I’m Shipping Off to Boston

This is part two of my brief Atlantic road trip. For part one, click here

***

It’d been six years since I last vomited, and eleven since alcohol wasn’t a precursor.

I’d forgotten how vile it felt.

At 5 a.m. on a winter’s morning in New York I was drowsily slumped alongside a grimy toilet bowl in the compact bathroom of a friend’s Harlem apartment. There I relinquished to the survival instincts of my body any remaining autonomy that once governed reason and calculated decision-making.

Increased salivating protected the enamel of my teeth from forthcoming stomach acid whilst my abdominal muscles contracted, propelling broccoli, deep-fried tofu and white rice into my esophagus. In turn, my lower esophageal sphincter gently relaxed like a steel-toed boot to the belly, projecting last night’s Chinese cuisine into and around the aforementioned porcelain ceramics.

This was the first of five successive expulsions of vomit. 1 a.m. had seen three more.

I tried to minimise the volume of my heaving noises for the benefit of those roommates heading to Wall Street in several hours, but much like my Sixth Form Certificate maths grade and game seven of the 2005 NBA Finals, this situation was regrettably out of my control.

Food poisoning. What a way to leave New York City. Bring on five hours of driving to Boston through sub-zero snowstorms in the states of Connecticut and Massachusetts.

Not.

Massachusetts State House. Boston, Massachusetts.

***

For the next 24 hours I would be reduced to mostly lying in the back of a rental vehicle and Bostonian lounge attempting to simultaneously sleep and suppress assorted discharges. During this period my nutritional intake was exclusively dependent on over-the-counter Tylenol and the hydrating electrolytes of blue Gatorade.

You might want to be like Mike, but you don’t want to be like me.

Fortunately I awoke refreshed and invigorated the next day, while travelling comrades Ben (introduced in part one) and Toby (a mild-mannered History PhD student at Columbia with Ben) nursed hangovers and sleep deprivation. Boston, it should be noted, was the first leg of our Atlantic roadtrip up into the Canadian provinces of Quebec and Ontario that would see me deposited back in Toronto.

We took the Subway into downtown Boston that morning and engaged in a bit of mapless, guidebookless tourism, which was somewhat successful if one were to negate the directional disagreement between Ben and myself. (It turns out that I had a better sense of direction in one instance, yet in another unimpressively forgot to adjust the wristwatch-as-a-compass MacGuyver trick for the northern hemisphere).

Ben and I partook in snowfight warfare at Harvard and I used the restroom at the Cheers bar for an elongated period of time. (You see, whilst most effects of the virus had subsisted, diarrhea—unfortunately—wanted to hang about until I started eating solids.)

Boston was cool. Both literally and figuratively—draped in a fresh smothering of crisp winter snow. It’s another idyllic U.S. city; small enough to feel homely, old enough to ooze colonial history and modern sophistication. (Pretty supprising really, considering that Ben Affleck calls it home.)

We stayed with a contact that Ben (uh, New Zealand Ben, not Pearl Harbor Ben) had made through his Fulbright scholarship. It was a huge, beautiful six bedroom colonial house. More importantly, it had a Nintendo Wii, and the lamp that I knocked over during a sloppy tennis backswing didn’t break.

***

It took us about eight hours to drive to Quebec City from Boston.

Île d’Orléans over the fleuve Saint-Laurent. Ville de Québec, Québec.

Our rental car was a site to behold. Initially our contingent was going to consist of five-or-more, so Ben had opted for a fairly-priced mini van (“Dodge Caravan or similar”). We got the “similar”: a Plymouth Voyager which could only be described as a mid-1990s Soccer Mom shuttle. With rust, dings and oddly suspicious Wisconsin plates. I guess you can’t expect much when the rental company’s name sounds like a carnival bumper ride. Jolly Wheels Rent-A-Car didn’t even have a physical location, instead opting to leave our car several streets away in the middle of Harlem, unlocked with the keys on the passenger seat.

But it was big. Roomy, in fact. We could have a row of seats all to ourselves, and Ben and I tested the engine’s durability over a journey equivalent to greater than the full length of New Zealand. G.P.S. proved a valuable addition in the U.S.A., even if the voice sounded a lot like Jodie Foster. (Especially creepy when you turned the volume down and a sensual voice responded “softer…softer…softer“.)

As wise men often do, we had opted not to take maps on a journey through unfamiliar geography. This caused minor problems when we realized that the G.P.S. software wasn’t Canada-compatible. And when we went through the same toll bridge three times. And when we arrived in an identically-named Boston street that was on the wrong side of the city.

We’ll call those “teething problems”.

Crossing the border into Quebec, the temperature was about -10ºC. In a strange moment of diplomacy, after telling the border guard that I had no food with me, I handed over my passport anda green tea bag that had somehow become mysteriously lodged in it flew across the counter top and into his office. He didn’t seem to notice.

Yeah, Canada’s pretty rad.

***

Back on the road, everything became metric and anything became Francophone. Quebec’s interesting geopolitical phenomena can be surmised by Wikipedia:

Given the province’s heritage and the preponderance of French (unique among the Canadian provinces), there is an ongoing debate in Canada regarding the status of Quebec and/or its people (wholly or partially). Prior attempts to amend the Canadian constitution to acknowledge Quebec as a ‘distinct society’–referring to the province’s uniqueness within Canada regarding law, language, and culture–have been unsuccessful; however…on November 27, 2006, the House of Commons passed a motion…declaring that “this House recognize[s] that the Québécois form a nation within a united Canada”, although there is considerable debate and uncertainty over what this means.

We got into Quebec City and drove around looking for our hotel, with no map, attempting to communicate with Francophone graveyard shift gas station attendants, until we cut a 3-for-2 deal with the first hotel we went into. At 3am.

It was -18ºC outside.

Quebec City is a beautiful little boutique municipality of the Early Modern fort-and-wall European variety. But it’s small, and tourist villagey, with UNESCO World Heritage designations at every corner. It’s also cold. We stumbled around exploring in bitter temperatures, feet and hands frozen in what was clearly inappropriate outerwear.

Kiteboarding on the frozen fleuve Saint-Laurent. Ville de Québec, Québec.

At the first available Wal Mart on the interstate Ben and I splashed out on long johns, woolen socks and gloves. Clothing so acute that it’s unlikely to ever be used again in the New Zealand climate. Other curiosities include KFC being called “PFK” in Quebec, which if not nice, is at least unexpectedly amusing for reasons I can’t put my finger on.

***

Where Quebec City is pure Francophone, Montreal is a little more Anglo. I guess it’s bigger (once the biggest city in Canada, now second fiddle to Toronto) and it did have the 1976 Olympics. (You know, the one that most of Africa boycotted because stinkpie New Zealand wasn’t banned after touring its rugby team in apartheid South Africa when no one else did? Yeah, call me loyal, I’ll say you’re loyal too.)

We stayed with some lovely French-Canadian girls named Laurence and Marie-Joelle, who were returning the hospitality favour after couch surfing at one of my Wellington flats in 2006 during their Overseas Experience.

January is the coldest month of the year in Montreal with a daily average temperature of −10.4°C and an average daily low of −14.9°C (colder than both Moscow (-10 °C) or Saint Petersburg (-6 °C). A good time to visit, really.

Although it has a reputation as one of the world’s greatest cities, my visual impression was mostly one of cold, grey industrial buildings. But in voluptuous French accents and broken English our female hosts assured us that summer is when Montreal thrives, and we must return to see the infamy of “the most beautiful women in the world in more revealing clothing!”.

Tired and cold, we gave Montreal most of our attention at night (3am and 6am bedtimes respectively). Toby had bought a Kellogg’s cereal funpack for one morning’s breakfast, and I recall drunkenly trying to force Frosty’s cornflakes on a bemused French-Canadian who had sheepishly claimed to love them as a child.

The girls’ apartment was right downtown, in the thick of the “drug dealing, prostitution and homicide area”, according to them. (Pretty much Newtown, Wellington, without the sack-full-of-door-knobs beatings.) Montreal is pretty famous for its raucous nightlife.

Wikipedia again:

During the period of Prohibition in the United States, Montreal became well-known as one of North America’s “sin cities” with unparalleled nightlife, a reputation it still holds today. In part, its bustling nightlife is attributed to its relatively late “last call” (3 a.m.), and its many restaurants and after hours clubs that stay open well on into the morning. The large university population (195,000 students), the drinking age of 18, and the excellent public transportation system…combine with other aspects of the Montreal culture to make the city’s night life unique.

Très bien.

Ben, Marie-Joelle and Toby. Montréal, Québec.

It was a seven hour drive from Montreal to Toronto, and the Francophone elements of Canada disappeared as soon as we crossed into provincial Ontario. We stopped at the first gas station/fast food area (which are an integral part of the American road trip—the journeys are so long, the roads so straight and the eating options so plentiful, that pull-over mealtimes turn into endorphin-inducing events).

We had lunch at Tim Hortons, which is Canada’s most popular fast food chain. It’s sort of like a McCafe, with muffins and bagels and stuff, but started by some retired hockey player. Go figure. (And according to Wikipedia there are now chains outside of Kandahar and in Dublin Zoo? That’s diversification.)

***

Toronto was a bit of a non-event. Although clear and apparently sunny, the wind chill was cheek-rippingly savage. Any sightseeing for Toby and Ben was quickly aborted after one visit to the waterfront.

So we boozed with James and Lauren at our local (read: the bar that had wireless internet and played modern fringe-alternative music so James and I used it when job hunting). On the way home I joyishly gave away all of my cash to homeless people (who clearly wait outside bars for drunk and happy do-gooders like me) while James jumped out in front of two teenage girls, waving his arms and groaning. I assume it was for our amusement; he can’t remember doing it.

Ah, to be young, constantly cold and sometimes inebriated.

Posted by Jonathan

N.Y.See.

This is part one of my brief Atlantic road trip. For part two, click here

***

At the front of the Lonely Planet guide to New York City there’s a quote from a notable literary figure that—paraphrased—reads

“To belong to New York is instantaneous; one is as much a New Yorker after five minutes as five years.”

When I accepted Ben’s offer of accommodation in New York I wasn’t overly sanguine in my expectations of Big Apple tourist gratification—were it not for the arranged lodging and local guide I may have given the city a miss altogether.

But there’s an aspect of truth in the aforementioned chestnut of Lonely Planet guidebookism. Whether it’s the familiarity one feels for the setting of countless cultural texts, or, the fact that New York was—and still is—mostly populated by those born elsewhere, one does get an immediate feeling of belonging in the heaving metroplolis. (Or, at the very least, an absence of Tourist Shame which should not be underrated).

In fact, I totally dug the place.

Malcolm X mural, Harlem. New York, New York.

***

Ben is a loose New Zealand acquaintance via a chance meeting at a 2001 student symposium, a later mutual university friend, and now the grand connectivity of social networking websites. (He also has his own blog New York Transmissions.)

He’s been in New York since September, beginning a Masters degree in anthropology at the prestigious Ivy League Colombia University. With geographical commonality fostering kinship, he, James and myself had hoped for some sort of billeting exchange between New York and Toronto.

I managed to time my New York visit with Ben’s elongated Christmas break and desire to see the Canadian provinces of Quebec and Ontario by means of road trip—so, essentially, the plan was that I’d quit work, jump on the thirteen-hour train to NYC, stay with Ben for four nights and then join him and another in renting a vehicle to drive northeast through Boston and into Quebec City, and then southwest to Montreal and Toronto (where I’d be deposited), before the New Yorkers returned to their city of origin.

Raised in Rotorua and already a seasoned traveller (Vietnam, Laos, India, Mexico, France, Norway and south-western US Navajo-reservations to name a few destinations), Ben got to Colombia partly by way of a sought-after Fulbright scholarship. Which should reveal something of his scholarly capabilities.

Ben in Times Square. New York, New York.

Ben’s somewhat of an enigma. Sometimes he appears an unabashed and idiomatic New Zealand male, making no effort to suppress tactless Kiwi colloquialisms in front of bemused Americans.

But much like an onion, Ben is a man of many layers. (Although when I think about it, each layer of an onion still tastes the same—oniony—and doesn’t reveal any differing onionness, so really, that analogy sucks and should probably be stricken from future syntax usage.)

(Also, do people still use the word “sucks” as a synonym for the very bad or inferior? I thought so, but when I recently made a statement regarding its longevity to a girl in Wellington, she insisted that the term was outdated and that I was the lone orator prolonging its extinction.)

So, to retread, much like the spherical Earth, Ben is a man of varying atmospheres, crusts, and gases: a cultured intellectual within an everyman persona. This gives him a sort of cerebral Thinking Man’s Bloke aura.

At times I couldn’t decide if we had very little, or quite a lot in common.

But the perfect road companion has to be someone who’s philosophising about modern poetry one instant, and drunk at 5am carving his name into a Subway platform the next.

Skyscrapers. New York, New York.

***

The reasoning for my lack of enthusiasm pre-New York can probably be surmised as thus: I often don’t feel like I’m a big city person.

I spent the first five years of my life on a farm, the next thirteen in a large town, and the following five in a city that whilst not enormous in geography or population, undoubtedly contained the trappings of a major cultural centre.

But the truth is that none of those locations felt entirely natural, each lacking some sort of life fulfilment, be it intellectualised culture or uncomplicated serenity. Which I’m sure is not unique to me—paradise is anywhere but here and city slickers seem to vacation at the beach, while small-towners love hitting the nearest metropolis for a weekend of shopping.

And in perception, a place like New York seems—along with other western epicentres like London, Paris and Tokyo, I suppose—the extreme of everything city.

Toronto might be sprawling, but it’s never bustling. Never intimidating. And it’s hard not to fall back on those old ‘80s representations of New York as some sort of dark, dangerous and dodgy Gotham.

View of New Jersey (left) and Manhetten (right) from the Staten Island Ferry. New York, New York.

But times have changed (the town got cleaned up real nice-like in the ‘90s) and stereotypes are often inaccurate. New York is a clean and safe metropolis, oozing cosmopolitan culture and pop iconography at every turn.

I hit most of the sightseeing standards—Times Square, Grand Central Terminal, the Statue, Ground Zero—plus Ben’s neighborhood of Harlem, a great night out in the hipsterville of Williamsburg Brooklyn, a Wu-Tang Clan show and a collection of locales made famous by films, sitcoms and Ramones songs.

And ultimately, people are just people. And New York is merely a place with lots of them, nurturing a distinct cultural and architectural character.

You also tend to look up a lot.

Posted by Jonathan