We gave up saying we were married in the place 30 years ago. It produced extreme reactions; either enough "Oh My Gawds" to be blasphemous, or we were met with blank stares while they tried to work out what scam we were on. New Yorkers are used to scams. Outside on the hot street there was a guy begging, rattling a few coins in a paper cup and endlessly chanting that he had done two tours in Vietnam. He looked barely old enough to have been in the Gulf War, but somewhere in his sad life he had picked up the "Homeless Vietnam Veteran Scam" and he was stuck with it.
Ann and myself were married in New York 31 years ago, and we lived there for a year. At that time, I was playing in Brian Friel's Lovers in the Lincoln Centre. This summer I was back playing in the Lincoln Centre Festival, in Friel's version of Uncle Vanya. The three weeks were full of detached nostalgia.
Nowadays, New York looks even more like it does in the movies. At times you wonder which came first. Who is made in whose image? Have New Yorkers seen too many movies about themselves, and are beginning to behave as they were in one? After all, Disneyland has taken over large sections of 42nd Street, and is busily transforming it into what it considers to be a suitable image of the place. Brendan Behan's observation that New York would be a great place when it was finished is as true as ever. New Yorkers are chauvinistic. The rest of the world ceased to exist for a week, because the city had a heat-wave. Any heat-related story made headline news. If aliens had invaded during that time, it might have made the back page, but then only if they could be blamed for the heat. Mind you it was hot, over 100 degrees at times. Record temperatures, they said; the city has never seen anything like it. Yet we seem to remember the same stories 30 years ago. Of course, the heat is a terrible reality to the weakest and poorest citizens. In an uptown apartment an old woman succumbed to the heat. When they found her, her body temperature was 108 degrees.
In spite of the heat, we spent a lot of time walking the streets. The pounding life of the city is as infectious as ever. The streets seem cleaner and safer. To be street-wise in Manhattan, you only need to understand "Walk" and "Don't Walk" at the traffic lights. There is still open hostility between walkers and drivers, each insisting on their rights. It is as if "Walk' and "Don't Walk" were the only two articles of the American Constitution. People switch from Yoga-like serenity into screaming harridans if a foot, or a tyre, dares enter their territory.
But we had forgotten how polite and friendly New Yorkers are. They will take time to give you directions, and smile while they are doing it. If you look at the map in the Subway, someone is sure to ask if they can help. They seem to take pride in knowing their way around the city.
Food and drink are relatively more expensive than we remembered them, but good restaurants and bars still abound. Kennedy's on 57th Street became the Friel Festival Clubhouse. With three of his plays overlapping, after show-time there were more Irish actors in Kennedy's than you would see at an Equity meeting. We also enjoyed Rosie O'Grady's. And then there were the delis and the diners. Of course I renewed my acquaintance with the Ruben sandwich (hot corned beef on rye, with melted cheese, sauerkraut and everything), New York Chowder, and I found a place that did good Chicken Noodle Soup. There are more good Indian restaurants than we remembered, and we enjoyed the Sitar on 56th Street between 6th and 7th. I know there was a heat wave, but all the above were consumed in Arctic air-conditioned premises.
Vegetarian restaurants abound, and we returned a few times to the Great American Health Food, on 57th Street, just east of Fifth Avenue. We enjoyed a picnic in Central Park, just as dusk came on. Local advice told us not to be in the park too long after dark, and we heeded the warning. However, in the gathering darkness of that evening, the fire flies appeared all around us, their brief, spectacular glowing far outdoing the wonder of the city's lights.
Central Park at the weekend is even livelier than before. Nowhere have they invented a greater variety of ways of exercising the human frame.
There is no obligation to take part in it; you can just sit there and do nothing. Nowhere have they invented a greater variety of ways of doing nothing. If you are in New York, take time in Central Park. It's fun, and it's as free as the Staten Island Ferry (another nostalgia trip.)
Of course we did not get around to visiting all the events we had in mind - nothing new about that. We were really impressed with the American Century Exhibition at the Whitney Museum. So many images from 1900-1950 leaping out at you (part two, 1950-2000, opens at the end of September). If you are going to it, give yourself plenty of time. I would recommend getting the high-tech audio unit. It brings the admission price up to $17.50, but is well worth it.
At some stage I renewed my acquaintance with another old friend - the New York gin Martini. This is gin, with the cork of the Martini bottle waved over it, stirred and sieved through ice and served with a couple of olives. It is sharp and sweet, cold and warm, all at the same time. The only difficulty is remembering how many you had.
This behaviour of mine induced the arrival of another old acquaintance - the genuine Manhattan hangover. There is no greater punishment for indiscretion than this head-hopper, as you wonder why New Yorkers love making so much bloody noise. Coupled with the heat, it produces a firm resolve of "Never Again". But it passes.
In theatre, they used to say that if you stood long enough at the corner of Broadway and 46th Street, you would eventually meet everybody. Well, we didn't have time for that, but we did enjoy the company of old friends and made new friends too.
It struck me that nobody complains more about life in the city than New York liberals, excellent company that they are. They complain about the mayor and his policies that are producing more racial tension, more poverty, more bad building planning, and - would you believe it - gridlock? Thirty years ago, although the names were different, the complaints were the same. Some things don't change. Years back I remember an aide of the mayor at the time telling me that only way to successfully run the city was to not to try. Cynical, but maybe he was right.
It is a great city to be in, a great city to revisit. Perhaps on this occasion, I detected more of the blandness behind all the diversity, more of the banality behind all the sophistication. On the other hand, I might still be suffering the effects of the Manhattan hangover. I will have to go back to find out.