Bagels, Budgeting and Bobby Redford

And so came the rain, although as the weather had been perfect until first thing this morning, I couldn't really complain, especially as I had planned to visit a couple of museums today. I decided to prevent future knee injuries by not going running this morning (long runs followed by a day of walking around pretty much constantly are not, I conclude, a good idea).

Instead I nipped a few blocks up Broadway to Absolute Bagels, reputed to be in the running for the top bagel in the city. I got a poppy bagel with jam and a coffee for grand total of $2.25 — the coffee, naturally, tasted meh but the bagel was really good. 

I also got a lesson in Upper West Side social mores from a regular, who was explaining to other patrons why they shouldn't give money or a bagel to the innocuous-looking homeless guy standing outside ("there are plenty of shelters for them to go to — shelters paid for by me, the tax payer— and I am a compassionate person; I was a social worker for 20 years and I know you just can't give them anything or it makes the problem worse").

By the time I walked the 30 blocks to the American Museum of Natural History, my legs were soaked and my feet were killing, but I do like the AMNH. I've probably been about four or five times now, although on some of those visits, I only went to the space show. $18 admission for the museum and a space show was a little steep even though this was just the student rate. 

But I sure do love planetariums and space shows. The AMNH always has high-profile narrators — I've seen the ones narrated by Tom Hanks and Indiana Jones before and today it was the turn of Robert Redford. It was about "cosmic collisions" or some such but the topic is almost incidental for me — I just love sitting in that huge dome watching the images projected on the roof, while listening to the dulcet tones of the gravelly-voiced narrator du jour. Afterwards, I stopped by the hall of human evolution (they had a section on linguistics! And a special "recent news" exhibit on facial processing, although blatantly they picked the wrong group of researchers...).

Stop #2 on my bargainous food day was to the Au Bon Pain about two blocks from Lehman's — at least this time, I had tactfully switched my weighty tome from Wolfe to Pynchon — where I dined amid the unemployed and other bank workers on a very crispy bacon bagel for $2.29. 

This saving meant that I earned a trip to Grand Central to commuter watch and fantasise about maybe catching a train in or out of there one day (sadly, the destinations are as glamorous as Harlem, New Haven and upstate New York). My favourite NYC purveyor of coffee, Joe, has opened a concession in the terminal so I bought a delicious, artisanal coffee, which cost almost as much as breakfast and lunch combined and which I drank sitting on one of the grand staircases while I wondered whether Clive Owen would show up this time. Sadly, I was stood up again.

The Museum of Modern Art charges the extortionate sum of $20 to get in (it's not even a "suggested admission $15," like the AMNH, although their idea of "suggested" is the same as the now seemingly ubiquitous "optional 12.5% service charge included" in that you don't have to pay but if you're even remotely British, you will never go to the hassle of not paying) but on Friday evenings, it's free for three hours, courtesy of Target. 

I arrived at 4:05 pm, not entirely unsurprised to see that the queue for the free tickets already scaled two and a half sides of the whole block. Luckily, it moved fairly quickly and I was inside in 20 minutes. I had got talking to a girl called Caitlyn, who was visiting from Ottawa with her mother and sister. Unfortunately, I had to give her the slip as she proved to be quite the art buff and was about 30 seconds from realising that I hadn't a clue what I was talking about. I did a 90-minute frog march around the museum, glancing at most things. I'm not a big art fan, although there were definitely some cool things there including some maps of New York-themed utopias.

Incidentally, my holiday budgeting is somewhat entertaining; I'm being careful to spend the minimum amount possible on food and subway so that I can buy more clothes. After all, I will only be hungry for a week but I will wear the clothes for years — months, at least. Anyway, I'm still eating three meals and in places where the food either has a good rep or is very good value — plenty of bagels, custom salads and fruit; I'll catch up on my protein at some other point. The subway is a dumber economy to make, given that each ride costs $2 and my clothes usually cost way more than that. Ah, to be young and contradictory in NYC!

Under the Bridge

Yesterday, I sailed under Brooklyn Bridge, in a boat, and today I went under the third bridge from the bottom of the east side of Manhattan, in a subway. I've been meaning to go to Williamsburg, Brooklyn (or Billyburg/Billburg/Willyburg, as it seems variably to be monikered) for a good couple of years now but the trouble with going to New York so often is that I don't really feel a pressure to do new things because there's always next time. However, one of my goals of this trip is to check some things off my to-do list, while also ensure that I'm not doing them just for the sake of it.

Billyburg is fun, anyway, Bedford Avenue, its main drag, reminiscent of the main drag in Berkeley in many ways with its plethora of independent, studenty cafes and shops stocking urban hipster clothing. I browsed some of the cool boutiques and bookshops before choosing a lunch venue. 

Being a linguist, how could I go anywhere but Verb Cafe? The crowd was way too cool for me, especially as I left my hipster uniform at home (my jeans were, at least, skinny if not black and I did drink black coffee with my bagel). I also decided it was wise to hide my somewhat mainstream book (a satirical account of the life of the headmistress of a snooty Upper East Side private school and a couple of the students) behind my Moleskine.

Back to the West Village for a bit of shopping, before I walked up 9th Avenue, through Chelsea, to Rockefeller Plaza. I've been up to the Top of the Rock before but I wanted to do so at sunset and, having found out the sunset time on Google, I managed to time my visit perfectly so that I got plenty of photos of the Empire State Building and the sunset over Jersey. 

The Top of the Rock is really much better than the ESB, especially at night time as there is no protective glass interfering with one's photos, but my one complaint is that my favourite building — the beautiful Chrysler — is mostly hidden by the inconveniently placed Met Life building so the only photos I got were very blurry. Still, it was amazing to see such a gorgeous pinky-orange sunset, followed by the magical, twinkling fairy lights of Manhattan by night, even if I did end up staying so long that my fingers were freezing cold and mostly numb by the time I eventually yielded my spot on the wall at the top.

The Bridges of Madison County Review

Note to self: when the BFI programme describes a film as "a weepie" it probably isn't sensible to wear eye makeup. Still, the huge, 400-seat screen at the Southbank was pretty empty (especially odd given that the ticket guy told me they had moved the showing from a smaller screen) and mostly populated by lone movie goers, which is always comforting for a lone movie goer. On a Thursday afternoon, a fiver buys you a very comfy seat with plenty of legroom in front of a huge screen to watch the latest instalment of Clint Eastwood season. No ads or trailers either, which is always nice.

The film, of course, was The Bridges of Madison County, the only other Eastwood film I've seen being Play Misty for Me (which is great — a much better, more realistic portrayal of obsession than the similar Fatal Attraction). TBoMC reminded me a lot of Brokeback Mountain, only with Iowa playing the role of stunning, background scenery (certainly not the "featureless sweep of corn" Bill Bryson describes his home state as).

As for the film itself, well, it's always nice to see which accent Meryl Streep will next pull out of her seemingly infinite hat, and her character's Italian accent was pretty spot on and she is warm, funny and spontaneous. Eastwood, meanwhile, was very sexy in a charming, confident, low-key way. 

There isn't much to the plot — '60s Iowa and a lonely housewife is left alone for a week by her family. She helps a lost driver find the eponymous local bridges for a shoot he is doing for National Geographic. They fall in lurve but only have four days until her family returns — oh noes. He asks her to leave her unhappy life behind. She says yes but means no. Big tears happen as she gets a couple more chances to change her mind but knows she can't. She lurves Clint for the rest of her life. She writes it down in a diary for her kids to read after she dies, also commanding them, in her will, to scatter her ashes off one of the bridges, which was where Clint's were scattered. 

But it manages to fill over two hours without dragging. The whole plot is framed by the sub-plot of the then grown-up children receiving the diaries, reading them together, being shocked by their dear mom's second life and then being delighted that they finally got to know her better and applying the lessons mom left them with to their own lives. 

I didn't like the overarching moral sentiment, but what would I know? Some of the script is a bit over-wrought, too — "This kind of certainty comes but once in a lifetime," "I don't want to need you, 'cause I can't have you," etc., some of which being rather reminiscent of Brokeback's "I'll never quit you" (and yes, I know TBoMC came first but I watched it much later) — but overall, 'twas irritatingly moving.

The BFI is a great place to see a movie — so unlike so many of the big cinema chains — and I'm probably going to become a member, as long as I remember to do so before my birthday, when I cease being, by their definition, a young person. With the cafe and "mediatheque" (in which you can watch loads of archived movies and TV shows), it would be easy to spend a whole afternoon there, even without the Slow Food Fest taking place on the Southbank (mmm...churros...).