Goodbye, Columbus

In the second part of her travelogue, Fayza Hassan pursues chimeras down New York's glittering streets
New York always excited my curiosity, as well as my apprehension. In the early 1960s, all the young men in my graduating class were thinking of emigrating. Robert did not talk about it, but one day quietly left for New York, where apparently he did quite well. The news of his success made more than a few rather envious. Then we heard that he had been shot point blank in his own apartment. He had ordered pizza and when the doorbell rang, instead of his dinner, had received a bullet in the heart. A case of mistaken identity. It happened all the time in New York, people said.
Now, however, New York advertises itself as the safest place in the United States, courtesy of Rudy Giuliani. But is it? Not long after we left, a tourist bus was shot at, and I took notice, even though the media made light of it. The culprit, to my knowledge, has never been apprehended. I shudder to think that we would have taken one of the double-decker open buses if we had only had the time.
Another image superimposed itself on that of poor Robert slumped on the landing of his Park Avenue apartment: that of a huge African American, dashing down Broadway Avenue on roller-skates, clad only in a leopard-print bikini bottom, his torso, arms and legs shining under a coat of Vaseline. He had been described vividly by a friend back from New York many years ago, but I had never forgotten her account: As he whizzed in and out of traffic, the man made obscene gestures and hollered insults to no one in particular. The city is full of weirdoes, she had added with the superior air of someone who was used to them.
As we headed on foot towards all the boutiques and department stores my daughters could think of, I looked around at the peaceful scene. Couples were hugging, fat girls and boys were window-shopping while tucking into huge sandwiches and oversized pretzels, senior citizens were walking their dogs and the only roller skaters that I sighted during my entire stay were young kids on a rather quiet street in the Village. Reassuring, and a bit pedestrian maybe. Surely there were more exciting spots just around the corner.
Greenwich Village had figured prominently in many of my readings; on the plane, I had started Philip Roth's I Married a Communist and mentally followed Eve Frame from Broadway to the Village, where she owned a fabulous townhouse set in a large garden. I wondered if I could locate the place on West Eleventh Street.
I had envisioned winding streets lined with bougainvillea creepers, little cafés on footpaths crowded with potted flowering plants, and townhouses graced with leafy front yards. There could also be an old church overlooking a little piazza that featured a fountain. I was hoping that we would eventually have lunch there. "We will," my daughters said, their mind on rearranging the numerous bags they were carrying by now. I had my share too, including a few books I had picked up at Barnes and Noble, and the burden was becoming rather unwieldy. My grandson, bored out of his little mind by our shopping spree, was dragging his feet. Finally we stopped at a sort of delicatessen in the vicinity of an aesthetically pleasing building announcing that it was the Guggenheim Museum Annex. My older daughter turned to me. "Look at this building carefully," she advised, "because this is all you will have time to see of the Guggenheim."
"But this is only the annex; I want to see the real thing, and I also want to go to the Village," I said rather plaintively, not so much because of my craving for art but because my feet were killing me. "Well," said my daughter briskly, "there is just so much we can do. Incidentally, you are in the Village." That surprised me, and at first I did not believe her. A quick search in my guide confirmed her assertion, however. The streets were barely different from others in Manhattan; narrower, perhaps, and the smaller buildings displayed funny metal stairs on their façades, the fire exits. Why was it called the Village?
Huge baskets of fruit were placed at the entrance of the deli. One was filled with "donut" peaches, which I was seeing for the first time. I found them unattractive. Someone should tell the genetic engineers that round fruit is always more appetizing, I thought vaguely, wondering when I could decently remove my shoes for just a short while. There were no tables or chairs, and people were having their drinks at the counter. I consoled myself by ordering one of the delicious latte concoctions for which I had acquired a taste at the various Starbucks stops we had made the day before. El Greco in Maadi is the only coffee shop that serves a beverage close to the New York latte, and gets the proportion between the strong coffee and the milk right. I like it less, however, maybe just because it is available all year round and therefore lacks the exotic quality of being drunk in New York.
Finally we were shopped out for the day and it was time to do something for my by then sulky grandson. We hailed two taxis to avoid problems and headed toward the docks of the Staten Island ferry. We looked for a ticket booth, but were told that the ride was free. We boarded the ferry and sat outside to feel the cool breeze. We watched the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island and Coney Island profiled in the sunset. I asked my grandson if he knew how the Statue of Liberty had been transported to Bedloe's (now Liberty) Island. He had no idea what I was talking about and when I told him that the statue had spent some time in Paris, and might never have made it to America due to lack of funds, he looked up, puzzled. I thought that I would do the grandmotherly thing and try to turn his attention for a few minutes away from his computer game that his mother carries around in her handbag for him in case he gets bored. Liberty, I told him, was built in Paris by a young artist named Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi, who with a group of friends admired the freedom that American democracy accorded the American people at the end of the Civil War. At the time, the French considered themselves oppressed under the rule of Napoleon III and wanted to make a gesture that would show their admiration for a great new country, and at the same time express their dismay at what was happening to theirs.
Bartholdi made many drawings of the statue and, when he was satisfied with the result, he took his sketches to America on a fund-raising mission, while his friend Edouard René Lefebvre de Laboulaye tried to raise money in Paris. Neither man was terribly successful at first: the French failed to warm to the idea of offering a present to the Americans, and the Americans themselves considered the enterprise a game for the rich. What would the use of the statue be, they asked?
As Bartholdi entered New York harbour, he sighted the ideal location for his classical goddess, shown in his sketches carrying a tablet of law inscribed with the date of the American Declaration of Independence in her left hand, crowned with seven rays signifying the seven continents and seven seas, and holding a torch covered with a sheet of pure gold in her extended right arm. The broken shackles of oppression lay at her feet. Bedloe's Island, inside the narrows of New York Harbour, was known as the site of Fort Wood, a star-shaped masonry fortification that was no longer in use. Bartholdi decided that the fort would make an ideal frame for the foundation of the statue's pedestal.
It was only ten years after the project was conceived that the Union Franco-Americaine was formed and began serious fund-raising efforts for the work to start. The statue began to take shape in the workshop of Gaget, Gauthier and Company, chosen because of the reputation of its artisans, who had completed the metalwork and roof sculpture of Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris. The task was daunting, because of the gigantic size of the final sculpture (151 feet), entirely made of the finest, almost pure, bronze. The central pylon that supported the frame was built according to a system invented by Gustave Eiffel, of the famous tower.
The statue was built in sections, which were moved out of the workshop as they were completed and for ten years, Parisians frequently came to watch the progress and sometimes buy a ticket to see inside the head or climb the spiral stairs of the support structure of the colossal statue. Finally, on 4 July 1884, Liberty was ready. Magnificent ceremonies marked the presentation of the deed from the people of France to the people of America. Unfortunately Laboulaye had died the year before and his successor to the presidency of the Union Franco-Americaine, Ferdinand de Lesseps, builder of the Suez Canal, formally presented the deed to American Minister Levi Morton.
More problems awaited Liberty, though: there was not enough money to disassemble her, crate her and send her on her journey to New York. This is when the publisher of the New York World, Joseph Pulitzer, intervened. He promised to publish in his newspaper the name of each donor, no matter how small the contribution. The pennies and dimes rolled in. Farmers contributed a dozen eggs or a couple of chickens. In just five months, Pulitzer's appeal to the people had raised the needed $100,000.
The little boy had listen politely to my monologue. He waited a full minute, because he is always careful not to offend, then turned to his mother: "When are we going to FAO Schwarz?" he asked.
We did not leave the ferry, and it turned around taking us back to where it had taken us. I was grateful for the time spent off my feet, but as soon as we docked, we dashed back to Manhattan to catch the famous toyshop before it closed. The huge animals on display were a disappointment to everyone except me. I adore stuffed animals and I was the one my family had to drag out of the store. My grandson was still not happy. He had not found the skateboard he coveted, and which I had promised to buy him.
We returned to the hotel for a quick shower, but I left the group at the door and headed towards the Pulitzer Fountain. From afar, I had found the composition extremely graceful and I wanted to see more of it.
Joseph Pulitzer, who died in 1911, had bequeathed $50,000 to the city "for the erection of a fountain... preferably at or near the Plaza entrance at Fifty-Ninth Street." The open area in front of the hotel had consequently been redesigned, according to the City Beautiful movement's suggestion, into a square loosely resembling the Place de la Concorde in Paris: two semi-circular islands, featuring the Sherman Monument on one end and the fountain on the other. Work began in 1914 and the Sherman statue had to be realigned to fit into the overall symmetrical design. Karl Bitter was commissioned to fashion an allegorical female figure to top the fountain and he began work on a statue of Pomona, Roman goddess of abundance, but died after completing a two-foot model. The final work, in bronze, and titled Abundance, was finished by his two assistants, Karl Gruppe and Isidore Konti, and officially dedicated in May 1916. The original balustrades and Doric columns were removed during a renovation in the 1930s.
After a scrumptious dinner at Foley's Fish House, my younger daughter announced that she was going dancing with her friends. The rest of us were left to think up an evening occupation. It was decided that walking up and down Times Square and looking at the huge illuminated billboards would make my grandchildren happy.
I silently cursed my unfortunate choice of footwear (the high-heeled mules), but followed along, gritting my teeth behind a docile smile.
The place was teeming with people speaking every language imaginable -- including English, albeit more often than not with an exotic accent. The revolving billboards were making me slightly giddy, unless of course it was the excess of seafood I had indulged in with such abandon. From the corner of my eyes, I examined the plate-glass windows for a shoe shop that featured flat sandals. There was none, but suddenly my daughter stopped. "Do you mind?" she asked, and, without waiting for my answer, pushed the children up an escalator inside a narrow passage.
At the top, the music was blaring, the lights were blinking disco style, and the noise was deafening. "Where are we?" I asked, bemused. "This is a game arcade," said my daughter. "The children will have fun, we will have coffee and you will be able to rest your acheing feet. Don't think that I didn't see you limping," she added with a chuckle. The children had a wonderful time and although the coffee was weak and the conversation over the din impossible, I was quite grateful for the break.
"Tomorrow is our last day," said my daughter. "Everyone is allowed one wish. The children want to go to the Empire State Building. You can go book-hunting during that time." I suffer from acute vertigo, and the Empire State Building was certainly not my idea of a fitting finale, so I readily agreed to the plan, but said that I wanted to go to Bergdorf Goodman as well. "Why?" asked my daughter, "you won't be able to buy anything there; it is as expensive as Saks." She, on the other hand, wanted to go to Barney's, which she described as very much within our means.
The reason why I wanted to visit Bergdorf Goodman had nothing to do with their beautifully tailored suits or the fact that they carry brands of skin care like La Mer and La Prairie. I tend to prefer caviar in my plate rather than on my face. I wanted to see the place because it had been built where once stood the mansion of Cornelius Vanderbilt II, modeled after a French chateau. I had seen a picture of the impressive mansion in At the Plaza, an Illustrated History of the World's Most Famous Hotel, by Curtis Cathje (New York, 2000) that I had just acquired. The house had been demolished in 1927 and replaced by the chic department store.
Both Bergdorf Goodman and Barney's were rather disappointing. None of us dressed in that elegant classic style, and none of us was prepared to part with $1,000 just to acquire a single suit. But at least we had seen the sights and, satisfied, we checked out of the hotel on our way to JFK and to Florida -- where more shopping and more culinary delights awaited us.
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