to the ticket box. Another longstop there. I was short of 100 roubles (as it happens, I had forgotten about the 5% Presidential fee and I had on me only the money for the ticket plus the 30 roubles allowed for export).
Yet, apparently, I was meant to depart that time. Waiting for the checking–in to end I met Marina who was like me trying to catch the plane. Without a moment’s thought, I turned to her for help. She didn’t have spare money either – only for the ticket. Fortunately, her brother was accompanying her to the airport and he lent me some money.
We caught up with the plane at the last moment. So, that’s it, I’m on my way to America!
New York: At Daytime and At Nighttime
After the sulky Moscow custom officers who had rummaged contentedly through the luggage, the American officers seemed more amicable to me. The only thing they feared was that the Russian would bring their best quality food in there. The custom officer facing the passengers from our flight was continuously inquiring in a very bad Russian:
– Sausage? Meat? Lard?
He even happened to catch in the crowd a man in a sheepskin coat with a huge trunk. While they were arguing for a long time over a lump of homemade lard, the others sneaked by.
At the passport check we were divided – the American citizens went to the right, the rest – to the left.
It was my first contact with an American. Regretfully, out of excitement my English wasn’t good enough even to answer coherently to simplest inquiries. The officer wasn’t at all surprised at my dimness and stamped me a visa so I could hang around in America even for six months.
There I was, in New York.City. Clearly, nobody was waiting for me there, but my new acquaintance Marina with who we had talked a lot during the 12–hour flight had her siblings pick her up at the airport: aunt Sonya (who spoke Russian with a thick Odessa accent) and her ten year old son Maksim (who spoke both Russian and English rather fluently). Marina told them I wanted to hitchhike to Florida, and I had no friends or family in New York. Aunt Sonya didn’t think twice and invited me to stay at her place for a couple of days.
Thus, I ended up in a small (well, small for Americans) apartment at Jamaica, a predominantly black district, now inhabited by many Russian emigrants.
Probably, like any other traveller coming in America for the fist time, I was curious to see Manhattan – the very heart of New York. It turned out, that it was pretty simple to get there, even from Jamaica, – a half an hour subway ride.
On the chart I found the 5th Avenue Station – a familiar name. So, there I went. When I got off the train at the nearest skyscraper I caught a glimpse of a huge banner ANNA PAVLOVA… Reminders of Russia and Russians were everywhere.
Take any avenue or street, there, in the crowd you can catch some phrases in purest Russian. Or come across our tourists – they cluster by appliance or electronics shops trying to be sensible about their purchases.
At Broadway, right on the sidewalk, you could see booksellers. I came over to see the books. They were all in English, still you could come across some books published in Moscow. Two salesmen were sitting at the long desk. Suddenly, a heavy box fell down on a foot of one of them. There you could here a stream of expressive yet not literary words. Again Russians! Watching the other booksellers I realised they were all Russians. I had a small talk with a pretty saleslady and discovered that one could sell books in the U.S. without a special permit – that’s freedom! And the wages were not bad at all – up to 80 dollars per day. That’s why she, like many, came to New York under a private invitation, sold some books and decided to stay.
I wasn’t interested in the city guide. You can’t make discoveries following a guide! Until dark I was striding along the famous streets – Broadway and the Fifth Avenue. First I was passing by the cutting edge skyscrapers with luxurious stores inside them, then the houses got somewhat worse. So did the people. There were few whites – only blacks and Latin Americans. So suddenly I reached Harlem.
There was no great difference between Harlem and other city blocks, not at all – it had not been meant to be the black’s ghetto. In the early 20th century there was a plan to connect subways in this part of Manhattan and large companies started to build buildings, smart for that time, hoping to make good money on them but they played the wrong card. The demand for apartments in the district was not as high as it had been supposed to be, so, the prices began to drop and the property owners were on the point of welcoming anyone in their houses. It was exactly the time when black migrants flocked from the south of the U.S. to New York. Sure enough, Harlem became the heart of the city’s black community and at the same time, one of the most crime–prone areas.
I thought that it was easy to navigate in Manhattan – each street brought you to a nearby avenue. So, when I realized that had by mistake wandered into Harlem, I decided to turn into a side street and take the parallel avenue to go back to some safer area for evening walks. Suddenly, I almost immediately stumbled upon a railroad. I had to walk along it until I found an underground passage and made my way through some dim backyards.
When I got safely out of Harlem and went back to the city center, it was already too late. The streets were empty but for vagrants. At night they transform from idle loafers into edgy Santa Clauses: three or four coats on, one over the other, impressive beards (I’ve only seen those on local tramps), a seemingly too heavy plastic bags full of “gifts” – empty beer and coke cans. Gathering and resale of empty cans is an international business, but for New York vagrants it’s easier: tin is not as heavy as glass, and you get paid in foreign currency (5 cents per can).
A ride in the New York subway costs little more than a dollar. The City Subway operates around the clock. Yet it is not so simple to get there in nighttime. The station entrances are camouflaged as if on purpose: you can see neither a familiar letter “M” nor another clear mark, and many were just padlocked (I saw it myself!).
In search of an open entrance to the subway I was walking in circles in the center of Manhattan for long but without success. Finally, I realized that I would have to ask someone the way. I approached the black doorman who was standing at the entrance of a hotel. He thoroughly explained to me how to get to the nearest entrance to the subway, but I did not understand a thing – I had not yet got used to the spoken English, and the Negro accent was incredibly distracting. I thanked him for the valuable guidance and started my blind search again.
Still, I finally managed to find an open station. On the platform stood a few passengers, who gave apprehensive and even wary glances at random passengers. I did not dare to approach any of them and ask for directions – why showing that I was a stranger in there. I was able to figure out the subway layout myself. It turned out that I needed to make two switches on my way. The trains passed with long intervals at night, so, I returned to Jamaica just before dawn.
The streets were deserted. Suddenly, behind me I heard a sharp squeak of brakes. Four black guys stepped out of the car. Well, I thought, now I got into a mess! I was about to escape, but they merely passed by without giving a look in my direction.
Having read newspaper reports about the American criminality, at first I shied away from almost everyone I met. In fact, despite the notorious “glory” of New York, it’s not normal here to rob, let along kill everyone who happens to be outdoors at night.
Heading South
That same morning, feeling well frozen in February New York, where all bus stops’ banners shone with the Florida sun, I decided not to stay there and go south. (Honestly: if I had not been
