Day 11: Havana to New York, one day in a place they names twice

The last morning in Havana was spent running around trying to spend the last of our CUC, as they can’t be exchanged outside of Cuba. I tried, I really did, but the level of Cuban souvenirs is generally not great for carrying around and bringing back into Australia: too much wood and leather. All of the fridge magnets are either clay or wood: there are so very few metal magnets here. And here is a real kicker: it seems that this is a country that doesn’t do souvenir tea towels. Not one. We thought that there were also no snow globes, too.

One last Havana thought: it seems the touts don’t start work until 9:30am, as I had a good half hour wandering the old town free from shouts of “taxi” etc.

We got to the airport in plenty of time to check out the shopping. It was here, tucked away in one small corner, that we found A Snow Globe. It’s got Hemingway’s picture, but it does say Cuba on it. But no tea towels.

Had a few unnerving moments going through customs, as when I got to the booth, they took my passport, sent me back to the queue, and called someone over. They took me to a different desk, checked all the paperwork, and then I was further escorted to the front of the scanner queue, had my stuff whisked through, and then taken to another desk where I got the full explosive scan, bag search and pat down (btw that whole thing most countries do with same sex patting down, not here, got the full frisk by a female officer, not sure if that’s better or worse).

I guess not speaking much Spanish made the situation a little more unnerving, but from what I’ve heard most security officials in these situations say very little anyway. In the end they worked out what I’ve known for some time, that I’m pretty harmless, and I was allowed to go.

Havana airport tip: the alcohol is more expensive on the other side of immigration. Think of it as duty-full or something. I’d been impressed at how consistently priced the Havana Club Seleciones de Maestros was everywhere: 40CUC. A straight 40CUC everywhere, even in the shops in the front of the departures hall, right until you go through immigration/customs, then it’s 45CUC.

After a very quick goodbye to L (her flight checked in later so she met me right at the gate) it was onto the plane and hasta la vista Havana.

It was a bouncy landing into JFK, but a generally uneventful flight. I did get to watch my sentimental favourite baseball team, the Phillies, narrowly beat Washington thanks to a home run in the final inning. The game was definitely touch and go, the Phillies were looking okay until a pitcher called Hammer went from striking the first batter out to abysmal. If the cabin crew had come past then and asked if they could help, I’d have asked them to get the Phillies a new pitcher. With the scores level and a few tense moments, I mused that I used to have a Phillies cap, lost somewhere in the late 90s I think. I made a mental promise that if the Phillies won, I’d seek out a new cap. Then, lo and behold, a home run in the final inning. I then flicked over to watch some women’s soccer (two late goals made for an exciting game) before flicking between the men’s soccer and the men’s Wimbledon final (neither game had finished by the time we landed).

 Cleared customs fairly easily, as it was almost all electronic: passport down, scan fingers, take picture, touchscreen questionnaire, and then a couple of quick questions by a customs officer. Got luggage okay and then I was in the US, again. Landed at Terminal 5, and made my way to luggage storage at Terminal 4 as I’m just daypacking NYC (prepacked change of clothes, laptop, essentials).

As it was Sunday, it seemed like a good idea to take the Long Island Railroad (LIRR) to Penn Station, and subway to my hotel from there. It’s cheaper on Sundays. After taking the airtrain to Jamaica station, and navigating the confusing system they have (you have to buy a $5 ticket just to leave the station). Then the LIRR ticket machines are almost impossible to find, tucked away to one side and poorly signposted. And then the electronic platform signs were wrong: it clearly said that platform 1 was going to Penn Station. But it didn’t.

It dropped me off at some god-forsaken hell-hole, where there was a sign supposedly pointing me in the direction of the subway, but the directions were vague at best. I asked some folks when I got to a street, and they looked blank before pointing me 50 metres down the road where I was able to at least get a 7 Train to Manhattan, and a helpful person there took me through how to do the Metrocard thing. At least the subway has free wifi at the stations, so I was able to confirm where I had to go and fortunately the express train I hopped on was stopping close by.

When I got to JFK there were big signs saying how the LIRR was the “fastest” way to get to Manhattan. LIRR, I will now and forever pronounce your acronym as “liar”. Fuck you I’m taking the subway all the way next time.

Checked into the Paul Hotel on W29th easily, chilled in my room for a few minutes before working out the best place to get at least a fading glimpse of Manhattanhenge: a twice/year phenomenon where the sun sets in a direct line with Manhattan’s West-East grid. The proper best day would have been the 13 July, but it was still pretty cool on the 14th. There were a bunch of people standing in the middle of 32nd Street taking selfies, myself included.

I then spent the evening walking around, walking too far as per usual — Manhattan is bad for me like that, it’s flat, and the short blocks make it too tempting to go just one more block. Grabbed a couple of cheap slices for dinner, before my head hit the pillows of my very nice bed.

Building work starts in Manhattan at 7am. And there was a building site right next door to the hotel. Let’s hear it for New York.

The main reason for coming to NYC was to see the Play It Loud exhibition at The Met (other than I had to transit through anyway and would have a few days somewhere before L and I met up in Poland, so why not?). Play It Loud is an exhibition of awesome musical instruments from the 1940s to present day: stuff like Kate Pierson’s keyboards, Patti Smith’s clarinet, bass guitars from Kim Gordon, Tina Weymouth, John Entwistle, Paul McCartney, guitars from Joan Jett, Wanda Jackson, Eric Clapton, Jimmy Page (including the rather famous Gibson 6/12), Bruce Springsteen, Keith Richards, Eddie van Halen, Elvis, and so many more (including a piece of the one Jimi Hendrix first set fire to then totally trashed at Monterey), drum kits from Ringo Starr, Keith Moon (well parts thereof), Lars Ullrich, Peter Buck’s mandolin, Brian Jones’ dulcimer, and a bunch or other really cool stuff. So, so much really cool stuff.

The Met also had an exhibition of moon photos, it being the 50th anniversary of Michael Collins’ successfully dropping a couple of mates off for lunar playtime while he did bog laps in wait. Cool images, from Galileo’s sketches through the 1850s to the Apollo missions. There is other cool stuff at the Met, too, but to minimise gallery fatigue I kept my visit manageable.

I like how the food carts right out front of The Met are run by marine veterans (I’m quite cynical about the various promotions to send stuff to those currently serving — this is what taxes etc are supposed to do, not private donations) so I went for a hot dog, “New York style” which was lots of lightly sauteed onions, a little cheese, a spicy sauce and ketchup, I think. It tasted fine.

Feeling the urge to pay my respects at The Dakota (i.e. have a moment of silence, take a selfie, and look out for Yoko Ono because if I do ever see her I’d be forced to yell “WHAT THE FUCK!?!?” because, well, because) I took a stroll through Central Park. It’s like they planners decided to do the exact opposite of the NYC street grid by making every path go everywhere except where you want to go. There is a bunch to be said for the occasional straight path. After much studying of the maps dotted throughout the park I ended up at Strawberry Fields, the supposed quiet place where there are no musical instruments, just a mosaic to ponder and reflect upon the natural sounds of the park. Well it turns out that the time I was there, the natural sounds of the park was a pretty ordinary guitar-playing busker who really only knew the choruses to “Hey Jude” and “Here Comes the Sun”, a busker with not even a sense of irony to know that these were two Paul McCartney compositions. So I took a break on a bench, sub-vocalised “Watching the Wheels”, before wandering over to the Dakota, loitering outside the entrance and didn’t even think of Holden Caulfield. There was no Yoko, so I left quietly.

My flight was at 8.55pm, but was aiming to get to JFK to claim my case by 6:16pm (they make it very clear that one minute more incurs a new daily fee). I still had time to get an iced coffee at a cafe with wifi where I started writing this post (and checking the locations of where baseball caps were sold) and take the subway downtown to continue the quest.

Aiming for 34th, I got a train to 42nd and then had to transfer lines. I got to the store on 34th, seeking my elusive replacement Phillies cap. One of the reasons I’d held of replacing this cap was that sometime in the 90s, they went from a royal blue with a red P to a red cap with a white P, and that just didn’t work for me. Watching the game on the flight, I noticed they’ve gone back to a royal blue, with a red brim, and red P, and that’s the one I decided I wanted. Sadly the shop on 34th only had the all red, but after prodding the rather bored staff member, got the suggestion that they might have them at their other store, on 42nd of course. So it was back up to 42nd, where it looked like I was going to hit the same issue until I spotted the right cap. They also had a get a second cap for 1/2 price, so I have a Yankees cap now, too.

With this part of the mission a success, it was just then a case of getting back to JFK. From 42nd and 7th I could easily get the “fastest rail route”, but instead said fuck you to the LIRR and walked the extra long block to 8th to get the blue subway line.

My bad Spanish got one more workout, when I helped give directions on the airtrain to a lady going to terminal “Ocho”. At least I hope I helped, I was getting off at cuatro and as there’s no terminal seis it wasn’t a straight counting job. And I got to the baggage storage with 15 minutes to spare.

Then it was the usual check in, do the customs dance, and go wandering through the terminal. I grabbed a burger before boarding that was pretty good (I can’t remember the name of the place). Then it was onto the big A380 and next stop Frankfurt.

[Coda: as I strolled through JFK on the big screen was the Dodgers-Phillies game. When I looked the Phillies were 1-0 up. I’ve just got wifi in Frankfurt to check the final score: Dodgers 16-2. All because I bought a hat.]