Ray Bans

A quick and unscientific poll in Williamsburg, NY, has revealed a new craze in the Big Apple that will surely hit the rest of the world soon, if it hasn’t already. And that’s Ray Bans. But not any old Ray Bans, but the clunky old Roy Orbison Ray Bans from the 50s, or something. (More strictly, Wayfarers and Wayfarers II.) The only thing is, they’ve been jazzed with new patterns and primary colours. And they’re no longer just sunglasses, but regular spectacles, too, for hip young folk who want to be original and ironic by wearing the same daggy glasses as one in every four people.

That’s right, my poll, conducted while sitting in the sun outside a "New York Muffins" shop, revealed that 23 out of 100 pairs of eyewear, including both sunnies and specs, were Roy O Ray Bans (or $10 copies thereof). Of course, that was in Williamsburg, the hip part of Brooklyn, other parts of NYC had lower densities, but they are still everywhere.

I wish I could work out how to repackage something pretty average (at best) from the past so everyone wants to buy it and make me rich...

New York

We went to New York the other day. Sarah first spent 10 days in the UK for a wedding (that's one day, but why would you want to spend another nine there?) and we met up at JFK airport. Not before I was robbed, though.

That's right, robbed. You've got to love airline rules. I was getting on the plane in Dubai, one of those departure points that lets you use metal cutlery for your meals, and was asked if I had any liquids. Stupidly, I said toothpaste, and had it confiscated because the half used container was more than 100mL.

Less than 100mL of fluid - surely that's the key thing. Even with James Bond Licence To Kill exploding toothpaste, you can't do a lot of damage with half a tube.

But I digress.

Last time I was in New York I was 18 years old and with my parents so the experience this time around was a bit different. There was alcohol, going out, and not being dragged around a whole lot of women's clothing and shoe shops. (Sarah tried, but felt guilty because I wasn't really enjoying it. It cut both ways, though - I didn't want to bore her by spending too long in a climbing store and so walked out empty handed. Besides, there was too much to do.)

We checked off the big ticket items: Empire State on a perfect, cloudless day; Statue of Liberty; MoMA; New York Philharmonic in Central Park (unfortunately rained out halfway through); live jazz (and in a smoke-free venue. Yay to Michael Bloomberg!); as well as some not so big ticket things: boutique beers on the waterfront; cool cafes in Williamsburg; catching up with an old college friend, Jon; staying with Sarah's ex housemate, Sanne and his wife Sarah.

Oh, and there was Broadway. We went and saw Avenue Q on our last night. It's a very funny play with... let’s say “adult muppets”. They do a great song Everyone’s a Little Bit Racist (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xbwNSNLPIfw&feature=related) among many others. If you get a chance, and especially if you ever saw Sesame Street, check it out.

The other big highlight was Bear Mountain. On the Saturday we piled into Sanne's 1990-something Ford Thunderbird, (a monster vehicle of over 5 metres but with only two doors and vaguely sports styling that, according to Sanne, handles like a boat, despite it's awesome name), and drove to Bear Mountain national park where we hiked around for several hours in the sun and fresh air on the Appalachian Trail.

We came across a few crusty hikers who were walking serious lengths of the trail (it runs over 2,000 miles from Georgia to Maine) but hardly anyone else. Most of the day-trippers stayed by a small, artificial lake by the carpark and barbecued stuff. Walking back at the end of the day, we could smell the barbecue accelerant several minutes before we could smell any food. The crowds by the lake, sandwiched between the highway, too, were a bit much, and we got back into the car as fast as we could.

So New York is a fine place. Not sure I'd want to live there, though, as it's a bit full-on for my liking.

Goatmobile

Here's something I never thought I'd say:

"My car was goated".

Yes, it turns out that goats are not as dumb as they look and if you park under a tree in goat country, they will use your vehicle as a stand from which to reach the leaves. If your car is a beat up Pajero, as Mike's is, no big deal. If it's a Mercedes CLK, then it's a little more frustrating to find scuff marks on every panel, including the doors.

Before

Luckily, Pete referred me to the grand master of car polishing and after Dh800, including interior and engine detailing, it came back looking like new. Amazingly, goat hooves don't seem to scratch that deeply.

After

*

Not that that seemed to make too much difference after a couple of weeks of parking outside back in Dubai. I left my job of 3 years at Atkins (a record time for me) and as such lost my underground carpark near my home. With only one car space in our building, and what with me being a gentlemen and letting Sarah continue to use it, I've been parking on the street and it's been getting filthy. The big mistake though was letting some car cleaner at the supermarket clean it - I think he scratched the hood more than the goats did.

(Just on that job thing: I was about to resign as I had another offer when Atkins thoughtfully made me redundant with a big fat pay cheque. So now I'm helping start up a new firm, still in Dubai for now, but maybe we'll move east in a few years.)

The Offender?