Martin MacIntyre's Tartan Week Diary

If this were Friday I’d still be in Wick; Sunday-Tuesday at some point on the map between Edinburgh, Oban, and Barra with the children; Wednesday – you choose. Dublin? Why not, with a Ryanair flight out at 0630. How do people live at twice or three times this pace? Whom or what are they flying away from? But since it’s Thursday and the rest now behind me, New York is now the sole focus – and that’s a luxury – an exciting luxury to be able to concentrate, undisturbed, on one event and then, well, just relax for a couple of days afterwards.

The sound on the Steve Martin film on the KLM flight is unbearably distorted but fortunately Sarah Water’s Night Watch is turning its own wartime pages. Beside me, Lucia, a marketing executive from Milan has also turned to reading, frustrated by the movie and also to create a physical barrier against the drunken Pole advancing from across the aisle.

We descend to JFK airport over that classic illuminated skyline and on time at 2030. Lucia, myself, and Helena, a young Spanish girl who is in New York on a week’s holiday, share a yellow cab into town for a fixed $47 until the first stop, Lucia’s.

The bell to the canopied Inn on 23^rd Street is answered by Rita who doesn’t actually work in the Guest House but in the School of Culinary Arts which occupies part of the ground floor. She is a nurse by daylight and keen to get home soon, but not before offering me my choice from five sumptuous cakes baked that evening. Mocha looks good and is – moist and perfect with a glass of water.

The night manager arrives and shows me through the tasteful second-floor library/breakfasting area to my room on the fourth floor. This original 19th-Century family house has been decorated throughout with a collection of heirlooms, antiques, family photographs and quite an eclectic art Collection. All rooms are individually themed: number 43 is the elegant Rosewood room with a sort of modern four-poster bed.

Still hungry? Hard to tell. Could do with a cup of tea. Two bottles of lukewarm water and a complementary bottle of Isle of Jura Malt can wait. Safe enough to walk? ‘Totally,’ Rita assures. A gentle stroll North and South on 7th Avenue for air then tea. Eduardo in the Burrito bar across from the Inn does tea and pizza and tacos and of course, burritos. Might as well nibble something along with my drink. It’s all Spanish here, including the crackly TV show – featuring a top Doc with affiliation to numerous private clinics advising on how to distinguish osteoarthritis from other inflammatory conditions. Useful late-night revision! From the look of many of the customers who shuffle in and out – this is definitely the correct café for them, nutritionally and medically.

New York

© Gwen Enstam

Sleep – very sound, very comfortable until nine a.m. At breakfast in the Library, I meet with fellow performers, Grace Banks from Aberdeen and Margaret Bennett, the renowned folklorist, academic, singer and storyteller from Skye. Andrew O’Hagan says hello and is positive about his reading of the night before in Barnes and Noble booksellers. He wishes Gaelic literature were more integrated into the mainstream, so that Scotland as a whole can get some access or insight into Gaelic voices and Gaelic visions of the world. I agree. The Gaelic box is being well ticked currently, but runs the risk of becoming a ghetto if not included as a valid and vital part of a holistic Scottish contemporary culture.

Margaret and her partner have a few things to do in the early morning, so we just have a quick run through of the songs: ‘Come All Ye Tramps and Hawkers’, ‘An Fhìdeag Airgid’ and ‘Auld Lang Syne’.

Grace and I opt for fresh air and head off up 6^th Avenue in the direction of Central Park. This gig tonight is a bit of an unknown – will it be large, small, noisy? Will those attending be American or Scottish expats? Will they be interested in stories and song, or there for the beer. or more likely the Guinness – given that it is to be held in an Irish bar.

New York is a walking city and the streets are thronged with people hurrying North, South, East, and West throughout Manhattan’s vast grid. Our hotel is in the Chelsea area, south Midtown, not far North West of Greenwich Village and not far from the Empire State Building, Times Square and the Theatre District.

But today – Friday 7th April – is the pre-performance and after yesterday’s long enclosed journeys from Edinburgh and Aberdeen, fresh air and exercise in bucket loads is what’s required. We chat through skyscrapers and rap artists and crowded walkways about stories, storytelling, Gaelic, Doric, family, Lenzie (where we were both brought up), Aberdeen and Edinburgh. We stop to have our photo taken at a large general electrical health promotion stall. Within five minutes, our images, holding an oversized baseball and bat, are emblazoned on a huge digital billboard on the company’s Uptown headquarters. Should we have opted for Snowboarding? Choices! This is the city of infinite choice, 24 hours a day. Following a healthy lunch (it takes time to walk 25 blocks), we enter Central Park past the waiting horses and carriages, and on a beautiful Spring day we wander past willow trees, spot unusual birdlife, nod to a larger than life Alice in Wonderland and her friends, and for an hour or so rehearse our songs and stories for the evening performance.

Grace has the good fortune to be a friend of Stanley Robertson, one of Scotland’s most respected exponents of Traveller culture and her beautifully sung ballad learnt from Stanley enchants its way across the small wooden bridge. When Oisean returns home, having spent almost a year in Tìr nan Òg (The Land of Eternal Youth), he finds himself in a completely different part of Central Park. No wonder he appears lost. It is too long a story for a pub setting? What is the attention span of an average New Yorker? We’ll soon see.

Grand Central Station

© Gwen Enstam

We meet back at ‘The Inn’ at four thirty, with a message from Sophie at Scottish Book Trust to say that we won’t get access to the venue until 6. As the public will be there eating and drinking, there probably won’t be an opportunity for a full rehearsal. Margaret, Grace and I practise our songs once again and then it’s a taxi (black limo - couldn’t flag down a yellow one) to Swan’s Hibernian lounge in the East Village. The taxi-driver, originally from Russia, has a view on Manhattan’s demographics – over 70% single young males and females, originally from somewhere else. ‘I mean where you gonna raise kids around here? On the sidewalk?’ Schools, he says, are also poor locally, necessitating at least a $20,000 spend on private education. ‘Local schools are full of minorities – if you know what I mean? And I’ll tell you, I’m not racist. I hate everyone equally! Have a great night.’ We’ll try.

The venue is a large, cavernous, kindly themed Irish Pub with a busy public bar at the front and our currently full performance area at the back. A curtain separates the spaces and the manager assures us he’ll personally close it whenever it opens. Microphones will be necessary though and we embark on a brief sound check. Those sitting in the back will be told that a show is soon to commence and asked to leave before six thirty if stories are not their idea of a fun Friday night out.

Go for it! We do from 7.15 for an hour and a half with a brief interval. Hopefully, we’ve struck the right balance between styles and telling, stories and songs, deep stuff and lighter material. One positive indication was that most stay after the first half. Feedback afterwards is pretty positive, the venue defined as challenging. Some members of a New York-based Storytelling Club swap e-mails and look forward to more Scottish stories in the future.

As for the performers, it’s time for a relaxed pint of Guinness and a bit of chill. Chicken wings are procured, divvied up and out. We talk a little about the event. Friends from New York I hoped could make it did, and we arrange to meet for lunch on Sunday. It’s now over twenty years since I first crashed out in Eugene’s Charles St apartment, as a guest of his son, Tom, who had attended Aberdeen University for a term. Our rarefied hall of seanchas is now a nightclub, DJ’d by an enthusiastic guy wearing a retro Scotland football top.

A couple more pints are shouted down to the sounds (Could be O’Neill’s in Sauchiehall Street – but this is still early!). Despite the din it’s great to chat (for a few minutes in faltering Gaeilge) with some Irish writers who came along to the event. Gerard Donovan is personable, passionate and inspiring on writing, culture and related issues. The night is but young and The White Horse, much frequented by Dylan Thomas, seems a good idea. As I said to the barman from Havana around 0230, Cuba’s a special place. ‘Si’, he agrees, but for him, just now, New York is far better.

Saturday is our full free day and I wake up at eight, a little thirsty. The fresh orange in the Library is exquisite. Chat around the breakfast table is relaxed and interesting. I’m happy to listen mostly.
It’s pouring outside – was that snow or blossom? Should we take the ferry to Ellis Island past the Statue of Liberty? Why not? Today is the day of the Tartan Parade. Let’s hope it stops raining. Doesn’t look too promising though. Due to Metro problems, Grace and I arrive later than expected at the South Ferry Terminal. Unlikely we’ll get back in time for the parade. I’m reminded by the driving rain, rolling ferry, and significant coffee spillage that my wife Annmarie is currently sailing on the ferry to Barra from Oban - probably sunbathing on the upper deck.

The Statue of Liberty is as it is, ‘there,’ ‘iconic’ - a beacon of hope for a new future. Apparently they spent $86 million on restoring it in 1986. That’s a lot of money! After forty minutes we disembark at Ellis Island. A splendid museum on three floors tells the stories of countless thousands of tired, hungry, fearful immigrants who first set foot on US soil there following weeks of endurance at sea. 98% were welcomed into the land of dollar flavoured milk and honey. 2%, around 1000 every week, were turned back, mostly due to physical or mental infirmity. But what did they have to go back to and how did they get there?

The sun is now shining late afternoon and while waiting to catch the ferry, we stroll round the quay marvelling at the views of Manhattan across the water. I phone Barra and all is well. The Clansman ferry is now back on form after long delays yesterday. On reaching the other side we take a taxi north. Having driven a little while we turn left along a wide street like any other, except this one has a fenced-in site of demolition. ‘Ground Zero’ the Bangladeshi taxi driver confirms, now a major tourist attraction. What will they build there? It is still under discussion. Something significant?

Two other friends, Ian and Carol, have phoned. They have survived their four-hour bus journey from Boston and are now in Greenwich Village. We meet them at Washington Square Gardens and walk into the heart of the village. We are all hungry and settle quickly on a place to eat. The service is excellent and extremely friendly. The food’s okay. But then, from nowhere – Flamenco dancing and singing and Spanish guitar. A striking women in red claps, bawls and stamps out her version of ‘Duende’ and some of the diners are glad their desserts are rather on the large side. Next it’s a Jazz cellar which starts off pretty mellow then gets funky, full and atmospheric. Time moves most enjoyably and unhurriedly.

Sunday morning run – a regular feature in Edinburgh. In New York? Might as well. Along W14st to the Hudson then up river for a couple of miles then back a sort of circular route through the streets of Chelsea. I breakfast alone - Margaret flew out very early and Grace was keen to make the most of the day. I’d noticed a church next door to the Inn, so I pop in at 10 o’clock. It’s Palm Sunday and perhaps the last one to be celebrated in 19^th-century St. Vincent de Paul’s, built by/for the local French speaking community. The ageless priest informs the congregation that their parish is soon to merge with a neighbouring one and the building will be sold off. Social and cultural change!

I read in the Sunday papers of Condoleezza Rice’s musical prowess and there are numerous reviews of major films and theatre productions. There’s nothing yet on the Songs and Stories of Scotland! Maybe tomorrow? Lunch with Eugene and Suzanne is delightful. Suzanne, originally from Normandy, takes us to a relaxed French restaurant, not far from the Inn. Gene has sausages, I have rabbit, she has brains.

At four, Grace and I are in another black car, this time bound for JFK and an overnight flight home. Just enough time for postcards and some more little presents.

It’s been fabulous to be in New York for the weekend. And Tartan Week? Seems like a good idea, worth developing. But then perhaps you saw more of it in Scotland than we did in New York.