New York State of mind

I'M IN a yellow cab heading through Queens, utilising every high point on the freeway to try and sneak a glimpse of the Manhattan skyline. It's every bit as big, bad and gorgeous as any movie homage you've seen, glinting glass and steel vertiginous stacks mixing with the traditional stone of a more sedate age. Speeding in a big yellow taxi across the East River into the greatest city in the world, your jet-lag takes a hike.

At East 17th Street I thank the driver, make sure I have all my possessions with me, pay the man and walk up the steps to my hotel. It isn't until I'm standing in what passes for a foyer at my New York dive hotel that I realise I've left a bag in the taxi. I rush out in time to see the rear lights of my cab turn on to one of the avenues and speed away. I trudge back up the stairs.

Hotel 17, in Gramercy Park, sits tight up against the north end of the East Village, and within walking distance of Midtown's tourist attractions. An appearance in Woody Allen's Manhattan Murder Mystery helped add to its seedy reputation - a reputation I am able to confirm as I get into the ancient lift. I remember reading that more people are killed in New York by faulty lifts than guns. Or maybe it was falling masonry. I wonder if Madonna felt as uneasy when she clattered through the floors before being cajoled into stripping down to her underwear for a fashion shoot - another of the hotel's claims to fame. But the best thing about Hotel 17 is that it's cheap. If you don't mind sharing a shower and a toilet and the odd cockroach scuttling around your sink then this place is perfect.

I slump down on my bed. In the corner the television blares its endless litany. There's been a fire in the South Bronx ... some cops are denying firing 48 bullets into a prone suspect ... a celebrity cook is making breakfast down at the Chelsea piers. Judging by the sunlight dancing on the walls I must have slept right through. I'm still fully dressed which at least means that I don't need to get dressed before making the trip down the hall to the shower. There are remnants of jetlag gnawing inside my head, but I figure the city will soon blow them away. I head out on to the street, ravenous.

Over coffee, French toast - with, mysteriously, a light dusting of icing sugar - and eggs, I plan my day. I'm meant to be searching for the spirit of New York but in a city that has a million stories where do I start? Back on the street I look downtown to where the giant towers of the World Trade Centre stand sentry. That's where I'll begin.

Stumbling on the sidewalk I almost bump into a dancing vagrant. He's raking through the bins searching for anything recyclable to put in his already bulging trolley. Malnourished and covered in a layer of grime he's going about his business with more than a little funk. Whatever's going on in his head must have been left there since the last days of disco. Head down to shield my eyes from the bright sun, I scuttle into the shade of 14th street Subway. I take the N train downtown, getting off at Cortland Street. It's not the nearest to the World Trade Centre but that doesn't matter. It's not a building that is easily missed.

Standing at the bottom of the twin towers is just about my favourite thing to do in New York. In spite of my French toast, I grab a chilli dog from one of the vendors, remembering to plan out my order in my head beforehand - the vendors are notorious for their impatience. I grab a seat and watch the city go about its business as the "Lego" block towers stand sentinel reminding everybody, as if they needed reminding, that this place is where it's at. It's almost as good as standing at the top.

What the hell. Finishing off the last of my snack I take the elevator and shoot 1377 feet above the streets. Ignoring the souvenir stands and restaurants I head straight for the viewing platform. And what a view. The island stretches out beneath, the skyscrapers of Wall Street are nothing but a tangle of air conditioning outflows and air ducts belching steam into the crisp morning sky. The winter sun is so low that the shadows of the twin towers appear like arms stretching their welcome to their brothers in the sky, the Midtown skyscrapers.

Past Manhattan, the other five boroughs can be seen through the city's haze. Brooklyn, with its own jumble of skyscrapers, stretching out along Long Island towards the open sea. The Staten Island Ferry, shuffling past the Statue of Liberty, points the way to the least celebrated of the five boroughs. Uptown, all I can make out of the Bronx is a clump of brown high-rise. Queens is where the silver slivers of the planes beneath me are headed.

Back on the street I struggle through the crowds and head up Broadway. As I wait to cross the road I sneak sly glances at the faces around me. I wonder how many nationalities are represented in our little crowd. And why are there more taxis than people? An earbursting yell shatters my peace. "Comin' thru!". The crowd parts and in their place charges a latter-day Moses in the guise of a one- legged man in a wheelchair piled high with blankets, newspapers, pieces of wood on top of which is perched a chihuahua. Across the street he rolls and in a second is gone from sight. Where is he going in such a hurry? Is he a Vietnam veteran whose little Mexican dog provides the love that he needs to keep him from sliding back into a South-East Asian nightmare? What pressing engagements do one-legged men clutching tiny dogs have? Perhaps he's rushing somewhere to relax.

I head across town. Hungry again. It's my birthday today and I want pizza.

Situated on Spring Street just past the junction with Mulberry Street, in the heart of Little Italy, is Lombardi's. Everybody knows the place - it's a New York institution. I take a seat and order a medium margarita. When it arrives I realise my mistake: it's the size of a hubcap on a MAC truck. The attraction for me, however, isn't the food, even though Lombardi's boasts a coal-stoked oven and the pizza is out of this world. No, I'm here for the ambience. The distinctly Goodfellas ambience. Maybe Fat Tony and Pauly are going to walk through the door, all camel coats and barely disguised violence and demand their protection money from a sweating, flour-covered Lombardi. Perhaps young Franco is in the kitchen right now with a rack of stolen fur coats. Perhaps I should leave before I lapse further into Scorsese stereotypes.

Walking down Mulberry Street I spot a shop that looks like it hasn't changed since the Twenties. Dusty windows reveal, only just, a collection of Madonnas. I walk through the door. In the shop's dim half-light I make out an elderly couple, obviously Italian, guarding their treasure trove of Mario Lanza records, Milan football tops, more Madonnas and all manner of implements designed, presumably, to make the daily chores of a Sicilian housewife a little easier. There are sausage-makers, pasta makers, mincers, olive presses and, there on the shelf behind one of the proprietors, a rugged little cheesegrater.

"How much for the cheesegrater?" I ask. I've already noticed that it has a price tag of $10 and I know someone at home who'd just love it.

"It's not for sale," says the wife.

"Eh?"

"It's broken," she says.

"But it's got a price tag on it." I turn to her husband - now I really need this cheesegrater, broken or not. He looks at me as if to say "What is it with the damn cheesegrater?" Maybe this happens quite often.

I try again.

"I can fix it."

"No. Haven't been parts made for this in years," she counters.

"I'll give you 20 bucks," I say.

"No."

I look again at her husband.

"Why don'tcha just let him have it?" he eventually says.

"Nothing on that shelf is for sale," she repeats stonily, apparently oblivious to the fact that everything on the shelf has been priced. Presumably by her, as her husband doesn't look like he's got out his chair since the night Jackie Wilson died over in New Jersey, the last few bars of Lonely Teardrops struggling out of his mouth.

"Please?"

She relents. "Okay, twenny bucks."

Shaking my head I give the old woman $20 and take possession of my cheesegrater. Slightly dazed by the encounter I step out into the brightness of the street.

Clutching my prize and wondering about people who have shops that don't sell anything I head for the East Village. I need a drink.

St Mark's Place is the heart of the East Village. It is New York as you'd expect it to be. Full of punks, skateboarders, techno kids, homeboyz. All the youth tribes are represented - including a few I couldn't even begin to identify. What is with these young cats? How many earrings does it take to be hip these days?

Marvelling at the folly of today's youth I slip into a bar and order a beer. There's a man in the corner who wants the TV turned up, despite the fact that it's already deafening. I grimace at my beer and inspect the cheesegrater. A rapid but noticeable change in atmosphere stirs me from my inspection.

I look up to see a pale girl attempting to flee the bar pursued by one of the young guys who's been playing pool near the back. He grabs her before she can get through the door. He's trying to get her in a headlock. I don't do or say anything. I just watch. She throws a mobile phone at him. He ducks and she's off, out the door and along the street. The man picks up the phone, spits out the word "bitch" and goes back to the pool table.

I ask the barmaid what happened. "He got stung," she says. I look at her quizzically. "She played pool, pretended she liked the guy and then grabbed his mobile. She's a junkie. It's okay, I called the cops." By the time I leave, about 15 minutes later, there's still no sign of the cops. As I walk east I check out the shops. That's why they're taking so long. No cake shops. The NYPD's finest are elsewhere hunting down some doughnuts.

When I get back to my hotel the surly doorman, who has never been known to stray from his fully enclosed cubicle, grunts at me. I judge this to mean that there's a message for me. I'm right. It's a telephone number. I go to my room to phone, remember there's no phone in my room and leave the hotel. I go to the bodega to buy a phonecard. As I stand at the counter I notice an elderly woman staring at me. Forget muggers, I think, it's old women who are the scourge of New York.

"I'm Jewish," she says.

Is she talking to me? I look around. I don't see anybody else here. She must be talking to me.

"I'm sorry, but are you talking to me?"

She looks at me so intently that I wonder what I've done. Maybe she's Scottish. Maybe I know her. Maybe my zip's undone. What could it be? Self-consciously I wipe my nose.

"When's your birthday?" she asks. Now I'm beginning to get freaked out. I look at the guy behind the counter but he either doesn't understand or doesn't care to.

"Today," I reply. Her face creases up like she's trying to do a difficult sum. Which, in fact, she is. "You were born on a Thursday, too," she says, picks up her groceries and shuffles off. I buy my phonecard.

I phone the number I've been given. It's my taxi driver. "Yeah, you left your bag in my cab," he says in a thick Brooklyn accent. Could he drop it off at the hotel? He thought of that, he says, but then decided the hotel looked too flaky. Fair point. I arrange to meet him on the sidewalk outside the hotel in an hour. Before heading back I decide to make another phone call. I call my mum. I'm disappointed to discover that I was born on a Tuesday.

My cabbie is waiting for me by the time I get back to the hotel. I thank him for returning my bag. "No problem," he says. "But watch out, y'know, 'cos New York's kinda f**ked up." I look down at the broken cheesegrater in my hand. I couldn't agree more.

On top of the Empire State Building, with the stunning art deco chrome of the Chrysler building twinkling to my left, and the cab- littered streets beneath me, I have a moment of epiphany. The people on the ground, the people in the cabs, the hordes of psychic, and psychopathic, old ladies. We're all looking for the same thing. It's not the essence of the city that we're striving to find, it's the essence of ourselves, our dreams, our nightmares. That's what New York is. A heightened reality where whoever you are or whoever you want to be is the essence. Whether it's the New York from Mean Streets, On The Town, The Wanderers or Shaft. It's been said before but I have to say it again: New York isn't a place, it's a state of mind.

It really just depends on what films you've seen How to get thereKLM (0870 5074074) fly via Amsterdam from around #402 plus tax. Another good reasonable airline is Icelandair (0171 874 1000) which flies via Reykjavic for around #340 plus tax. It can be expensive to fly right now, so look around for bargains on the net (see below).

Where to stayHotel 17, 225 East 17th Street, New York.

(001 212 475 2845). Singles $70 per night, doubles $85 per night.

Further information [email protected] www.newyork.citysearch.com www.cheapflights.com www.dial-a- flight.com

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