Letters From (North) America #9

In which we try our luck at a traditionally Canadian sport, are consumed by patriotic fervour and make some new friends...

* Picking up organic veg, spicy potato dumplings and Mexican hot chocolate at the Riverdale Farmers' Market while trying to avoid the film crew (is all of North America just one big set or something?), we learned more about some of Cabbagetown's most famous residents from the big heritage sign in the park, which read like a page from 'Men Of Achievement 1974'. Who would have guessed that Benjamin Brick, who finally found fame "for his richly–decorated plaster moldings and elaborate ceilings", did indeed start out as a bricklayer, or that Tony Brady was "a writer, actor, magician, hairdresser, animal breeder and traveller, as well as the creator of a clown named Briget" who at one time had 30 parrots and macaws in his house?

* Wandering around Riverdale Farm, with which the Farmers' Market is associated, we met some of Cabbagetown's current residents, including Ginger the Tamworth sow and her nine piglets, an inquisitive turkey and some goats which were very soon Jenni's new best friends. If she'd had her way, we'd have stayed all night.

Some of Cabbagetown's newest residents

I've got my eye on you...

Jenni and friends

* Curling: forgetting about the blip of their recent footballing exploits for a moment, the only sport the Scottish are any good at. Surely for that reason, as well as for it being their invention and something for which you NEED to drink Tennent's Super just to keep warm, it shouldn't be considered a sport? But, as it turns out, the Canadians take it very seriously. We were mocked for being astonished that there are several rinks purely for curling in Toronto - of course you can't play on ice that's routinely skated on! Watching Nay compete in a league match, Debs patiently explained the rules and terminology to us over pints of Keith's. Looking around at some of the participants and at the photo hall of fame upstairs, I felt like Marcus Brigstocke in an installment of 'Trophy People'. We should have seen it coming, but with Nay's game finished early and one of her team an amateur coach, it was inevitable we'd end up giving it a go. Two pints down, a lot of ice, enthusiasts watching intently on the other side of the glass - the potential for embarrassment was huge. But thankfully, despite our propulsion of the stones being erratic and our aim wayward, we did manage to retain some shreds of dignity. JonnyB might claim that crown green bowls is the new rock 'n' roll, but he's wrong - curling is crown green bowling ON ICE, after all. It's that frisson of danger that gives it the edge.

Jen in action

C'mon grandad, get with the program - curling's what all the cool kids are doing these days...

* No foreign experience can be complete without a visit to an ex-pat bar for an England game. In our case, the bar was Scallywags, home of the local branch of the Liverpool Supporters' Club, and the game was the ultimately ill-fated European Championship qualifier in Russia. With kick-off at 11am, it was too early for beer; ordering our coffee and hot chocolate at the bar, a Manc accent piped up: "I think they do Digestives too..." Nothing like proper English wit to make you feel like you're at home. I won't be back, though - being bizarrely superstitious when it comes to football (it does that kind of thing to ordinarily rational people), I crossed it off the list as soon as the final whistle blew on the defeat.

* Unfortunately, even on a holiday like this not everything you see and do can be breathtaking, memorable or fun. This we realised after eating the most average meal of our trip and wandering under overcast skies alongside the deserted grey-coloured sandy beaches to the east of the city. It was like being in a British seaside town out of season, except not quite so cold. Despite its name, Lakeshore Boulevard turned out to be not a pretty promenade but a noisy, dirty arterial route running right alongside the sewage treatment plant. Assailed by the smell, we sought refuge and answered the call of nature in a stripmall Burger King. And then, when we set off once more back towards the city, it started to rain.



* The internet, as I'm so fond of saying, is a truly marvellous thing. How else could I have "met" a resident of Guelph, Ontario through writing for a music magazine, subsequently enjoyed his blog and benefitted from his generosity and excellent taste in music to the tune of several very dear albums? Guelph being only an hour or so away, our trip provided the ideal opportunity for me to meet up with fellow Los Campesinos! enthusiast Ian in the flesh. A great evening it was, too, taking in a visit to HMV, a Mexican meal and then drinks in Bocca on Baldwin Street - the languages of music, football and beer are international, after all.

Doing our bit for Anglo-Canadian relations

Letters From (North) America #8

!!! / LIONESS, 15TH OCTOBER 2007, TORONTO OPERA HOUSE

Like I was going to go to North America and not take in at least one gig...

Too late into New York for the dream bill of Arcade Fire / LCD Soundsystem / Les Savy Fav / Blonde Redhead at Randall's Island a week earlier, too far from Williamsburg for the free Fiery Furnaces in-store appearance the same night, still out in the sticks when the Raveonettes tour called in on Toronto - but, thanks to Friday's visit to Rotate This, we discovered !!! were in town the night we got back to Toronto and promptly snapped up tickets to see one of the bands who really made our Glastonbury this year.

As the name would suggest, the Opera House has in days gone by played host to a form of entertainment generally considered more high-brow and "cultured" than rock 'n' roll. The ornate frame around the stage serves as a reminder of that past, making the experience of seeing a gig there, even given the scuzziness of the floor and bar areas, similar in nature to witnessing the collision of the sacred and the profane which very often takes place at the Point in Cardiff (such as when the Melvins were the visitors).

By the time we make it in, past three separate check points - ID (you've got to be over 21), pat-down security search, ticket - the support band are well into their set. If the member of staff at Rotate This who sold us the tickets is to be believed, this is Lioness. He had urged us to get there early to see his friends perform. Their take on The Gossip with added keys may be more than just idle chatter, but ultimately nothing in their set dazzles as much as the huge-haired vocalist's gold lame dress. But no matter - (Dead Kennyism ahoy) they're not the mane attraction.

One thing that's struck me so far during my time in Canada is quite how keen Canadians are to distinguish themselves from their near-neighbours. Many eagerly impress upon you their British roots, and certainly in their general politeness and reserve - in contrast to the stereotype of the brash, whooping, loudmouth American - they feel like close relations. Which is all very well in most circumstances - but not at gigs. According to our hosts and fellow concert-goers, Toronto crowds are notoriously restrained - so, from their perspective, the frenzy which ensues after the headliners take to the stage is all the more surprising. Of course, Jenni and I knew what to expect - if anyone could bring the party to Toronto, loosen limbs, animate arms and set feet in motion, then !!! could.



This is the New Yorkers' final date on their North American tour in support of latest album Myth Takes, and the set is as a result comprised primarily of new material. 'All My Heroes Are Weirdos' is inventively percussive 70s cop show funk as viewed through a hipster's shades, not to mention a succinct explanation as to why John Frusciante loved them so much he insisted they accompany the Red Hot Chili Peppers on tour, while the stomping beat of 'Yadnus', pounded out by not one but two drummers, can be set alongside that of Battles' 'Atlas' as evidence that the glam revival is well and truly underway. Much as Big Apple predecessors Blondie were a new wave band seduced by disco, !!! are a punk band that have internalised the rhythms and aesthetics of dance music so completely that the joins are no longer visible - and in any case you're lost too deep in the groove to want or try to look for them.



Principal drummer Gerard Fuchs might be sporting an interesting moustache and bassist Justin Van Der Volgen might look like Mick Fleetwood had he been kidnapped, kept in a cupboard and fed nothing but magic mushrooms, but the real star of the show is frontman Nic Offer. Phill had it absolutely right when he said that Offer is the worst dancer imaginable. He whirls and prances about the stage, jumps up on the amp and grabs his face theatrically. Most amusing of all, though, is when, with arms straight, he holds out his hands flat, jittering about like a paunchy and slightly sweaty penguin undergoing electric shock therapy. You might be forgiven for thinking this would be a bad thing for an ubercool band for whom dancing is so important, but the exact opposite is true - Offer's complete lack of self-consciousness, the way he hands control of his body over to the music so entirely, is precisely what makes the crowd lose it to the extent they do. We might all look just as ridiculous, but we just don't care.



We get an encore that Montreal didn't ("so you've got to go extra crazy") and the roof never comes quite so close to being blown off as at the climax of 'A New Name', Offer wandering around with his arse hanging out after co-vocalist Shannon Funchless rips the seat of his jeans.

The repeated "Don't stop" refrain of 'Bend Over Beethoven', an echo of Junior Senior's one-hit-wonder disco gem, seems to be as much them encouraging themselves to keep going - their equivalent of Thomas the Tank Engine's "I think I can, I know I can" - but, out of exhaustion and sympathy for the soles of our dancing shoes, it has to end at some point. Unfortunately.

Lest we forget

The purpose of the original Reasons To Be Cheerful series was to celebrate and promote the best that Birmingham had to offer in terms of places, events and people. Since then, I've done Achosion I Laweni about Cardiff and begun Reasons To Be Cheerful Part II about Oxford and Abingdon. It seems, though, as if the features might be taking on a second less happy function: preserving the memory of certain local institutions for posterity.

Last month I discovered that the QI Building here in Oxford is soon to undergo a major renovation - the bar will be altered, the marvellously eccentric bookshop lost altogether.

And now news has reached me that the unique Cardiff institution that is the Glamorgan Staff Club will soon be closing its doors following a decision by the various councils which run it. Not just a blow for toothless whiskered afficionados of real ale, but also for local community groups like Cardiff Friends Of The Earth who regularly use the rooms upstairs as venues for meetings.

I just hope Spillers isn't the next to go.

Quotes of the day

"Most comedians are borderline psychotic. It's what makes their work interesting."

Julian Barratt in conversation with the Observer's Amy Raphael. Not long now until the third series of 'The Mighty Boosh', it seems - this one set in a shop. (Incidentally, like Del I've also been enjoying what I've seen of another mixture of oddball humour and inspired songwriting, 'Flight Of The Conchords', on BBC4 recently.)

"Well, if that's the case, then my cock's a swizzle stick! And I can tell you, it's fucking not!"

Not the sort of language you normally expect from a respected BBC presenter, but that's what Miranda Sawyer overheard John Humphrys say to his producer when sitting in behind the scenes on Radio 4's 'Today' for an article commemorating its fiftieth year.

Letters From (North) America #7

In which, after a very heavy night, we head up country...

* I've come to the conclusion I like bars with the word "Chapter" in their name. There's the Chapter Arts Centre, of course, just the place for continental lagers and sophisticated boozing in Cardiff - and then there's Chapter Eleven on Parliament Street in Cabbagetown, the venue for our host's 30th birthday party, where the landlady not only brought round free drinks but partook in the flaming sambucca session, getting her mouth burned by a tipsy Jenni who was unable to hold the lighter steady. The smell of singed hair lingered for rather too long afterwards. It was also the place that, thanks to a quiz devised by Debs, we learnt more about Nay - including the fact that she once managed to reverse over a goldfish bowl, getting out to discover her goldfish stuck in the tyre treads... Remembered any of the evening yet, Nay?

Drink had been taken by all concerned, including the photographer

Back home

* One of the strangest things about Ontario, at least from my perspective, is that the sale of alcohol is far more restricted than in the UK. Off-licences as we know them don't exist - instead, you can generally only pick up booze at LCBO stores, which are controlled by the provincial government (LCBO standing for Liquor Control Board of Ontario) and contribute significantly to its coffers, or at outlets of The Beer Store. As the name suggests, the latter are unlicensed to sell anything other than beer, but they do have a superb selection. Even more strangely, you make your choice(s), place your order at the counter and then wait for it to be fetched from the storeroom out the back. It's like Argos for alcoholics. Determined to stock up for our trip but flummoxed by this unfamiliar arrangement, Jenni and I took an age to decide what we wanted from the board on the wall and then proceeded to repeatedly forget our order. One of those miniature pens and an order form would have come in handy.

* Equally bewildering was our visit to the supermarket en route - it's a context and environment in which you instinctively feel at home, until you look more closely at what's on display and realise there's nothing whatsoever that you recognise. My eyes were desperately scanning the shelves for a tin of Heinz Beans or a jar of Marmite to which I could cling like a comfort blanket - instead, I was confronted at the deli counter by something called "headcheese", which looked like a whopping great cylinder of dog food, chunks of offal suspended in jelly.

* We might not have been travelling out into the sticks in a truck, but we did at least tune into the station all self-respecting baseball-capped truck drivers listen to in that part of Ontario. Naturally the fare was classic rock all the way: Eric Clapton, ZZ Top, John Mellencamp. At one point the DJ, who I may be imagining was called Randy Richards, mentioned the weather forecast for the next few days, claiming "It'll be a good weekend if you're doing something in your garage".

* I was under the impression the cottage we'd be staying in was in northern Ontario. Turned out, of course, that it was still very much southern Ontario - you have to drive for seven hours before you can think about claiming to be in the middle of the province. Ontario's real gem is the Algonquin National Park to the north of where we ended up, which, in the international unit of measurement for large things, is the size of Wales.

* In Canada, or Ontario at least, cottaging has a rather different meaning than it does in the UK. Usually situated in the woods near or on the banks of lakes and sometimes little more than glorified sheds, cottages are passed down through families, secluded summer and weekend retreats for those who live in apartments amidst the bustle of downtown Toronto or in the dull urban sprawl along the shore of Lake Ontario. The one we borrowed was wooden and lacked running water. Not quite back to basics, though - it had been "winterized" so there was central heating, and satellite TV to boot. So much for leaving the trappings of civilisation behind - we were on Glamor Lake, after all. Who wants to commune with nature and make like Ray Mears scrabbling around in the undergrowth for grubs when you can feast on prime Healthy Butcher steaks, quaff a marvellous assortment of ales (KLB Nut Brown Ale and Mill St Tankhouse Ale being my favourites, the latter with a tang of Turkish Delight) and play ten pin bowling and baseball on a brand new Wii all night?

* The weather the following day turned out nice (certainly good enough for doing more than just stuff in your garage) so three of us went for a walk round the lake - or, rather, were taken for a walk by Ouzo, an extremely friendly and apparently inexhaustible labrador-Rottweiler cross. While we were away, her owner, a local resident, phoned the cottage to ask about her whereabouts, only to sigh and ask for her to be sent home on our return. A good thing, too - I didn't fancy the prospect of being hunted down by a Mountie and put up on charges of dognapping.







* Being a man, and a man with an increasingly beardy visage at that, it was inevitable that I'd have to chop some wood. Unfortunately my manliness was undermined by the fact that, instead of wielding a mighty axe above my head and bringing it crashing down on splintering log after splintering log, I was wafting about a small hatchet and within a few minutes had managed to carve a neat straight line on the back of my finger.

"I'm a lumberjack and I'm OW! OW! OW!"

* What to do with the wood? Have a fire, of course! We made good use of the fire pit by the lake, clustered round as dusk fell, talking, drinking, trying not to get knocked off our seats by Ouzo's exuberance and starting every time there was a rustle in the undergrowth. It is bear country, after all (well, just about). When we went inside for cards and gin, I was secretly hoping there'd be a knock at the door and we'd be paid a visit by the bear from the video for Grandaddy's 'The Crystal Lake'. Perhaps he doesn't like Neko Case or Fleetwood Mac?

Glamor Lake

Ouzo - exuberance persondoggified

"What's trumps again?" "I don't know, fix me another gin..."

* No sooner had we arrived than it was time to go - back, past the carcasses of cars that had fallen victim to the climactic extremes, and through places called things like Coboconk, to the big city. Quiet time was over - the party was just about to get started...

Picture imperfect

Just a quick note to say that I've added some pictures to the first two installments of Letters From (North) America below, and hope to add them to the remaining New York posts tomorrow before continuing with the tales from Canada.

Update

(For some reason I can't fathom, though, the pictures have come out unevenly sized. They've all been copied from a Picasa photo album, so I've no idea why this should be. Any suggestions or advice on how to get them all to appear at the larger size would be much appreciated.)

By a process of trial and error I seem to have righted things - not entirely sure how I did it, but I think it involved saving the photos in a slightly different way. Hopefully the remainder of the New York photos will be sorted out tomorrow.

Letters From (North) America #6

Thus the account of the Canadian leg of our adventures begins...

* Any romantic visions of catching the Greyhound from New York to Toronto, coloured perhaps by countless films and the likes of 'On The Road', were shattered by the reality of the experience. Not only did we travel overnight - a cunning plan designed to give us the full Tuesday in New York and then save on an extra night in the hotel, when prices rocketed back to Saturday's exorbitant level - meaning we couldn't see the countryside, but the coach driver between NY and Buffalo had the same gruff demeanour as those routinely encountered on National Express services. There was a familiar resigned and quietly depressed air about our fellow passengers, too. Rather worryingly, one was wearing an orange T-shirt emblazoned with the words "New York City Jail" - if he really was making a break for it and managed to get into Canada without being challenged, then US border control is more lax than I thought.

* The payphones in Toronto Coach Station proclaim it's "Two calls for a loonie". Some kind of interesting outreach programme, perhaps, whereby each new arrival into the country is expected to ring up a mental outpatient (twice) for a friendly chat free of charge? It was only later that we discovered the mundane truth: a loonie is the familiar name for the Canadian dollar coin, because it bears the image of a common loon on the reverse.

Sadly we never went in to find out whether Loony Bargain has a loony bin...

* We're staying with friends in Cabbagetown. Yes, Cabbagetown. The name was (plucking a glossy colour-illustrated guide book from the shelf behind me) "originally a pejorative term for a down-at-the-heels neighbourhood inhabited by British working-class residents who grew and boiled this globular gaseous green". The "real" Cabbagetown is no more, having been demolished to make way for the Regent Park housing development (itself now about to be torn down), but in the suburb just to the east of the city centre which goes by that name today the cabbage is a source of pride; not only is it represented on the flag found flying outside many of the typically nineteenth-century homes, but ornamental cabbages are everywhere. You can even find bouquets of cabbages alongside bunches of roses in the local florists. Though house prices are on the rise, it's still a characteristically liberal area popular with artists of all sorts, and the main thoroughfare Parliament Street is a patchwork of disparate, independent and no-frills cafes, pubs and shops (one called Loonie Or Less). We're told that at night the sound of mooing cows from Riverdale Farm is often as audible as the sound of gunshots from the nearby 'hood to the south...

Hotel Nay & Debs

Say it with cabbages

* As if to distinguish himself from his American counterpart, the Canadian figure illuminated at pedestrian crossings has his shoulders slanted the opposite way at an angle which might be best described as jaunty. This jovial happy-go-lucky chap, perhaps out for a stroll on a sunny summer's day, also has the luxury of fully-formed feet at the end of his stick legs.

* In the UK, 'Panorama' is a hard-hitting topical news programme. In Toronto, it's a very swanky bar on the top (51st floor) of the Manulife Building. Just the place to see the city at night, cocktail or glass of wine in hand.

Downtown Toronto

* One thing we soon learned to appreciate in New York was that just because two buildings are on the same road does not mean they're at all close to each other. Here in Toronto, Queen Street is one of the longest, running horizontally into the city centre from the west and then passing right through to the other side. Streets which are that long can change character completely if you walk along them for long enough. The section of Queen Street West that we explored, at least, is a smarter, more refined cousin of Parliament Street (see above), scrubbed up nicely. Dufflets proved to be a good stop-off point for soup, filled naans, coffee and cakes, and Da Zone can cater for all your casual footwear needs (so long as you're under, er, about 30). Meanwhile, The Healthy Butcher is the place to go for delicious locally raised organic meat including elk or bison sausages, though it's not cheap, our three (admittedly hefty) steaks setting us back more than $50. Best of all, though, is Rotate This, the sort of brilliant independent record shop which, like long-time SWSL favourites Selectadisc and Spillers, is instantly recognisable as a hub for the local music community and staffed by people who really know their stuff. After a conversation about Klaxons and Foals, I left with copies of Electr-O-Pura by Yo La Tengo and Sonic Youth's first mini-album plus one of their T-shirts parodying the Goo album cover, before returning half an hour later to pick up tickets to !!!'s show at the Opera House a few days later.

* After we'd passed up the chance to go up either the Empire State Builing or the Rockefeller Center in New York, my vertigo was always going to be given an opportunity to express itself with a trip up the CN Tower. I'd been up before, but still heeded the advice of our friend, who from bitter personal experience recommended a thorough emptying of the bladder before the ear-popping ascent in the lift. To be honest, though, I coped reasonably well, even though Jenni insisted I walk across the glass floor on the 113th storey, one below the main observation level and two below the revolving restaurant, not once but twice and then go on to the Skypod, the uppermost observation level, at 147 storeys and 447m up the highest in the world and the same height as the very tip of the Empire State Building. The problem, though, is that, though the view of the city and lake is generally impressive, the Tower dwarfs all other surrounding buildings (including the Manulife Centre), and it wasn't quite clear enough for us to make out Niagara or Rochester across the water. Something you have to do, though, I suppose - even if it was a bit pricey and I did resent being ejected from the lift straight into the huge gift shop after our descent.

Some tower or other

View from the Tower

Toronto Bay

The glass floor

In the next installment, your intrepid North American explorers venture north of the city in search of the authentic Canadian backwoods.

In the meantime, though, congratulations to one of our hosts here, Debs, who tonight climbed all 1776 stairs of the Tower in just under 27 minutes, all for charity. The world record time is, unbelievably, well under eight minutes...

Letters From (North) America #5

And so to our last day in the Big Apple...

* Walk around New York for long enough and you're practically guaranteed to come across a film crew. Enjoying a leisurely morning stroll in Central Park dodging the nannies with strollers, we stumbled onto the set of 'Sex And The City: The Movie'. How we managed it I'm not entirely sure, given that loitering paparazzi were being politely shooed away by security (though probably then only to secrete themselves in the bushes around the Lake). Stepping gingerly around snaking lengths of cable and retracing our steps back past table upon table of clothes and headsetted crew members clutching cappucinos, we remembered passing the characters' favourite bakery Magnolia en route for the White Horse Tavern the previous night - the queue for cupcakes was, as usual, out of the door and down the street.

Some park or other

Lights, camera, action...

* With its ceiling fans, 50s chic decor and red leather booth seating, eating in the Manhattan Diner opposite our hotel made us feel like extras in an episode of 'Happy Days'. When our attentive waiter came over, though, it wasn't Al and he didn't recommend the fish. Jenni went for the Mexican burger, while I plumped for the Lumberjack - essentially a full English breakfast perched atop no fewer than three tiered pancakes. That brought an additional dilemma, though - "How would you like your eggs?" Suddenly faced with the yawning gulf of cultural difference and no visible bridge, I blindly opted for sunny side up ahead of over-easy, having little idea of what either meant. It worked out OK.

* Grandiose, capacious, luxurious - and that's just the toilets. (Or should I say restrooms - for a nation like the US, not unfairly stereotyped as brash, the coy euphemism is rather curious.) In the battle of The Buildings You Simply Must Visit, the Art Deco palace that is Radio City Music Hall won out over the Empire State Building and the Rockefeller Center (essentially views vs interesting interior). Tours take place every 15 minutes and we were fortunate enough to be the only ones booked for 1.45pm, thus guaranteeing us our own personal guide. Joyce gave us the building's history, outlined the fruits of its extensive and faithful $70 million dollar renovation in 1999 and explained the intricate workings of the stage mechanics. The highlight of the tour, though, was obviously intended to be our meeting and photograph with one of the Rockettes, Radio City's legendary dance troupe, who appeared after a knock on the dressing room door - presumably she does this for each tour every fifteen minutes, like a strange life-size parody of a cuckoo clock. For a couple of Brits who'd never heard of them, this made for a very awkward exchange - perhaps akin to an American being granted the privilege of a chat with one of Pan's People. Sweet though she was (in a very wide-grinning apple-pie-eating way), we were more impressed with the toilets restrooms. Lucky we didn't try to visit a few days later - the Dalai Lama was in town and, according to Joyce, his "people" had forbidden any public tours of the building on security grounds...

Radio City Music Hall staircase

The auditorium

The ladies' "restrooms"

A Radio City Rockette and a couple of awkward Brits

* Apologies Brooklyn - we did make it to the other side of the Bridge, but soon managed to lose our bearings and figured our best bet was just to go back the way we'd come. Views of the increasingly familiar landmarks of Manhattan are partly obscured by cables, but it would be churlish to complain given that those same cables are responsible for saving you from plummetting into the East River.

Brooklyn Bridge

Downtown Manhattan from the Brooklyn Bridge

* McSorley's may be self-consciously dark and grubby, with yellowed newspaper clippings in glass frames on the walls and liberal amounts of sawdust (if not spit) on the floor, but as the city's "oldest continually operated saloon", established in 1854, it can probably get away with it. The choice of drinks is limited to a light ale or dark porter (unspecified by name), served up in half-pint tankards by a balding middle-aged Irishman who slaps them down on the table and then leafs through a wadge of notes for change. Jenni drank quickly, no doubt fearful that the decision to permit entry to women, finally taken in 1970, might be reversed at any moment.



* Burp Castle, for which we were looking when we came across McSorley's, is a strange little bar. We had been led to believe the staff would be clad in monks' robes in accordance with the general Trappist vibe, but they were in civvies. All the same, the beer selection was impressive - I opted for a half pint of Chimay in a stemmed glass - as was the large wall painting of a number of monks on some kind of raft. In the toilet someone had written: "Question authority". The response: "Says who?"

* Continuing on down East 7th Street, we stumbled (quite literally) upon Klimat, which had us realising we'd hit upon the jackpot. Intimate lighting, friendly service, two pints of Hoegaarden for $10 (and a decent range of other European lagers too) and delicious food - my pork loin in creamy green peppercorn sauce with crispy potatoes tossed in dill and unfussy vinegarette-doused salad was the best thing I ate in New York, after the Lombardi's pizza - had us rueing the fact that we had barely two hours left in the city.

* Time for one more drink. Looking for a place called 7B, we came across the Horseshoe Bar which, with the Joy Division song on the jukebox and general ambience, fitted the bill. Turned out it was 7B, the bar possessing a number of alter egos. The beer on tap was again good, the staff helpful and the Scottish couple sat at the bar engaging company. There was even a pub dog. When we're next back in town, whether at The Library or the Chelsea, East 7th Street will definitely be where we head to when the sun sets.

There ended three days of hyperactivity in New York, and we moved on to Toronto - stories of vertigo, unfamiliar sports, uninhibited dancing, friendly goats, even friendlier dogs, cabbages and clowns still to come.

(Incidentally, Andy's asked if there'll be photos - there will be, but only after we're back in Blighty I'm afraid.)

Adjustments and additions

Don't Go To Vegas is the new home of an old friend, while JonnyB's Private Secret Diary can now be found here.

New to the SWSL blogroll is Around The World In 80 Dinners, for which a chap called Robert Hamilton is attempting to sample the food of 80 different countries without leaving the North-West of England. (Thanks to Jonathan for the link.)

One other (unrelated) link: if you've ever wondered what your cat might get up to when he or she is out of the house, then Mr Lee CatCam is for you. (Thanks to Debs for that one.)

Letters From (North) America #4

Onwards, with tales of cheesecake, bohemian hotspots and alcoholism...

Perhaps it's just the pedant in me, but surely a prudently-placed comma wouldn't go amiss here? As it is, it sounds like a dubious massage parlour for geriatrics

* Lindy's, recommended by our cab driver on Saturday night, claims to be the home of the best cheesecake in New York. The restaurant is legendary - just down from Times Square on 7th Avenue, it's been a popular meeting point for stars and gangsters alike, and gets a mention in 'Guys And Dolls' - but has unfortunately now been subsumed as part of a chain and is a little grubby round the edges. Our very late lunch still settling, we went straight for the cheesecake - and very good it was too. Larry David will be pleased to know that the Lindy's sandwich that bears his name is a good combination, the classic BLT. The Britney Spears, meanwhile, is described as "overstuffed". "And not suitable for children", Jenni added.

* The Chelsea Hotel can probably lay claim to being the cultural centre of the city. It's where Jack Kerouac wrote the first draft of 'On The Road', William Burroughs finished 'Naked Lunch' and Arthur C. Clarke wrote '2001: A Space Odyssey'. Arthur Miller, Mark Twain, Tennessee Williams, Brendan Behan, Dylan Thomas, Simone de Beauvoir, Jean Paul Sartre, Jasper Johns, Willem de Kooning, Robert Mapplethorpe and Patti Smith - amongst many others - all called it home for a while. Andy Warhol filmed 'Chelsea Girls' at the hotel with Edie Sedgwick, Bob Dylan and Joni Mitchell both immortalised it in song and everyone from Jimi Hendrix and Pink Floyd to Frank Zappa and The Grateful Dead stayed. Much of this rich history is detailed in the plaques which adorn the entrance, but perhaps unsurprisingly there's no mention of the hotel's most infamous incident, Sid Vicious's stabbing of Nancy Spungen in October 1978. A bit shabby outside, it nevertheless has a certain grandeur about it, as well as some garishly bright artworks in the lobby. Definitely the place to book next time we're there...

The Chelsea Hotel sign

Dylan Thomas and Thomas Wolfe wos 'ere

* Wandering through the West Village, we came across a wire mesh fence covered in decorated tiles. A friendly local stopped to explain that they've been there since the days after 9/11, the fence being opposite St Vincent's Hospital where many of the victims were brought. The street outside was littered with gurneys that day, he told us, and priests were passing from person to person performing the last rites. A proud liberal, he felt the country is going to pot and shook his head ruefully at the fact that "New York is not America". It reminded me of the T-shirt slogan I'd seen the previous day: "I never thought I'd miss Nixon".





* Horse silhouettes on the window, horse pictures on the walls, miniature horses' heads on the chandeliers - the White Horse Tavern has a theme and it's sticking to it. When the bohemian residents of the Chelsea have wanted a drink, this has often been the watering hole of choice - Kerouac, Dylan, Behan, James Baldwin and Hunter S. Thompson were all regulars. I was delighted to find that the neon sign in the window meant they had "Newcastle" (aka Newcastle Brown Ale) on tap, and we sat at a table outside in the stifling evening heat watching a mouse running up and down in the shadows. The day's exertions suddenly catching up with us, we left in a cab, heading for home rather than to Arlene's Grocery for Rock And Roll Karaoke as planned. At least we didn't have to be carried out, as Dylan Thomas did shortly before dying of alcohol poisoning.

We're off out into the sticks for the next couple of days, but there's still another day's worth of New York to come, including tales of spit 'n' sawdust bars, trespassing and egg conundrums...

Letters From (North) America #3

Picking up where I left off yesterday...

* If there isn't one already, then there certainly should be a tour of the city's key music sites - one of which being Murray Street, home to Sonic Youth's studio, which we stumbled across on our way back north from the ferry terminal. Photo opportunity? I think so...

A Sonic Youth obsessive paying homage

* For pizzas the size of your head - if your head happens to be the size of Elton John's on an ego trip - it makes sense to make for Little Italy. A visit to Lombardi's - which lays claim to being the oldest pizzeria in New York, having been licensed in 1905 - saw us served up with 18" of pure pizza pleasure on an enormous silver platter and pedestal. Spoilt for choice in terms of toppings, we plumped for sweet Italian sausage, coal oven roasted red peppers, wild mushrooms and meatballs - the latter no doubt just the way mama used to make 'em. The restaurant was full to capacity when we arrived, but we ended up being the last people there, and even then we didn't quite finish our pizza - two slices accompanied us home, making for an excellent breakfast treat.

18 inches of pure meaty pleasure

* Is it wrong to wander through Times Square at 1am and be disappointed not to see the Naked Cowboy? Probably. We did however come across an elderly gent posed statuesque next to a sign saying "Money makes me dance". When a coin was put in the slot, so to speak, he came alive - though his arthritic efforts and creaking joints were enough to make spectators wince in sympathy.

Some square or other

Times Square - where even the police station has a neon sign

* With the wealth of museums and galleries in New York and only three days to explore the city, how exactly does one go about choosing one to focus on? With difficulty. We opted for the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) narrowly ahead of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Frick Collection, and followed the crowds up to the 5th level for the exhibition of Post-Impressionist painting and sculpture which features (amongst many others) Cezanne's 'The Bather', Van Gogh's 'The Starry Night' and Monet's 'Water Lilies'. The latter had a particularly curious effect on visitors, reducing one to tears of joy and inducing another, intrigued about the length of the three canvasses put together, to measure it out toe to heel in clogged feet. So, what did I learn? I like Magritte, Leger and the Pointillist style of Signac; I dislike Matisse and Kandinsky, and soon find Mondrian's work tedious. Before we knew it the best part of three hours had passed, and so, feeling like philistines but desperate for something in the form of lunch, we rushed past famous works by Warhol, Dali, Rauschenberg, Pollock and Duchamp on the floor below, pondering how galling it must be to be French or Spanish and to have to come to America to see key works by some of your most famous artists.

Leger's 'Three Women'

Signac's 'Setting Sun. Sardine Fishing. Adagio. Opus 221'

Duchamp's first 'Readymades'

Magritte's 'The Lovers'

Wyeth's 'Christina's World'

Jackson Pollock made a lovely mess

Bridget Riley made my eyes go funny

Andy Warhol liked soup

* It's October, it's pushing 30 degrees and the ice rink in front of the Rockefeller Center is open. And we think our weather's bizarre.



* The construction of St Patrick's Cathedral on Fifth Avenue, a focal point for yesterday's Polish parade, only began in the 19th century, but it looks as though it could have been airlifted bit by bit from 14th century France (had airlifts been possible in them days), its elaborate twin neo-Gothic spires forming an impressive contrast to the flat glass and steel faces which surround them.

St Patrick's Cathedral from Fifth Avenue

Inside the Cathedral

* The lobby of the Waldorf Astoria, which just seems to keep on going back and is home to a number of small boutiques, is both impressive and oppressive in its opulent but dated decor, like a plusher version of the Overlook Hotel. How we avoided being frogmarched out by security I'll never know.

The Chrysler Building

* Shit Upper Crust baguettes - usually over four quid a pop - will taste infinitely worse now, having witnessed the quality of the food outlets at Grand Central Station, which is home to what amounts to a large delicatessen stocking everything from common-or-garden fruit and veg to seafood sausages and what looks like a very meaty variant of arctic roll.

Some train station or other

"Upper Crust, AMT Coffee, Pumpkin Cafe - your boys took one hell of a beating..."

* We couldn't have many complaints about our hotel, On The Ave - the bed was smaller than anticipated, water seemed to evaporate out of the cafetiere and upon checking out there was a slightly unsavoury incident concerning films we hadn't bought - but with hindsight we probably should have opted to stay at The Library on Madison Avenue. Over to the 'Rough Guide' to explain why: "each floor is devoted to one of the ten major categories of the Dewey Decimal System, and the artwork and books in each room reflect a different pursuit within that group". You don't have to be a guest to go up to Bookmarks, the rooftop bar, which proved to be an ideal place to sit with a Corona and complimentary bowl of nibbles as the sun set. Could have done without the Phil Collins piped through the speakers, though.

And, with the unpleasantness of 'Sussudio' replaying itself in my head, I'm off again.