Ten days of #MAGA. How do I approach this on the blog ? One pub at a time, just like in the UK.
But first, the set-up.
Where is New York ? asks reader qq. Here it is, just south-west of St Johns. I waved to Russ as we flew over Canada.
Sorry to disappoint you beery folk, but this family trip to the States wasn’t exclusively to add Untappd scores for hipster brewery taps in Williamsburg.
Mainly, it was about this;
A last family trip before our sons start to hate us and spend their summers in Hunstanton, which will be the only place they can afford without Mrs RM’s benevolence.
And that’s because New York is expensive, despite reasonable flight prices and our tactic of taking our own food on the seven hour journey to save Norwegian Airline’s £25 a meal charge. A tactic that was to backfire badly 10 days later.
At JFK, we found a little old lady in a Tourist Office reminiscent of Bewdley’s TIC c. 1994.
She patiently explained how to get from the airport to Brooklyn, and then spent two minutes refolding the Subway map that was to be our constant companion for the next week. Were we supposed to tip her for folding the map ? I never found out.
New York had been high on our bucket lists (just below Liechtenstein), and riding the subway standing next to oddballs we immediately felt the cost was worthwhile. BRAPA will have a field day here if Brooklyn gets one of its bars in the GBG (Spoiler: It won’t).
“Get off here !” I screamed as we arrived at Nostrand Avenue.
Mrs RM had put more effort into planning this trip than I put into a pub ticking trip to the Isle of Wight.
An hour after leaving JFK we’d arrived at The Brooklyn, her hotel choice.
The smartest place in what I think I can safely call Crown Heights, despite the problem of sticking geographic labels on anything in New York.
Yes, the Crown Heights that gave us this 1980s funk classic.
Crown Heights is a lively area. Read this Wiki article and the standout line is this;
“In 1960 the neighborhood was 70% white, by 1970 it was 70% black.”
Simplistically, a bit like Brixton but with more adverts for health insurance. Fifteen minutes on the subway to Manhattan, fifteen minutes walk to affluent Prospect Park, home of the museum and Statue of Liberty (top) which was smaller than I expected.
I loved the area, our lads were a little cautious. But mainly they were hungry.
David’s Brisket House was closest.
Four brisket sandwiches later, we weren’t hungry, and hadn’t been murdered either.
And here was Mrs RM’s first beer of the trip. But not the last. Gone in 60 seconds.