Church

I awoke in our hotel room on the 32nd floor of the worst Hilton money can buy. Don’t worry dearest, it’s next door to the hotel you actually wanted to stay at but this is considerably cheaper. What’s not to like. It’s 4am and the rain is lashing the windows. I’d lie and say it was probably going to be a lovely day, but the forecast was for 100% rain. Our day was going to be terrible. 

We started out by swimming to the diner which is on the same block as the hotel. I’d brought with me waterproof walking boots and a RAB jacket rated to 28000mm of hydrostatic head. For you normal people that means it’s about as waterproof as a bin liner, yet the 3 layers of Goretex hand shorn from Tibetan Goretex Goats in the Himalayan mountains means RAB can charge you hundreds of pounds for what essentially is just a pretty bin liner. And it matters not because THAT coat is still in the case. Obviously, I’ve left it there with my waterproof walking boots because…. Because heaven forbid I don’t want to get my little babies wet.  Here the term “babies” refers to my walking gear and not my man tackle. Now I’ve written that, I’m not completely sure it was a distinction I needed to make. It also makes little sense as for it to be even relevant my man tackle would need to be locked away in the case. That’s gonna smart!

So, to breakfast. As we open the door of the hotel to leave, it’s like we are setting foot on the deck of a trawler in a storm on the North Sea. If it wasn’t for the heady aroma of urine and wacky backy in the air, I could have forgotten we were in a back street of New York City. We arrive at the diner approximately one minute after leaving the hotel. It’s like as we walked people had been throwing buckets of water at us. As the first drop of water seeped into my socks through my mesh trainers, I started to question my choice of footwear just a little.  My jacket was still RAB of course, but not fully waterproof. It would take a 30 minute walk across the city later for its defences to be breached.  But Steve, what about Mrs Steve? Does she have RAB waterproof gear? Don’t be ridiculous! She has a pack-a-mac, it’s basically a bin liner. She’s bone dry. 

For breakfast I had all of the Full American. 1 corned beef hash, 2 eggs, 4 bacon, 8 ton of home fries 16 rounds of toast, 32 harden arteries and 64 cups of cawrrrffeeee. Oh America! America!.. God shed his grace on thee. Till selfish gain no longer stain. The breakfast of the free!  I like to sing America the Beautiful as my breakfast arrives each morning. I’ll be singing the national anthem,  the Star Spangled Burger, in Shake Shack later! There’s so much to hate in America. It’s president, it’s people, it’s politics, it’s people, it’s weather, it’s people. But God Bless the American breakfast! 

Honestly, it was like I’d died and gone to fat bastard heaven. I finished and licked my plate(s) clean. The bill arrived and I tossed that at the little lady to pay. I can’t be doing with the finances of this holiday or talking to foreigners. The Spanish speaking, Greek family who own this place are 100% American 100% Greek and now 50% Spanish because of an affair uncle Tony had with a waitress in a Tapas bar in the 70s. Considering the amount I’d eaten and the price of eggs, the bill was quite reasonable. Tip was included, oh well you can’t win them all. We waddled like fat ducks through the rain back to our hotel for a lie down. It had been a long day. I was knackered. “Darling… how much was that bill in pounds?” It was at this point we realised that unfortunately they had forgotten to charge us for the “included” tip. How terrible, I must run back and tell them. Yeah right. 

I’ve told everyone our holiday has no real plans. Yet today we are going to church. Yes on a Sunday! I know right, I’m dead religious. This is no ordinary church though, we were going behind-the-scenes and deep underground at the Basilica of St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral, (as featured in The Godfather) with the only Catholic catacombs in New York City. Note.  NO food and drink to be consumed during the tour.  Oh goodie. Everything I like to do on a holiday. Visit church. Don’t eat. And they probably don’t even have Mickey Mouse. You can tell I forgot Valentine’s Day again! Thank you sweetheart for arranging this. 

The tour started with a dull woman trying to flog us a cheap umbrella.  “We don’t need umbrellas we are British”. At this point note that I had not taken the opportunity to learn my lesson and put on any waterproof gear. The rain had eased some what and we only had walked a mile from the subway station. The water in my socks was quite warm and pleasant now anyway! 

Our tour guide for the day was Jimmy from Brooklyn. “Let’s find out where everyone is from” he said cheerfully. “Fuck off Jimmy we are here for the tour not to be your friend!” I swear I screamed this out loud but he didn’t hear. Jimmy was deaf. He did a lot of diving back in the day. Blah blah blah shut up Jimmy. Our multinational crowd all came from places that sounded nicer than Wolverhampton. To be fair, anywhere sounds nicer than Wolverhampton, even a rainy day in New York is nicer than a sunny day in Wolverhampton. 

Eventually, the little lady made our confession.  Her answer “UK”, it’s the shortest statement you could make in response to this question. Hopefully Jimmy would be satisfied and move on to the tour. Jimmy did not move on. “Where EXACTLY in the UK”… erm Wolverhampton. Like you or the assembled United Nations of church spotters have ever heard of it. Jimmy’s little old face lit up. “Oh, from the Black Country” he said in the worst American Brummie accent you ever heard. Two millennials in the room fainted as an old white guy used the word “Black” in a context they could not fathom. 

Excited, Jimmy now disappeared into a back office and emerged with a “Black Country” beanie hat. “Y’om Yam Yams!” Jimmy went on in the strangest half Brooklyn half Bilston accent you ever heard.  Not another single person in the room had any idea what was going on. 

Jimmy continued to explain he used to dive in the British Virgin Islands with some SAS soldiers from Wolverhampton. Jimmy couldn’t believe his luck. No one else in his retirement home believed his strange tails of the Black Country where they eat battered chips. They just thought he was your average old white xenophobic American hero. What have I ever done to deserve this? Stuck in a tour of a bloody church with a Wolvo fan boy. I mean he had lots of stories for the Germans too. Don’t get me wrong, he had lots of stories full stop. But he didn’t emerge with a Nazi beanie did he. He didn’t put on a funny German accent and call them names! I know what it is. This is America punishing me because we didn’t tip at breakfast. Somewhere on a cloud above New York god (or Donald as he’s known) saw that and is making me pay. 

The funny part about this tour was supposed to be the fact half of it was outside in the cemetery.  Did it rain? Oh yes it rained, it rained a fucking tsunami.  But look at it this way. I didn’t waste $5 on an umbrella… so who is the winner here?