Another arty waffle breakfast,
and then Day 3 was the “Big Tourist Day“.
Yes, we were headed for Sugar Hill, an historic district of Harlem. I could have used the obvious U2 reference, but we all know “Rapper’s Delight” beats “Angel of Harlem” hands down.
Actually, we were headed there by accident, having inadvertently got on the subway train that didn’t stop at Central Park as expected. But I will swear it was intentional. A bit like riding the District Line to Dagenham, intentionally, and walking back to West Ham.
And I had no problem convincing the rest of the Taylor family to get a move on when they learnt they were on the edge of the Bronx. Reputations die hard.
The walk down St Nicholas Avenue was remarkably uneventful, except for fans of cakes.
The mosaic at the top was hidden away in the memorial to the venerable Harriet Tubman, but I’ve no idea what it means. Newbury Tim is our go-to man on art.
It took an hour to reach Central Park, at which point two lads set off at their own pace leaving Mrs RM and I to seek coffee ($2) and admire the gardens (free).
New York can look a bit samey in parts, but it’s less frantic and tidier than I expected having learnt about it from Starsky & Hutch (I assumed New York was America).
Central Park was worth the trip alone.
We’d managed about an eighth of the park in 90 minutes, which is when we were supposed to rendezvous at the Lennon memorial of Strawberry Fields. We cheated and caught the subway. The boys will never know we didn’t walk it.
I wanted hummus. The boys wanted Mexican. They called it Chi-polay, I called it Chi-pottel, let’s call the whole thing off.
More great food here, but perhaps 4 plates of hummus was overdoing it.
Mrs RM’s bottle of East IPA was the only Brooklyn we had the entire trip, oddly. Never saw it on draft (sorry).
Across the road, I thought I’d sneak a quick half of
Bass murk in at this place.
But of course, under 21s aren’t allowed in bars* as they will be corrupted in an otherwise pure nation, and I wasn’t leaving James standing outside the door. Not today.
*In Cologne they were virtually forcing him to drink Kolsch with me. He was 15.