The Blaa..african Americans!

I was strolling through Times Square the other day. A gentleman was selling some standard New York ware on the sidewalk, probably a cruise or a standup comedy show or a carriage ride or some other commoditized touristy service. He had a sales pitch routine like any good salesman would. Not that I’ve met a man in my life who’s both good and a salesman, but I guess that’s how they say it. All in all, he was the usual salesman you’d see anywhere with one exception – he was black. And that, as they say , is a paradigm shift. For, with the usual salesman you would expect persistence. But that persistence is usually motivated by the desired closing of a deal. That motive is not necessary in a black guy’s case.
And it came to pass that a family of white people were strolling through Times Square at that exact moment on that exact sidewalk but on the opposite bank. While any prosperous looking family is a good target for a good (sic) salesman, this family was special for our man due to the presence in it of a young man, of gigantic proportions, of ample girth and a heavy walk. The moment the aforementioned gentleman spotted the young healthy man, he abandoned his post and with fierce enthusiasm and an aggressive bearing, set himself unto just one mission – to call out to him.
An ordinary person would take extra care not to refer to the addressee’s physical characteristics. Not the Black New Yorker. Purportedly to make a sale, the black salesman presented his sales pitch to the young white gentleman in the following words:
“Big Daddy! Hey, big daddy. You lookin’ at what I’m sayin’, bug daddy? I’m talkin’ to you, big daddy. Big daddy? You listenin’ big daddy? I’m gonna show you, big daddy. Big daddy? Big daddy? BIG DADDY!!”
Fortunately for the peace in Times Square, big daddy couldn’t hear a word of this and slowly rolled away into the crowd. But it told me somethin’ about ‘em black folks. They ain’t afraid of nothin’, and they ain’t stoppin’ at nothin’!
Blacks are my favourite people in New York. Strangely, they really are the antithesis of the whites. They talk loudly, they sing loudly. They talk to strangers on the road and in the subway. They have a hearty, uplifting laugh. Their very manner of speaking has a specific, for some reason sitcom-ish tone.
Like when I passed these two black women on Brooklyn Bridge who were seemingly discussing one of their friends: “How’s the bitch doin’ it? Ain’t she broke?” Now being broke, at least where I come from, is not exactly an everyday activity.
Or when I overheard another healthy black woman saying to her friend: “Now Aye don’t get these people. Its rainin’ and they’re runnin’, it’s eleven o’clock in the night and their runnin’, they’re runnin’, they’re runnin’”, obviously referring to the white New Yorker’s obsession with ‘doing miles’.
Or when on my last trip year I was carrying my newly bought iphone with a wide smile on my face and the black doorman said to me: “That’s a damn good tool you got there.” Thank you very much, sir! Thank you for sharing the joy with me.
I don’t want to get into the sociology of America here, but I did feel a little sad yesterday after getting off the bus. The bus I rode on my way to the museum. I could’ve walked, but I took the bus because it was raining, and I didn’t want to get wet. My camera was getting wet too, but I hadn’t noticed it. The lady who handed me the plastic bag did notice it. I had hesitated before taking the bag because it was sudden, and it’s become an instinct even for me, a visitor, to become wary when one of them addresses you. But I did thank her profusely when I had the chance to regain composure. “You don’t carry no fancy camera like that if you have no bag”, she said. She didn't have to help me, but she did.

Melting park

The diversity of New York is amazing. As I write this, I'm sitting on a park bench in Central Park. On my left are two elderly ladies, conversing alternatingly in a Latin-sounding language, and in English with a latin-sounding accent. I can't hear enough and I don't know enough to place them. But an educated guess would be Eastern European. On my right is a couple: school kids making out. I say 'school kids' based on my knowledge of the American education system derived from TV. Meaning they aren't school age-school age, but more like junior college kids back in India age. They guy is whte, the girl black. Plus the tourists walking by are talking in a large number of different unknown tongues.

The best part is, the fact that I'm contributing a ton of diversity to this park bench myself by sitting in between these two pairs gives me a kick, sorta.

18 miles of books

Experience has taught me to always remember a few traveling ‘mantra’s. Three of these were very useful to me today: Be restless, be stupid and be aimless.

1. Be restless: Never waste a moment in a new place. Avoid temptations such as a cozy hotel bed, TV and social networking/ chatting. Always head out. You’ll rarely regret it
2. Be stupid: Avoid wise men and their wisdom. Don’t listen to people who say, “Yeah, I know that place. It is like any other..” or “So? That’s the case in any developed country”. You don’t need to know stuff, you need to experience stuff. Don’t lose your sense of wonder
3. Be aimless: When you start out, just go to a new place. Don’t anticipate some grand experience. You’re sure to find the little quirks of the place which eventually build into an unforgettable exotic experience in your memory. And sometimes, something pops up that you were searching for years

I had exactly three hours to myself in the afternoon today. Not enough to travel to one of the outer boroughs, or to a park or a theatre or some such place. On the streets of New York, I had seen advertisements of the ‘Strand’ bookstore that proclaim it has “18 miles of books”. I think the Lonely Planet also mentions it. It also struck me that I could probably, no, definitely find plays there. I’ve never seen any plays so far in bookstores in India. The only ones I have ever found are by Agatha Christie, and I’m sure that’s because the store mistook them for regular Agatha Christie novels. Done. I had a neat plan for the afternoon. Google map told me it was on Broadway, very close to 14th Street, Union Square. Not completely aimless, but who knows what else I’ll find there?

The wise men in my head immediately swung into action. “Bookshop? You are going to a bookshop? And what, you’ll buy books there? Who buys books? Have you even read a play end to end before? You’ll probably find it cheaper online. And where is it? Union Square? Isn’t that a nondescript downtown subway stop? You pass Union Square every day. Dude, get a life.” I decided to ignore the wisdom.
The last and deadliest attack by loserliness on my free traveler’s spirit was the bed. It looked all white and soft and warm. The TV was calling to me, and Gtalk continuously produced pinging sounds. I overcame this last hurdle with one final enthusiastic leap towards the door.

And I did not regret it. Strand is the quintessential romantic bookstore. It is not a neat arrangement of shining modern furniture with shiny modern ‘bestsellers’ sparsely distributed on it. It is one huge stack of new books, used books, paperbacks and hardbounds all packed into shelves so close to each other that you are constantly excusing yourself and apologizing to other people for bumping into them. That’s because you would rather topple other people over than topple those lovely tall shelves. The books are so overflowing in the store that some of them are just kept on top of trolleys floating between shelves.

In the middle of the day on a weekday, the Strand was flooded with people. Although many or even most of them could be tourists, I spotted two old men wearing old coats discussing old books. One appeared to think the other to be wiser and was listening with deference to the others’ confident but often inaccurate comments. They couldn’t possibly be tourists. Neither could the little girl next to me wearing a bohemian sort of a cap who was searching for specific books from a list she had brought. Nor could the Asian-looking guy with an American accent who didn’t know the title of the book he wanted to gift his girlfriend. Besides, New Yorkers do read. In the subway, the white secretary, the Mexican help, the black guy with a backpack, the Asian woman and the Bengali uncle are all either reading something, or are wired into their ipods, or sometimes both. It could be different languages and different scripts and different quality, but they are all carrying some reading material. Even I have taken to reading the Spanish advertisements in the trains and trying to decode them lately.

I found one comedy I had heard about, a witty sounding play which was said to be funny but with a philosophical grounding and one classic. With my eye on the watch, I prepared to leave. Miles and miles of books on history, films, traveling kept me lingering there for much more time, and I had seen but a small section of the store. I left the store promising myself to come back again.

And then there was Union Square. When I had exited the subway, I had a mini déjà vu of the time I had first set foot in Europe, in a random square in Rome. My jaw had dropped then. Although nothing dropped this time, the prettiness of Union Square was unexpectedly endearing. It’s a cute European style plaza, surrounded by modern and revival style buildings. Of course, I didn’t miss the new subway entrance. This one is a round green shelter with a little pointed dome.

The place is the classy section of downtown Manhattan. There was a comics-only store right next to the Strand, several antique shops here and there, and a cute movie hall which was playing animation films. A tiny shop was selling old records – Bob Dylan and Frank Sinatra and Billy Joel. Perhaps I’ll visit it another day just to take a look at a Beatles record. An Italian restaurant simply announced “Art Inside” and displayed paintings starting from outside the door and all around on the walls. Another said ‘Ladies night’ was coming soon, and another offered discount on wine on production of a movie ticket.

‘Pop art! ‘ yelled one part of my brain. The comics, the animation movie posters, the attractive discount announcements and the records gave a very pop-arty feeling to the place and the time. I smiled, lowered my eyes, walked straight ahead and looked up only once I was inside the subway station. I had had my fill for the day.