As I took the last drag, streaming a blue grey cloud toward a non-descript sky we were hustled to one side by a Rabbi in wheelchair and his black clad retinue. My unbelieving self was finally dispelled; I was standing on a sidewalk with New York City rising high only a short cab drive away over the water.
Despite my lingering disbelief, I had many preconceptions about my holiday in New York. Re-enacting the opening scene of ‘Rhoda’, lounging in the hotel bar sipping cocktails purchased by hunky natives beguiled by my accent, being told ‘have a nice day’ copiously and feeling miles from home.
The truth is that my preconceptions were mostly misguided, the truth, as weird and wonderful as it was, enough to fill a novel.
Just prior to my visit, work had taken me to the financial district of London where I had been overawed by the beautiful high architecture huddled together round a magnificent statue of rearing stallions and separated by narrow streets.
Not unlike New York I thought, but I thought wrong.