Travel Biography - Week 110.

A Note Before Reading On...

Lately, except for the first photo, the Blogger website has decided to make the inclusion of photos into the text nigh impossible. Instead, the website seems to insist that they all appear at the foot of the text. So, to save from frustration, that is how they appear this week. Whether to continue with this method or to attempt at my original layout, I would like your opinion as a reader. What would you prefer? The original layout, or this week's photo column? I would appreciate any feedback. Please, no links to adverts or other websites. Thank you.

A Day in Central Park.

One of New York's well-known features is Central Park. Know as the Lung of New York, it's a near-perfect rectangular strip of greenery, 2.5 miles (4 km) in length and half a mile (0.8 km) wide. The north edge borders 110th Street, the south at 59th Street, its eastern length borders 5th Avenue on the Upper East Side, and its opposite side 8th Avenue on the Upper West Side. It was designed by Fredrick Olmsted and Calvert Vaux and was completed in 1876 (Source: Wikipedia). Central Park was believed to be patterned after London's Hyde Park/Kensington Gardens. Still, in keeping with the symmetrical grid layout of the city's streets, unlike Hyde Park, Central Park is almost perfectly symmetrical except for its southwest corner "bitten off" by the presence of Columbus Circle.

A view of Brooklyn Bridge from Pier 17, New York.

While I was in New York in 1998, I set a day aside to check out Central Park by walking from one end to the other. But it wasn't a straight 4 km walk. With so many "diversions", the overall distance walked remains inconclusive, as it took me a whole day to finally reach 59th Street. For example, the walk included a full lap of the track encircling the J. Kennedy Onassis Reservoir, simply known as "the Reservoir." It's the largest pond in the park, and its former purpose was to supply water to the city before it was decommissioned in 1993 in fear of possible contamination.

The pond's original name was Croton Reservoir, after the name of its source, Croton River, over 40 miles to the north, which was dammed to form the New Croton Reservoir, and supplied its water. Just south of the Reservoir, the 86th Street Traverse cuts across the park amidst some trees, and further south, the Great Lawn boasts six baseball diamonds. Yet, I found it hard to believe that the Great Lawn was once underwater, an extension of Croton Reservoir that includes the present Turtle Pond. And I learned all that while I was there in 1998.

The Hike Begins.

From the hostel, I had to walk northward from 103rd Street to 110th Street, as the northern border of the Park was seven blocks beyond the hostel's location from Midtown. But once I found the northern entrance, one of the first ponds I came across was Harlem Meer, within the northeast corner of the Park. This was a small pond compared to the Reservoir, but with no crowds, I saw how the lake nestled in tranquillity within the meadow surrounding it. For a moment, I forgot that I was in a bustling city. I then passed through a wooded copse called The Ravine before opening into North Meadows. After crossing 97th Street Traverse, I eventually arrived at the Reservoir.

A footpath encircled the pond, and there was no end of joggers. I even felt the odd one out for not jogging. The trail was 1.58 miles (2.54 km) long, that is, where it ended at the same point where I started. The Reservoir was almost large enough to divide the Park into two separate parts, as on the east side the pond drew close to the edge at 5th Avenue, while the western edge was just shy of touching 8th Avenue. 

After completing a full lap around the Reservoir, I made my way through the Great Lawn with its six baseball diamonds. There were far more people here. Some strolled casually, others sunbathing, but all formed an air of tranquillity, away from the noise of traffic and city life. I was meant to head towards Turtle Pond, but a loss of my sense of direction brought me to 8th Avenue, mistakingly believing that I had reached its end at 59th Street. Instead, I was roughly halfway through. At the gate, some black youths were milling about, and I felt uncomfortable in their presence. One or two approached, asking for some spare cash.

Although fearful, I put on a stern face, a "Don't mess with me" expression, and I shook my head, uttering just one word, Sorry! I then turned back into the Park before looking back to see whether I was followed. I wasn't - phew! What a relief!

But I was still shaken by the experience. And that wasn't the first time either. Elsewhere in the City, I was stopped by a beautiful-looking black female, perhaps in her late twenties or early thirties. She then begged for a couple of dollars by telling a sob story. On that occasion, I gave in and handed her some cash. When I quickly turned to look back, she had vanished, and even looking down the street, she had gone.

This kind of aggressive begging, I learned, exists in America and it was quite different from the British equivalent. The latter just sits there under a shop window and holds out his hand. Hardly a word was said. When on my travels, the worst label I could wear, whether in New York, San Diego or even in Jerusalem - especially on my first visit there in 1976 - was the word Tourist. It was like having the word tattooed in big letters across my forehead - Beggars and profiteers welcome. I have the cash to give away.

I arrived at Turtle Pond, and I was immediately impressed with the grey brickwork of the fake historical Belvedere Castle on the edge of the pond. When I entered to get a view of the park from the top, I had a splendid view of the pond backed by the Great Lawn. To think that in bygone years, Turtle Pond, the Great Lawn, and The Reservoir were all one big lake in the centre of the Park - the Croton Reservoir. In 1998, the castle's interior looked to be a weather station for New York.

Belvedere Castle offered an edifice which contrasted favourably with the featureless blocks surrounding the park. Indeed modern, it gave a taste of Medieval history amid a busy, bustling city. As far as I'm aware, the castle has never served in any defence exercises, nor was it meant to, unlike Castle Clinton, now a National Monument in Battery Park. Castle Clinton was built to defend New York against any British invasion following independence. But the British never arrived to invade, hence, the historic structure never served the purpose for which it was built. Instead, it became a popular tourist site.

Further on, I walked through the trails of the Ramble until I came across another pond. Simply known as The Lake, it had a footbridge at its narrowest point, giving me access to the southern section of the Park.  After passing through Sheep Meadow, I finally arrived at the exit at 59th Street not long before it began to get dark.

A Visit to the Statue of Liberty.

It was on another day that I stood at Liberty Island after taking a subway train to Battery Park. While I sat on the train, I was thinking of 1978. That was my last visit to the Statue, having not visited it in 1995. I recall alighting at Bowling Green Station near the southern tip of Manhatten, walking to where the ferry departs, and boarding the boat for Liberty Island. As I made my way to the inside of her head, it was so hot, that I was soaked in my own sweat. And the views? There weren't any, not from inside her head, anyway.

All that was in 1978, my first visit to New York.

On this trip, twenty years later, again I boarded the ferry from the same moorings as in 1978. I looked back at Manhatten with its prominent twin towers of the World Trade Center, each tower looking remarkably like giant cigarette lighters dominating the whole city. I had thoughts of revisiting the rooftop lookout - like I did in 1978. But having a greater curiosity about the Empire State Building, I decided this time to give the World Trade Center a miss. So far, I hadn't yet ascended what was once the tallest building in New York, possibly in the whole world until the Sears Building (now the Willis Tower) in Chicago was completed in 1974.

With my interest in the Empire State Building, in 1998, I thought of giving the World Trade Center a miss this time. Since 2001, I deeply regret that decision. After 9/11, the Twin Towers are no longer there for visiting. The only memory to hang on to for the rest of my life is 1978.

The ferry approached Liberty Island and sailed past it to dock on the far side from Manhatten. After disembarkment, I found out that the Statue was no longer open to the public during the summer. I had a personal chat with one of the stewardesses. Her explanation was that the inside of her copper head gets so hot, that after climbing the spiral stairs, visitors were known to pass out, faint, or show symptoms of heatstroke, with some ending in hospital. Hence, the decision was made to close down the statue for visitors during the summer. I understood, and there was no hint of disappointment. When I was inside her head in 1978, I was so hot, that sweat poured out of my skin. But as I was approaching my 26th birthday, I was young and healthy. Therefore, along with the excitement of just arriving in New York from London and spending my first night in a bug-ridden hotel, I suffered no side effects from the stifling heat.

Yet the view from the island was a mix of an expanse of water backed by the city skyline of Manhatten with the two giant fingers of the World Trade Center, more than two km across the estuary, dominating the horizon. Furthermore, although we tend to associate the Statue of Liberty with New York, it's actually in New Jersey, having crossed the boundary between the two States during the 2 km sailing. This was also a time to take in the scenery and reflect. How fortunate to make the decision to fly to New York to properly explore the city and its environs rather than be forced to hear our next-door neighbours shout their cheers as England scores another goal in the FIFA World Cup Final.

Other venues I visited were at the Financial Center. This included the New York Stock Exchange, and this building, fronted by Roman columns topped with a pediment, was open to visitors using a balcony separate from the trading room below, but offering a splendid view of the trading that was easily recognised from its frequent appearances in the BBC News bulletins throughout the sixties, seventies and eighties. Although this was not my world, nevertheless, I was intrigued by the hectic atmosphere of the venue filled with men in their business suits, along with the price of shares and stocks passing from one to the other while clusters of computer screens hung from the ceiling. Unfortunately, photography inside the Stock Exchange was forbidden.

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Next Week: The Empire State Building and the Botanical Gardens.

Copse near the northern end of Central Park.

Harlem Meer.

J. Kennedy Onassis Reservoir.

Turtle Pond.

Belvedere Castle.

Posing at Belvedere Castle.

View of the Great Lawn from Belvedere Castle.

In the Ramble.

The Ramble.

Sheep Meadow

Sailing to Liberty Island, Manhattan 1998.

Crossing the 2 km Strait to Liberty Island.

Approaching Liberty Island.

We sail past the island before docking in.

She stands majestic.

In 1978, aged 25, I stood inside the statue's head...

But in 1998, all I could do was look across the water.

Travel Biography - Week 109.

The Tale of Two Cities.

All Manhattan photos posted here are from the Broadway Hike, 1998.

Between 1997 and 1998, I visited two major cities. The two couldn't be more different, yet the principle for survival remains the same - the struggle for survival and the means for living at a given location, including stiff competition and even conflict among its inhabitants. Both have their share of aesthetics, yet they also have their share of danger. Yet, each remains suited to its environment, and I, as a visitor, was delighted to see both. 

I'm making a comparison between the Great Barrier Reef and New York City. Both are established settlements.

However, the reasons for visiting these two venues were also different. I visited the Reef simply because it was there and I had easy access to it. After my first visit to Green Island Coral Cay, I became an enthusiastic convert. By contrast, my initial reason for visiting New York City was to escape from the possibility of England winning the 1998 FIFA World Cup football. For the record, one afternoon, I was walking through Greenwich Village, and from a window of a tenement, someone was shouting loud cheers across the street. I knew what the commotion was about, so I looked up and called out, Who won the Cup?

France was his answer, after defeating Brazil by 3 goals to nil. I shouted my thanks to him, feeling relieved that it was all over, and the trophy was to remain in the host country rather than cross the Channel to England.

A view of Amsterdam Avenue from the Hostel Dorm.

Starting the Broadway Hike near 104th Street.

72nd Street subway Station (right).

Columbus Circle.

How do I think of New York City? Having grown up in London and loved it, I saw some similarities between our home capital city and New York (along with Brussels and Paris). However, since London's geological bedrock is Clay, skyscrapers didn't exist until far more recently, when their foundations penetrated far deeper into the harder rocks beneath the Clay bed. In turn, the geological foundation of New York consists of Gniess, Marble, and Schiss, all three very hard metamorphic rock beds suitable for supporting tall skyscrapers. Hence, the Flatiron Building was the first skyscraper to go up, followed by the Chrysler Tower in the 1930s, then overtaken by the Empire State Building, and eventually the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center, the second at the time in world height to the Sears Building in Chicago. 

This was my fourth visit to New York, after twice in 1978 and once in 1995. All three visits lasted no more than a day, although, in 1978, I stopped in New York twice on the same backpacking trip, the first time after arriving from London Gatwick, and the second stop a month later on the same day after a long bus ride from Miami Beach in Florida, before heading to the airport to fly back home. It was during this second, end-of-holiday visit that I stood on the rooftop overlook of one of the twin towers of the World Trade Center.

What's my opinion of New York? I liked the city very much. Although busy with traffic and urban, with many of its buildings looking blocky and lacking aesthetics, there were some natural areas without the need for a long journey to reach. Indeed, Central Park, known as the lung of the city, has its own natural beauty and is man-made. However, in the Bronx, north of Manhatten, the New York Botanical Gardens features the original forest that once covered the whole of Manhatten Island before the arrival of European settlers. However, for anyone into ancient history, New York is not the place to be. Even in London, there are remains of Roman ruins dating back to AD 47, along with the Tower of London which was completed by William the Conquerer in 1078. But even London pales in contrast with the Italian city of Siracusa with its ancient Greek ruins, and Jerusalem in Israel, dating back to Canaanite times, approximately 2,000 BC. Having visited all these sites around the world, no wonder that I feel there is something positive about independent travel!

Looking back at 8th Avenue from Colombus Circle.

Approaching Times Square.

Times Square.

Flatiron Building.

Hostel Life.

HI-AYH New York City on 103rd Street and Amsterdam Avenue was the largest hostel in the world with 624 beds in 1998. Due to the number of backpackers using it, it was almost like a small town in itself. Despite its population size, I didn't make any friends while I was staying there. Each kept himself to himself or within his group. The dormitory was fine, but what I found shocking was the member's kitchen. For the size of the hostel, the kitchen was tiny, and although it was stocked with cooking utensils, there were no cutlery, dinner plates, or cereal bowls. Although there was a large dining room adjoining the kitchen, it was, for some reason, closed and out of service. Thus I had to eat in the kitchen.

I managed to get hold of some plastic cutlery, but for the evening meal, I literally had to eat out of the frying pan, and breakfast out of a mixing bowl. Furthermore, I was one of very few, if any members, who used the kitchen for preparing and eating meals. It became obvious to me that New York wanted us all to sample their many restaurants, coffee bars, and eateries. And I visited coffee bars and eateries during the day, but stuck with self-made meals for breakfast and supper, as sticking with life on a shoestring.

New York Rapid Transit.

Throughout the nine days I spent in the city, I became more familiar with the Rapid Transit system, or the subway. The entrance to a subway station from the street is quite different from the shop-like entrance in London. In New York, the entrance is little more than a square hole in the sidewalk, with steps leading to the ticket hall underground. The subway consists of several underground railways patterned after the London Underground. But instead of each line having a name, such as the Picadilly, Northern, Central and District Lines that characterise the London system, New York lines are simply 1, 2, 3, etc, and A, B, C, etc. Hence, to get to 103rd Street from the airport, I took a train on Line A, which was a direct route between the two points. But for 42nd Street and Times Square, as well as to Battery Park, I used Lines 1 and 2, Line 1 trains were non-stop after 103rd Street to 42nd Street, while those on Line 2 stopped at all the other stations in between. One interchange station I became acquainted with was Columbus Circle on the southwestern corner of Central Park. It linked Line 2 with Lines A, C, B, and D, while the trains of Line 1 passed through fast without stopping.

As for the fares, the single price remains stable regardless of the distance covered, unlike that of Transport for London, whose fares increase with the length of distance covered. Hence, I was able to buy a small canister of tokens. Each of these was about the size and weight of a pound coin, and when I fed one into the barrier, a small sign lit with the word Go, and the gate opened. These canisters were on sale at all stations and newsagents. This does make me wonder: If the Rapid Transit system in New York was able to apply one fare for all journeys and apparently do well, why can't the Brits adopt the same idea? 

Union Square backed by the Consolidation Edison Bdg.

City Hall Building.

Memorial, Union Square.

Castle Clinton National Monument. 

Castle Clinton National Monument, Interior.

The Broadway Hike.

On one of the days I spent in New York, I wanted to try the Broadway Hike. Normally, this begins at Harlem and ends at Battery Park. But where I started was short of Harlem, at 104th Street. According to Google Maps, the hike is 7.2 miles long, but aware of the starting location, after reaching Castle Clinton National Monument, I carried on with the hike, making my way to the start of Brooklyn Bridge, and as I walked along the elevated boardwalk, I crossed the East River to Brooklyn. One of the first buildings I saw after crossing over was the Watchtower Headquarters, the source of all Jehovah's Witness governance and literature. Its huge Watchtower sign faced directly towards Manhatten, and I believe, it was lit up at night. (For the record, the Headquarters has since moved to a modernised facility in Tuxedo Park, close to the border with New Jersey.) In all, the hike, which lasted the best part of the day, was around nine miles, a tad shorter than the Bright Angel hike into the Grand Canyon.

To get to the start of the hike, I walked along 104th Street until it intersected with Broadway itself. It was there that I turned left and followed the street until I reached the Financial Centre at the southern tip of the island.

Broadway doesn't comply with the rest of the city's symmetrical grid, instead, it transverses diagonally eastwards. Hence, Columbus Circle is where Broadway intersects with 8th Avenue marking the western edge of Central Park, and 59th Street. As I was crossing the Circle, I literally felt the ground shake very slightly as a fast subway train was passing through directly under where I was walking.

Boardwalk, Brooklyn Bridge.

Montague Street, Brooklyn Heights.

Other landmarks I saw during the hike include 72nd Street subway station, so far the only station with a building instead of a hole in the sidewalk. Then I passed through Times Square - where Broadway intersects with 7th Avenue at 45th Street, although the subway station serving this area was under 42nd Street and it was called that - 42nd Street.

Further down, where Broadway crosses 5th Avenue at 23rd Street, I pass Madison Square Park which was backed by the white stonework of the Metropolitan Life Building. This was followed by the Flatiron Building, New York's first official skyscraper before its height was overtaken by the Chrysler Building. The Broadway then continued on until it crossed 14th Street, where Union Square is located. This open space was backed by another white edifice, the Cosmopolitan Edison Building. Finally, I divert off the Broadway to arrive at Castle Clinton National Monument in Battery Park, on the southern tip of Manhatten.

I turned around to head northeast to the start of the Brooklyn Bridge and crossed the East River until I arrived at Brooklyn itself, and I wandered into town. Although I said that the hike was nine miles long, that didn't include the return walk to Battery Park where I caught the evening train back to 103rd Street Station and a short walk back to the hostel.

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Next Week: A look at Central Park and a boat trip with great significance.

Travel Biography - Week 108

1998 Travel Takes on a New Perspective.

In preparation for this week's blog, I unexpectedly came across some old photos of my 1978 trip to the States, narrated in Weeks 17, 18, and 26 of this Biography, featuring New York. This includes a recently found photo of the road blocked with fire engines and red cars after waking up on the first morning after arrival, as narrated in Week 18. As this week's article was written on the eve of the 2024 European Football Final between England and Spain, I believe this was a good time as ever to narrate about the timeslot after the end of the 1997 Round-the-World to why I flew to New York a year later in 1998 - the latter taking Travel to a whole new perspective. To get to the point: in 1998 I flew to New York to fearfully flee the UK.

How come?

It started in the late eighties. Back then, I got acquainted among fellow churchgoers with a radical Englishman I'll call Keith. His biggest regret was that in 1966, he was abroad on holiday with his family when England won the FIFA World Cup against Germany at Wembley Stadium. Later, after joining the Army, he was discharged before his time, possibly due to incompetence. Since then, he carried a chip on his shoulder from these two incidents. As most of his other friends were graduates, this didn't bode well with his self-esteem, and as a non-graduate myself, I was an ideal target to regard as "inferior in nationality."  

By 1990, when the next World Cup tournament was drawing near, I said the natural thing, considering that my bloodline was 100% Italian, even as a British citizen - I said that I preferred to support Italy, my ancestral home. Apparently, he didn't take that too well. He clung even closer to his support of the England team, and his greatest want was to see England knock out Italy during the tournament, and afterwards, bring home the famous trophy. 

John Bull the iconic Englishman.

The British Bulldog

Keith could have been a true-to-life icon of John Bull, an overweight tradesman sitting at the table and devouring ships from a foreign naval fleet, in this case, a Dutch fleet. The photo above was taken from the cover of Jeremy Paxman's book, The English, a Portrait of a People. Lately, John Bull was replaced by the British Bulldog, drawn with exaggerated body strength, a deep, masculine voice, stoic and devoid of emotion except that of anger should a foreigner arise to challenge him. And that was how a sports reporter from The Sun newspaper depicted the England Cricket team when they won against Pakistan during the early nineties.

It was Keith and another friend, Paul, a graduate, who teased me in 1997, just before I flew out to Singapore for the Round-the-World travel adventure. Keith wanted to see me sit in a Singaporean barber shop at Changa Airport, looking sad and morose as I watched my long hair fall to the floor around me. He knew how much having long hair meant to me. Instead, I returned to Britain with my hair having grown longer throughout the ten weeks I was away. By the time the 1998 tournament drew near, I felt apprehensive. Not so much with Italy knocked out as England making it to the Final and winning.

  Fire engines and red cars, 1978 - Week 18.

At New York City, 1978 - Week 18.

The World Trade Center, 1978.

Football - Christian or another Religion?

Only this week, someone at the morning Zoom prayer meeting declared that Britain is a Christian country. I don't disagree. As England took its place in the coming Final against Spain after defeating the Netherlands, the Dutch press labelled The Three Lions as The Miracle Team utilizing lucky last-minute flukes and penalty shootouts. This has brought me back to my friend Keith. It was during the weeks leading up to one of the World Cup tournaments during the nineties that he spent a week on prayer and fasting for an England win. But after 1966, England never lifted the trophy.

Then one Saturday in 2006, I went out to buy a national newspaper, I believe, The Daily Mail. On its front page, the headline blazed, MAYBE THERE IS A GOD AFTER ALL. The headline was referring to England player Wayne Rooney. As a Forward known for his abundant goal-scoring, he was a key player in the England squad, and the nation depended on this star to bring the trophy home. But a few weeks earlier, he injured his foot, disabling him to play at any game, let alone for England. Then the news came. Rooney's foot began to recover faster than what the doctors predicted. Answered prayers from churches around the nation? God had other ideas. Even with Wayne Rooney on the field, England was knocked out by Portugal in the quarter-finals.

Finally, back to the morning Zoom prayer meeting. It was announced that the Sunday evening prayer meeting held at the church would finish extra early so that the participants could arrive home in time for kick-off. Perhaps this prioritising of a football game over intercessory prayer makes me wish that our zeal for the Lord and for each other was greater than the want for national glory in a football game.

Preparing for New York and Boston Massachusetts.

Hence, by the summer of 1998, I felt an inner panic growing as the tournament grew nearer. I had to admit - I was afraid of Keith. Especially after such a wonderful Round-the-World adventure that might have stirred enough envy in him and in others for me to feel vulnerable. But this feeling of anxiety wasn't from any threat of violence. Neither Keith nor I would ever resort to fighting! Rather, I was afraid of his sense of national superiority, his gloating look, backed by relentless teasing, if England was to make it to the finals. By the time I returned, the dust would have settled.

This time, I didn't make the airline booking at Trailfinders, as I did on my previous two trips. Instead, I called at the YHA shop on Southampton Street, off the Strand, in London. This shop, at present no longer in existence, specialised in hostelling equipment, including clothing and kitchen utensils, as well as books on the Great Outdoors. The shop also featured a travel agent where flight bookings could be made as well as national and international hostel reservations. And this time, I wasn't alone, as I usually was. My friend Tim decided to come to London with me, and together we found the shop and entered.

The flight to New York from Heathrow Airport and the return from Boston to London Gatwick was offered by Virgin Airlines, with two different sites each for take-off and landing inflated the price to nearer £300 for a return ticket. I went ahead and purchased it, despite even Tim gasping at the expense. As for the hostel, a bed was reserved for me at the HI AYH New York City, with as many as 624 beds, thus the largest youth hostel in the world. Indeed, I was relieved not to stay at that seedy, bug-ridden hotel on 8th Avenue, like I did in both 1978 and 1995.

As the tournament drew near, so did tensions. As already mentioned a week previously, I was very discreetly but constantly watched by a young female teenager without becoming aware of her. So, this continued since before I took off for Singapore in 1997. However, my mind was on New York and Boston. And also in the 1998 FIFA World Cup, held in France, the host country.

However, as the football tournament progressed, England was knocked out at the Round of 16 by Argentina and didn't even make it to the quarter-finals. Damn it! I hadn't even taken off for New York, the airline tickets were fresh in my hand and still unused, and the Three Lions were already out of the tournament. Had my anxieties over Keith led me to act in vain? Did I still want to fly across the Atlantic to the Big Apple?

For a moment, I did have mixed feelings. There was a moment when I regretted buying those tickets. After all, my heart was set for a second Round-the-World adventure, landing in South Africa, Australia, and yes - California - unless there was a fresh alternative for the third stage. I had wished to keep all funding safe until I bought the airline ticket for Cape Town.

Eventually, I pulled myself together. New York and Boston with its Freedom Trail had much to offer to someone like me who wishes to educate himself further and have fun at the same time, especially with the camera. Then again, little did I know that this would be my last trip across the Atlantic ever. Also, the 9/11 disaster hadn't yet occurred. This catastrophe in 2001 would change Travel completely. It goes to show that I was very fortunate to have this window of opportunity, therefore, it was a wonderful privilege to board the transatlantic airline once again.

Approaching the Statue of Liberty, 1978.

View of Manhattan from the Statue of Liberty, 1978.

At the rooftop of the World Trade Center, 1978.

 World Trade Center, 1978 - Week 26.

The day of departure has finally arrived. This time, my neighbour didn't lift me to the station as he did the day before I took off to Singapore. Neither was there a need to spend the night in London. Since the flight was later in the day, I took a bus directly to Heathrow Airport from Bracknell. I arrived in good time to check-in.

The six-hour daytime flight to J.F. Kennedy Airport was smooth with hardly any turbulence. After landing, queuing up to pass through Passport Control, and claiming my rucksack, I went to the subway (underground railway). From the airport, I took a train to alight at 103rd Street Station - a long, pleasant ride directly to my destination from the airport without needing to change trains. Where 103rd Street intersects with Amsterdam Avenue was the hostel, a huge building. I entered to check in for my bed reservation. 

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Next Week: Life in New York.

To read about my visit to New York in 1978, click here.

To read about my visit to the World Trade Center, click here.

Travel Biography - Week 107.

Please note: This week's blog contains pics of the Great Barrier Reef, and is not directly related to the content of the article.

Santa Monica - the final day.

As all good things must end, the 1997 Round-the-World would follow suit. While I was checking out Malibu, waves of sadness came and went, as I had one more night at the AYH Santa Monica. The next day, I didn't have to check out immediately, as the British Airways flight would take off in the late evening. I would land at London Heathrow by midmorning on Wednesday, August 2nd, 1997. Only then, would the Round-the-World be complete, as the name indicates, I finished where I started.

During the 1997 stop at Santa Monica, I didn't take many photos of the area. I was more camera-happy two years earlier on my first visit in 1995. Instead, on this week's blog, I'll be posting photos of what I believe was the brightest highlight of the entire 1997 RTW trip - at the Great Barrier Reef, both at Green Island and Low Isles. I'm aware that you might have seen them before, yet I hope you'll still enjoy the pictures. All of them were taken by me or at my request at the venues.

At Cairns, 1997, heading to the Great Barrier Reef.

Getting ready to snorkel, Low Isles Coral Cay.

Corals, Green Island Coral Cay.

Green Island Corals.

I spent my last day in California within the confines of Santa Monica. This included spending time strolling along the Pier, watching the waves of the Pacific Ocean roll along the wide sandy beach. As I looked out to sea towards the horizon, I was aware of the Queensland coastline directly across the ocean, yet, so far away and so much out of sight and hidden by the curvature of the Earth. Already, my heart was pining to be there, to snorkel over the Great Barrier Reef, to be mesmerised by the diverse aquatic life, the colourful fishes intermingling with the coral polyps. Yet, without a doubt, it was a wonderful privilege to have been there in the first place.

To be back in England with its changeable weather, the return to work cleaning windows of residents whose unique proverb is, the Englishman's Home is his Castle, along with the summing up of our island culture at the foot of a letter sent to me by a friend whilst I was a volunteer in Israel 1994 - You, feeling homesick? For a land of stiff upper lips, white shirts and ties, and no hugging. The letter has long disappeared, but that last line has stuck with me ever since. And so the waves of sadness. And a return to work with all the responsibilities of self-employment. At least that was much better than anticipating submission to a strict or unruly boss. 

Furthermore, the following year was 1998 - World Cup football. AAARGH! That time of the four years when most of my church friends would crowd around the TV cheering England, along with the neighbours whose loud cheer would filter through the wall of my apartment when a goal was scored. Woe betide me if England would ever be matched with Italy - and England wins! I would be a target of teasing and mockery - especially if these supporters had egos inflamed by jealousy over my worldwide travels. I knew that the only solution was to be out of the UK during the Final. In other words, flee the UK for my sanity.

Along with strolling along the pier, the 3rd Street Promenade wasn't far to walk to. This was a pedestrianised street bustling with life as shopping malls lined the street. One mall, in particular, was quite roomy, potted palm trees were everywhere while the ground floor was lined with shops and the overhanging 2nd-floor balconies seated restaurant customers. This mall was so huge, so well designed, I wondered why no British architect had ever thought of such aesthetics in the UK. Especially with the installation of palm trees and other subtropical vegetation that would survive well under cover and away from the winter cold outside.

Green Island.

Low Isles Coral Cay.

Low Isles

Low Isles.

The Flight Home.

When evening arrived, I knew that I had to make my way to the LAX International Airport. Having already vacated my hostel bed, my rucksack was kept in safe custody at the reception. Nothing unusual about that, as many who vacated the hostel also headed for the airport. Most flights to Britain and Europe from California were overnight flights. Mine was no exception.

There was a direct local bus service from Santa Monica to the airport without the need to go Downtown. After arrival, I checked in for my flight to London Heathrow without a hitch. Strange as it may seem, the last time I was at this airport, I had just flown in from Sydney and was here when I made the connecting flight to San Diego. The longest flight I had ever taken was immediately followed by the shortest with the connection here in Los Angeles. And now, the British Airways Transatlantic long-haul back to London.

Perhaps surprisingly, I wasn't sad when I boarded the airline. Rather, I was anticipating the journey ahead. I also felt a sense of relief. Throughout the ten weeks I was out of the UK, I never felt ill, although I did have some flu-like symptoms soon after arriving in Singapore. Fortunately, I had enough foresight to pack some Paracetamol before take-off from London Heathrow. The relief the medicine brought indicated that the symptoms were the result of rapid change of climate to my health. As the rucksack was loaded into the luggage hold here in L.A., there was still some Paracetamol left in it. Thank goodness I didn't fall seriously ill or suffer a broken bone in an accident here in California! Indeed, I was insured, but to what extent the cover would have reached had something happened? There are true stories of British tourists forced to sell their homes to pay for the exorbitant price of American healthcare.

As usual, on the plane, I had a window seat. But as it was already getting dark as we took off, I saw virtually nothing, and neither had I wanted to. For example, had we flown over the Grand Canyon, and that was quite a possibility, the view from 35,000 feet might have resulted in mixed emotions. I was better off with the blinds down.

By daybreak, we were served in-flight breakfast before landing. Our plane was already flying over the English countryside in broad daylight before landing at Heathrow. When we alighted, the silence as we walked through the arrivals corridor to Passport Control brought me to the realisation that here in Britain, any chatter and banter wasn't the done thing. I could go as far as to say that the sound of footsteps amidst the silence of stiff upper lips almost turned the air gloopy. Indeed, after ten weeks away, I had to readjust to British life.

Passing through Passport was a breeze, unlike in Cairns and Los Angeles. After collecting my rucksack from the luggage carousel, I made my way to the arrivals lounge from where I waited for a bus direct to Bracknell.

The last part of the journey was so different from the first one. Ten weeks earlier, I took a train from Martins Heron Station to Earls Court where I spent the first night before flying out. On this journey, I didn't go to London. Instead, a direct bus service linked Heathrow Airport to Bracknell.

Low Isles.

Low Isles.

Low Isles

Low Isles

Arrived Home - and it Happens...

Finally, I inserted the key into my apartment door and walked in - into an empty, silent bedsit apartment, originally built for a single occupant. The silence was deafening, as before leaving, I made sure that there was no perishable food left behind. With a stock of canned food ready for use, this allowed me to turn off the refrigerator before departure and shut down the main power. On my return, it was this overwhelming silence that got to me. No more hustle and bustle of life, chatter and banter every time I entered a hostel. No more preparing meals in the company of others, starting conversations and turning strangers into acquaintances, even friendships. No more looking at different things causing my eyes to pop in wonder in such a far away, unfamiliar environment. Instead, the familiarity of home was something I had to adjust to - even if gradually.

I felt my emotions plunge to unfathomable depths. A classic case of post-holiday blues. The emotion almost paralysed me for a while as I found myself unable to move and make decisions.

After turning on the power and the fridge, the gentle purring of the motor helped me to start thinking. I had a stack of undeveloped films waiting to be processed. But that could wait until the next day. Ready to go out to work? No, not at all! I had a further four days of respite before I was good to lift the ladders. I needed those days of respite to pull myself together.

Post-holiday blues. The longer the vacation, the deeper the depression felt after it's all over. I have even read that at the time, Trailfinders, the travel agent in London where I bought my airline tickets, was operating a post-holiday counselling service, a therapy session for distressed backpackers to get back to their daily routines. Indeed, this was something I needed. But instead of a trip to London to talk to a stranger, much closer to home there lives a Christian couple, Tim and Sharon, personal friends of mine. I called them over the phone. Sharon answered, and when she heard that it was me who just arrived back, she invited me to her home.

I arrived at their home after a short cycle ride. I was greeted warmly by both Tim and Sharon. We spent the evening together as I shared my adventures. I was in far better spirits by the time I arrived back home. With the hundreds of photos I still had to deal with, it didn't take long to adapt to normal living.

Low Isles

Low Isles.

However, the long-term effect of the RTW lasted months, even years. And these are in the form of dreams. All these dreams featured Heathrow Airport. One dream saw me standing outside the departure terminal in the warm sunshine but unable to enter the building. Another dream was that I was in a vehicle on the motorway, and I felt my emotions tighten as we drove fast past the airport. But a third dream had the greatest effect, as I remember well.

I dreamt that it was three years after I landed at Heathrow (hence the year 2000). And I was back there, this time with both Dad and his older brother. We were at Heathrow to welcome a relative who was about to arrive. Uncle was very authoritative, and he looked at me as if I was a mischievous child. Indeed, both towered over me as if I had rejuvenated back to adolescence, yet retained every memory of my 1997 Round-the-World adventure. On our way to the airport, I saw the Earls Court hostel where I spent the first night. That alone crushed my feelings, wishing that I could go back in time and re-live those glorious experiences without these two pesky adults at my side.

But more was to follow. The three of us entered the departure lounge, and I saw the same checking-in desks, the same facilities I used three years earlier, but held in restraint by my uncle. Three years earlier, I was there on my own, preparing to fly to Singapore. Now, I'm told to behave and wait with them for the arrival of the relative - whom I never saw, as I woke up just then. But the details of that dream have stuck to this day.

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But there was one issue which, at the time, I knew nothing about. Even before I took off to Singapore, someone had noticed me and began to watch me from a distance. A young, fiery spitfire of a teenage girl, a tomboy, had her discreet eyes on me. She attended the same church I was attending, with her older sister and her parents. Indeed, this fast, sleek speedboat had her eyes on a slow, creaking ship.

Could she change my destiny?

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Next Week: The 1998 World Cup Football Tournament sends me to the Airport.