by Ayodeji Rotinwa

I discovered, despite the reams of paper dedicated to its effusive praise, that NYC was more than had been written about it and also why it is a feat to capture in words.

AYODEJI ROTINWA recently took a bite out of the Big Apple, and, as he tells it, it was a sensual excess.

 

My Empire State experience started hundreds of feet in the air.

As the plane descended, the city mushroomed into form, a beautiful, reverential sight that locked my attention – in a vice grip.

She was sprawled out like good poetry; majestically, tattooed by a bedazzling melange of amber, silver and azure-toned lights, in such close proximity and curious file that they seemed to be trying to coalesce into a message of words and familiar shapes.

Such a magical constellation of lights, I had never before seen.

Then I could see grand, rich greens of what I could hazard as the storied Yankee Stadium, the hallowed home and ballpark of baseball’s famous New York Yankees.

Nearing touchdown, the heartbeat of the city became audible, first faint and then building up to a ferocious beat: the sound of cars, machines and metropolitan activity seared the night air, piercing the formidable shell of the aircraft. My watch read 11.45PM, Eastern Time.

The city was not asleep.

 

Americanah

At once glaring and fairly unnerving were the stark similarities between New York and Lagos, whence I had flown.

For the entire fifty-odd minutes of my journey, from the airport to my temporary residence I did not feel like I was in another country. In fact, the semblance in physical structures was almost alarming. I could very well have been on Kingsway Road, Ikoyi, navigating a turn to head unto the new Lekki-Ikoyi Bridge!

Days following my arrival, my suspicions that both cities must have been separated at birth became corporeal. Lagos and New York breathe the same air. They share the same pulse. They are sister melting pots of culture, peoples and beliefs, separated only by miles, sea and of course, sadly, superior management.

 

New York, New York

New York City (NYC) is the bustling, roaring engine of the state of New York. It consists of five boroughs, each of which is a county of New York State– The Bronx, Brooklyn, Manhattan, Queens, and Staten Island. The city and state were named after 17th century Duke of York, future King James II of England.

The largest gateway for immigration in the United States, inhabited by 8.3 million people (as of the city’s last census count of 2012), with over 800 languages spoken, and exerting significant influence over commerce, finance, media, art, fashion, research, technology, education, entertainment and diplomacy, on a global scale, it is the cultural capital of the world.

I discovered, despite the reams of paper dedicated to its effusive praise, that NYC was more than had been written about it and also why it is a feat to capture in words.

The city does not stop to catch its own breath. It moves, shakes, stretches repeatedly, over and over again. Seconds after exiting the Bus Terminal, I was swallowed up into its thick grove of buildings- some short and stout, many stretched out to touch the sky- assaulted by bright lights (in the morning, mind you) music playing from different directions, larger-than-life adverts and loud conversations in a cacophony of languages.

Just about every sidewalk, boulevard, crossing is submerged in a sea of people. An interesting scene plays out when the pedestrian traffic light holds the tide up and after a short while, signals movement via a white ‘WALK’ sign. A deluge of people bursts forth onto the zebra crossing, frothing and fast. It can be a mesmerising sight. I soon had to learn to move in step with the tide – a crucial skill in walking around and living to tell the tale with no mangled toes.

 

NY Living

Not surprisingly, the city is a junk food enthusiast’s dream. Available from block to block and on the streets, in generator-powered carts, are gifts of calories and cholesterol. A healthy meal is hard to find .

After binging on fried chicken wings, pizza, pancakes, tortilla chips, burgers, hotdogs, and tacos for a few days, I was on the edge of a gastro-intestinal crisis. Succour, after beating long trails, came in form of Chinese and (Hallelujah!) Nigerian food. The former, discovered in Bar Shabu, an upscale bar/dinner house in Queens, (an hour by train from NYC) was a one-of-a-kind culinary experience. Food was served partially raw, to be cooked to taste by customers, in a hotpot rigged into the dinner tables for the purpose.

Nigerian food, on the other hand, I found in an artsy restaurant in Brooklyn, aptly named Buka. Music from the now-defunct Mo’Hits Group blaring overhead, not quite believing my luck, I dived, palm wine bottle in hand, into familiar dishes of akara, peppered snails and a gigantic platter of goat meat pepper soup.

Food aside, I find NY itself to be safe, despite its rampaging reputation. Prodded by an appetite for danger of some sort, I had my friend and host, Mohammed take me into the city after dark had fallen – again and again. Sadly, save for a seedy character who sidled up to me in the subway, one hand, ominously, in his pocket – perhaps with a knife, and perhaps not – there were no incidents of note.

I also found the city’s public transport to be, in fact, welcoming. Clean, cheap, fast, efficient, reliable and very easy to find, there are trains available to take you anywhere within the five boroughs of New York.

Just like the ubiquitous yellow cabs. But for those, Mohammed had a constant reminder: “You have to tip!”

The cab driver, the bar tender, the waitress and just about every service provider, is entitled to a tip. Sometimes, for no good reason yes, but they would insist with their body language, lingering or a solicitous stare.

The city’s service class is crawling with aspiring capitalists.  As much in the cabs as in the shops.

An impulsive shopper’s wallet would be ravaged by the allures New York has on offer. Obviously, a city with a street named ‘Fashion Avenue’ would take appearances seriously.

With the world’s largest store – Macy’s – and other multiple-level, diverse stores catering to every personal taste and style under the sun, being spoilt for choice is a forgone conclusion.

 

Empire State of Mind

Of course, no tourist worth his salt would visit New York and ignore its crown jewel of famous structures- the Empire State Building.

The 102-story skyscraper, which derives its name from a New York’s nickname New York, is the one of the tallest buildings in the world; losing the top title only in 1970 by a few more floors of the World Trade Centre’s North Tower.

Online guides had told of the building’s imposing gait while I was in Lagos. But of course, the Internet hosts many exaggerations.

Not this time.

On the observatory deck of the 88^th floor, I was immediately awe-struck when by the majesty of the concrete jungle spread out below me. Everything was impeccably in place Lego-style; testament to the amazing offspring of man and technology.

It is as beautiful from the top as below.

A steaming cauldron of flashing lights, dancing images and words, Times Square for instance is a feast for the senses. Alongside the digital media billboards in varied, dizzying colours everywhere I turned, there were go-go dancers on one corner bedecked in burlesque finery, men painted in the rich teal colour of the Statue of Liberty, standing, immobile, torch in hand and opened duffel bag filled with dollars, at their feet; break-dancers, in motion, their backs kissing the sidewalk.

Then within the city’s thick throng of structures, people and technological triumphs, lies an untainted oasis of nature – Central Park. A rolling, lush carpet of green tended by chirping birds and cloaked with soothing tranquillity, it stands almost in rebuke to the rest of New York.

The tour was capped off aboard the Staten Island Ferry, the John F. Kennedy specifically, taking off from the Whitehall Terminal, Manhattan – giving as gift, views of Lower Manhattan, the Brooklyn Bridge, Wall Street’s skyscrapers and most memorable, the iconic Statue of Liberty.

 

The New Yorker

New Yorkers are an eclectic bunch. Loquacious, harefooted, au courant, ennobled by their acceptance and absorption of different, rich, diverse cultures, I hazard they may be a superior ‘species’ of Americans, make of that what you will.

Forgive me for I must gush, but New York is truly international. A short visit of 15 days produced meets with one Jamaican and one Chinese, two Italians, and three South Africans; conversations overheard in the subway, on the street, in bars, in different boroughs, in German, Afrikaans, French, Creole, Russian, Korean, and others I could not discern.

The immigrants I met were not only more enlightened about the world, but they were in love with their city, driven to own a piece of it.

My host, Mohammed, and the three South Africans Shannon, Tracy and Asanda (the 3 aforementioned South Africans) for instance, are assiduously climbing the ladder of corporate America; eyeing mid-level positions at the one of the biggest multinational professional services firms in the world, Quinnie, the Chinese, had just recently started her own risk management firm. She is 25.

Conversely, most of the Americans I met seemed unconcerned with anything beyond their borders except the many wars in which their country is embroiled and whether or not they were ‘winning’.

At a dinner with Mohammed’s friends, in a dingy, garishly decorated Italian restaurant, one, an owlish dilettante (I later discovered) with the grimness of a judge, asked me if smartphone technology had come to Africa and, oh, was it true we had an indigenous telecommunications industry.

Thanks to generous amounts of Pinot Grigio, I did not take offence. I was instead quite glad to school her on the success story of a certain Mike Adenuga and the blistering inroads global brands like Samsung, BlackBerry, and more recently, Apple, are making in the Nigerian telephony market. Her city after all had been good to me so far.

Still, New York waits for no one. It offers itself, but in a hurry and at your risk.

It is sweet and sour. A never-ending slideshow of surprises. A sense that if you blinked you would miss something, and it would be important.

All these and, yet, I felt right at home.

It had taken me those many years, but I had finally come to share John Updike’s understanding.

“One belongs to New York instantly,” he famously wrote. “One belongs to it as much as in five minutes as in five years.”

 

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