Welcome to New York

My first New York post. Having arrived here on November the 1st, start of a new life, new experiences and a new understanding of my place in the world - New York promises anything, delivers something and takes everything.

They say British and American cultures are separated by a common language. I am not so sure of this... perhaps we're two cultures mutually bemused and yet completely fascinated with one another, but there is nothing common in our language.

The further you travel from Manhattan, the more difficult it is to make yourself understood because the retaurants and bars of Manhattan are populated with non Americans used to thousands of accents a day. I don't think it's so much that language is a barrier, but more that being quintessentially English is a way of guaranteeing you'll be misunderstood - deliberately or otherwise.

Last week, my girlfriend and I were sauntering around Brooklyn after a short but enlightening visit to Brooklyn Heights. After carefully pottering around one of New York's most exclusive and well known neighbourhoods outside of Manhattan, we ventured towards the Brooklyn Bridge and the edge of downtown Brooklyn. After amusing ourselves with squirrels and deciding the increasingly factory lined streets were not providing the entertainment value expected on a disturbingly warm November evening, we headed back to the Brooklyn bridge fully intending to make the mile or so walk back across to Manhattan. On the Brooklyn side of the bridge, on the left hand side as your back is to the astonishing Manhattan skyline, there is a small but moderately inviting diner. As you look in it, all the warning signs are there screaming "don't enter, this place really isn't for you". I'm not sure if its the fact that its quite clearly the 1st (and only) place selling food after you cross the line from tourist friendly Manhattan to "real New York", or the two mexican waiters/cooks that are watching the TV in there, rather than either serving or cooking. Perhaps its the "too good to be true" prices... after all $6 for an omlette, fries and a glass of coke seems pretty decent value after you've just paid $10 for a soggy pizza on 5th Avenue 3 hours earlier. My girlfriend sensed it, but my stomach took over my legs and we wandered in.

Even the luke warm "hey we're closing soon" welcome as we entered, the not quite right lighting and the elbow unfriendly tables with extra "slip" on them didn't put me off and within a few minutes I was ready to order. "Right" I announced after scanning the menu with my empty stomach influenced left eye, "I am going to be straight and New York like and demand exactly what I want... not going to take any shit in here". A small, slightly "I've already worked 2 hours overtime" looking man of South American demeanour approached nervously, pen in hand and looked ready to take my order"

"OK, I'll have a cheese and tomato sandwich on rye, with fries on the side".

"Tomato?" He queried

"Tomato" I replied, using the American pronunciation both times. I also ordered a "coke" but was offered a Pepsi and my girlfriend made her order too and at this point, all seemed well. 5 mins later, he returned looking rather pleased with himself and gave me my cheese and tomato omelette. After a double take, I mentioned to him that it wasn't a sandwich. He agreed with my observation, but didn't make the connection between my comment and the fact he'd brought be the wrong order.

"I ordered a sandwich" I said a little more clearly. After a few blinks and possibly trying to work out how many hours wages this mistake would cost him, the waiter asked retook my order and wandered off. Within a minute or two he asked me what kind of bread I would like. I returned the question with "what kind of bread have you got". The conversation went something like this.

"What bread have you got"

"wha or wha"

"pardon"

"wha or rha"

"white or rye?"

"you want wha?"

"WHAT BREAD HAVE YOU GOT"?

"Whi, rye or wholemeah"

"I'll have wholemeal please".

"wholemeal?"

"YES"?

Sure enough, 5 minutes later I got a white cheese and tomato sandwich. Having been defeated by my accent, my reluctance to demand what I really wanted and my guilty, patronising pity for a man who probably took 4 weeks to earn what I do in a few days, I ate my sandwich, drank my flat pepsi and left the diner (after leaving an over generous tip) and laughed it off as an experience.

The Brooklyn Bridge was beautiful and it felt good to be back in Manhattan, where being overcharged for admittedly amazing food and service actually seems like a privilege.

As it happens, we now have an apartment in Brooklyn... and we know exactly where not to go for either omelettes or wholemeal sandwiches... much less a glass of coke!