It is never night in Times Square. The luminescent billboards won’t allow it. Wondering how on earth advertising ever became high art, we sit on the staircase designed for visitors (are there any locals?) to watch the spectacle. Oddly, you’d expect a lot of noise but the dull hum of traffic, people and shop music is more a sedative, a real calm in the storm.
The Guggenheim still thrills. As do those quiet moments of discovery. A little bit of France in Manhattan …
Or a thick coffee at the Minerva in Greenwich Village, the sort of place where poets and artists should hang out. Though no one is struggling round here.
Now back in London, I wish my local cafe had even a speck of the Minerva about it, that tantalising moment where a space provides food for creativity making you contemplate times when spaces like this did.