrown part of the park she’d never seen in her life, which was not only deserted, like something from scary 1970s New York, but gave her no view of the perimeter skyline to indicate which way was out.
After walking for 30 minutes she was right back where she started. “Blair Witch Project”, I texted and settled in to see what happened next, which was this: she kept me on speaker so she wasn’t alone, and after asking several people which way was west – each time with the caveat “I’m a New Yorker, but …” – a group of Italian tourists came to her aid by using the compass apps on their phones. There may be bankers in the East Village and Disney in Times Square, but there is still a wild beating heart at the centre of Manhattan.
The toy that drives me crazy
In the children’s park behind my apartment block, a threat of a different kind, in the form of a Ford SUV Raptor, a $100 model car built to the scale of a three-year-old, with a handle to push it, and around which the kids flock every time it shows up. It’s a large plastic toy with no motor, so it shouldn’t offend. On the other hand, it looks just like a Hummer – a visual which, to a certain kind of faint-hearted liberal, is as unwelcome as a toy machine gun.
Every time I see it, I find myself sniffing with disapproval at the parents and hoping the environmental lobby takes note: if they want to win young hearts and minds, they need to bring out a kids’ size Prius, complete with toy battery, leads and a pamphlet about low emissions.
The pen is mightier
The statue of a naked Donald Trump that a street art collective put up in Union Square last week – huge gut overhanging a tiny groin and with the note “The Emperor Has No Balls” attached – was swiftly removed by city authorities, in what was seen as a killjoy response. This was before they released the accompanying statement.
I happen to know the man who wrote it, my friend Sam Biederman, who, as assistant commissioner for communication at the Parks department, just raised the status of the press release from zero to small work of art: “NYC Parks stands firmly against any un-permitted erection in city parks, no matter how small.” Bravo!
• This article was amended on 26 August 2016. An earlier version used the word “aide” where “aid” was meant.
