In the spring of 1987 our father transferred an airline ticket to fly anywhere in continental USA. I read a bunch of books and settled on NYC, NY.
George HW Bush was POTUS at the time, and I remember staring at his portrait as a couple of US Customs Agents asked me a bunch of questions in the Winnipeg airport. They eventually let me go, even though I was a scruffy-looking guy in a U2 T-shirt and faded denims.
I landed at La Guardia. I used a payphone to call some hotels, but was repeatedly told there was no room at the inn. I wasn't sweating it. I figured if I absolutely had to I could spend three days at the airport.
I finally called the West Side YMCA. The young woman who answered the phone said, ”All of our bunk beds are taken right now. But if you come down here and stand in line maybe you’ll get a spot.”
I came down, alright – I took a bus, and saw my first Brownstone – but for $30 a night I booked a private room.
The room had a twin bed,a small wood desk, a colour TV (on which I watched Al Goldstein’s sex tapes) and a window looking out on a roof.
I went to a kiosk beside Central Park and bought some Calvin Klein conditioner I had seen in GQ Magazine I also walked over to a Pizza Hut and purchased and consumed a small pizza.
Lincoln Center was close by – that first night at the Westside Y an Orchestra was practicing. I went up to my room, cracked open my copy of A Bonfire of the Vanities, and starrted reading. I felt like I was in the middle of the Orchestra Pit, and it was glorious!
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