this place

I love travelling so much! Especially when I’m on my own. In my life I am so rarely alone, it’s like a massive breath of fresh air to me – even in a stuffy shambolic airport like Heathrow; queuing for hours and hours never going anywhere, while a party of what seems like at least a hundred scouts with “Holloway” printed on the backs of their t-shirts are all hurried through in order to make their flight to Houston.

Why are they going to Houston? Did no one think printing that place name on their uniforms might give people the wrong impression – especially for the girls among them? I’ll never know, but I so enjoy watching little stories like that, and wondering.

If I’m with my husband, or my children, I’m too busy making sure everyone is happy to be able to think. I have to keep saying encouraging things, like “never mind – I’m sure it’ll be ok in the end”. It doesn’t bother me – it’s part of my life, but I do love not having to once in a while, and I cannot remember when I last went anywhere on my own. I am not sure I have ever been anywhere ever completely alone –without meeting friends or lovers at the other end. Only two people within five hours of Manhattan know I’m here – I kept it a secret from anyone who might bother me.

Yesterday, finally emerging into the horrible soupy mix of overwhelming heat and glare and noise and petrol fumes of the airport, I wondered if I’d suddenly decide this had all been a very, very bad idea and start working out how I could get back home straightaway. I was quite surprised not to – and pleased; not even when I felt dizzy after smoking my first cigarette for ten hours.

Newark airport is horrible, and the ride into Manhattan is grim, but nothing beats the big squashy plastic seats, the blast of air conditioning, and the endless legroom compared to the plane, so I even enjoyed that. And I love not having to talk to anyone. I’m not anti-social, but it’s such a nice change. In the country you have to be pleasant, but in the city you can plug in your headphones and no one will be offended. I’d forgotten how nice that felt.

Where I’m staying, the same nice bloke is on the desk as last year. He is a burly, quite elderly black man and looks kind of forbidding at first. A lot of people come here expecting something very different, and when they realise the reality of this place, I think it must be the man on the desk who bears the brunt of their complaints. He looks like he expects to be shouted at, and I think he gives as good as he gets. However, the minute he realises you don’t mind, a great big smile splits his face in two, and he couldn’t be nicer – like a helpful uncle or something.

He said, “ I think you’ll like your room”. We went up in the rickety lift that often doesn’t work – only to the first floor this time, last year we were higher up. The wide corridors are stained with years of nicotine and god knows what else. The doors we pass don’t look very secure. Some of them have stickers on, campaigning for one thing or another – this place is half hotel, half apartment building.

Some of the residents have been here for decades and pay almost nothing for rent – they are protected tenants, and this enrages the owners who want to make their investment more profitable. Whenever they can, they evict someone, so they can rent their flat out as part of the hotel. There has been a running battle between the owners and the tenants for years. When the old manager was ousted, huge banners in his defence were strung up all the way down the front of the building.

There are endless blogs and websites dedicated to libelling the new management – each moneymaking initiative is regarded as an affront and is mocked with insults. I think they quite enjoy making up new ones, and someone does delightful photo shopped illustrations to accompany the articles.

Anyway, we go further down the corridor; he pushes open two double doors that don’t quite meet in the middle. There’s no time to look at the paintings that crowd the walls – people have used their art to pay their rent here for decades and it is one of the things that makes this place special. Down another corridor – god it looks run-down apart from the pictures – yellow and brown fake wood and dark floors.

Then we reach the end, and there’s an uninviting looking door with two battered locks – both of which look as if they’ve been tampered with many times. The man says, “now I want you to try to use the bottom lock only – the top one is too much hassle – ok?” I expect it doesn’t really work, and it makes me smile.

We go in, and walk past the crappy galley kitchen in the hallway and into the sitting room. It is perfect. It couldn’t be any better. It is full of unexpected things. There is a small delicate sofa in the style of louis quinze – dull gold wood – the paint half rubbed away, upholstered in a pale green silk brocade. Opposite is a golden vinyl chaise longue – from the seventies I think. It’s wide and plain, with chunky chrome feet. It is so hideous it’s funny. There are two dark red tub chairs from the 1930s, which revolve when you sit on them, and another swivel chair –1960s - in squashy padded plastic, which is coming away in places. There’s room to curl up in this one – it is the most comfortable chair I’ve ever sat in.

There’s a huge smoked glass coffee table with ugly chrome legs. The central light doesn’t work. There are three narrow double windows that open out onto a grubby balcony with a few cigarette butts on the floor. Each window is framed with pale, dull yellow, heavy silk curtains, embroidered with butterflies. There are some brass standard lamps in places where they couldn’t possibly be of any use.

On the mantelpiece, above the large fireplace, propped up against the huge mirror, is a painting. I think it’s quite new because you can still smell the paint when you go close. I recognise the face – it’s of an old woman I saw last year. She was a gay activist in the sixties or before, and I think at one point she was a man. Last summer she was always hanging around the lobby. She looked eighty at least, and she was often confused, but people were very gentle with her, offering to help with her many carrier bags, never patronising, just gently supportive.

Through another door, and there’s the bedroom. It has an upholstered window seat, and when you open the curtains, it looks directly onto a dingy flat roof with no natural light – it is strewn with bits of rubbish and spattered with pigeon droppings. I close the curtains again and leave them that way. There are radiators from the nineteen thirties, painted yellow to match the room, only I think they used the wrong paint because it is peeling off. The floors are polished wood, and the rug is striped red and yellow with a big stain in the middle.

The bed’s nice, and they have bought new flat screen televisions since last year. There’s the same old crap to watch though, so I shan’t bother. There is a large unpolished brass chandelier hanging in the middle of the ceiling. It is quite hideous, and two of the candle bulbs aren’t working. The bathroom is through another door. It is 1930s I think, and the washbasin is cracked.

I feel exactly as I hoped I would – completely at home and relaxed. It’s tatty and a little bit grubby, and I am sure – in fact I know, from reading the reviews on tripadvisor - that many people have fled into the night after one glance at what they were offered, but I absolutely love it here.