#1 A day in New York City

Yesterday I went for a walk through New York City. Now I feel like an outlaw just for saying it, but it felt great. I didn’t tell anybody. I woke up early and closed the door carefully, to avoid all those “if you think that’s appropriate…” looks from my roommates. It was a perfectly normal stroll except for one thing: that city I was walking through was not New York City. New York has crowded sidewalks and collapsed streets, where you must fight your way through. New York roars. This city I was walking through yesterday was empty. Not all-non-essential-travel empty, but zombie-apocalypse empty, everyone-went-in-a-party-you’re-not-invited-to empty. Not a soul. It was disturbingly silent. It didn’t even smell funny.

I started by doing something I always wanted to do: feeding the ducks of Central Park. I realize this is something I could have done before anyways, but I didn’t want people to think that I’m one of those people who feed the ducks in Central Park. In the absence of humans, ducks had begun to resume their natural ways and were sitting around a table discussing social constructivism. I started throwing them pieces of bread. They looked puzzled. One of them said that bread crumbs were a mechanism of human oppression and therefore should be rejected. Some ducks quacked in agreement. Another pointed out that, if anything, bread crumbs should be resignified as a symbol of duck empowerment. Plus, it added, these ones were whole wheat. I threw the rest of the bread and left. I never thought it would be so difficult.

From the Park I went straight down to the Morgan Library. I have been there a few times, but now, for the first time, I found it unguarded. I went straight to steal a 13th century Gaelic Bible that had interested me a lot last time. As I had imagined, hidden inside there was an old Playboy magazine. At least, it was also written in Gaelic, where all talk is dirty talk, and orgasms last twice as long. Then I thought that, being already there, alone, I would be mad not to seize the rare opportunity to be extremely annoying in a public library. I started by whispering just a little bit too loud, then repeatedly blowing my nose, sneezing unprotected (!). Then, I started singing. First, traditional gaelic love songs like Mo Shoraidh Leis Na Fuar-Bheannan. Then, I switched to modern classics of the kind of Double Dropping Yokes with Eamon de Valera. Then, as is traditional in Ireland, all the lyrics became insults. At this point even I thought it was a bit too much, since Morgan’s family was, in fact, from Wales. Exhausted, I lit a cigarette and, as I was glancing around the room, I spotted two gigantic pictures of John Pierpont Morgan looking at me from opposite sides of the room, willing to give up all his well-earned eternity in Heaven for just five minutes of kicking my real ass. I decided to leave, but before I managed to make a couple of pictures with flash.

Next, it was the Chrysler Building. I went up to my office in the 44th floor, although I was very careful not to get any work done by accident. The doors were open, and nobody was there, but in that it was no different from any Tuesday afternoon. The computers were all still in place, unfortunately there was no sign of toilet paper. I only had gone there to check if the avocado I had left ripening in the fridge was still there (it was), but I also served myself a cup of coffee and went to look at Downtown Manhattan from the boss’ window. I opened it and stared at the city. No cars, no construction work, no gossip or screaming. Just lonely skyscrapers and a flock of ducks discussing Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain. I didn’t want any spoilers, so I closed the window and set off.

Then I went to the river, and southwards through the High Lane park. There were no people in it, but it was still somehow full of runners. It took me almost an hour to get to Chelsea Market, where I found all the stores open, but completely abandoned. I made myself three tacos, a lox bagel and opened a bottle of wine. I left myself 10% tip, and later felt awful about it. I think I deserved at least 18%: those tacos where authentic and gentle on my stomach. Thank God, because there still wasn’t any toilet paper.

Before leaving the neighborhood, I broke into the Chelsea Hotel, temple of artistic glories of the past I was tired after lunch, so I enjoyed a siesta on what, very possibly, was the same mattress Leonard Cohen and Janis Joplin shared in a magical night of 1968. Or one bought in the same lot, anyways. Sadly, in the bathroom the only paper I found was an unfinished psychedelic rock version of Amazing Grace.

From there I went up to a phantasmagoric Comedy Cellar. I had to turn a few lights on, get up on stage and try some of my lines. I started with the bit about erudite ducks discussing Freud. Then I went on about how Gaelic sounds as if you were chewing an Englishman’s finger. I even did my whole routine on uncomfortable silences. It was awful. Normally, in those tense situations I look for that random friendly face who’s laughing or is kind enough to fake it. Then I pretend that face represents the whole audience. I found no one to rely on, so I panicked, and cried a bit. Still, it was not my worst night; I just don’t think it was the right audience for those jokes.

I kept going downtown and ended up on Wall Street. I have always wanted to be in the Stock Exchange, so I climbed the stairs, push the door, and went in. It stroked me as very different from TV. More minimalistic. Computers, phones, and screens had disappeared, although some were there, still half looted. They had forgotten to steal the lights though, so I sniffed around and discovered that, even in their darkest hour, these country’s luminaries had managed to solve both the toilet paper shortage and the airline stock crash with one single stroke of genius.

Then, I made my way to the piers to catch the ferry to my last stop: Liberty Island. It was a beautiful trip; I even took a couple of pictures of the skyline. I don’t recall thinking about who was the person driving that ferry, but do you remember who was the person driving the last ferry you took? I thought so. I arrived at the feet of the statue of Lady Liberty and went up, straight to her head. Atop of the 377 steps, I finally found what I was looking for: a fully stocked restroom. Alone in the very crown of America, I looked out the window towards the mass of land and water in front of me, to that city that claimed to be New York City, but didn’t sound, laugh, curse, shine, smell, or feel like New York City.

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