First glimpse a reflection off the hull of a red four-wheel Toyota.
Through the abandoned office blocks of Queens and the windows of squat haluage trucks, the bridge momentarilly revealed, rusty in the light of the low-slung sun.
We plunge into the tunnel, a preparatory move ready for the unveiling of a cultural ideal. It’s the big build up, the big reveal, the suspension. It’s a lesson Hollywood taught us.
Then, suddenly, Manhatten: a forty-foot GAP advert and a crowd of high-rise, like sugar canes, squeezed into the space of a yellow taxi cab window.
We angle our heads upwards, but the tops are out of reach.
We weave throught the circuit board or avenues and streets, and roads we know like home slide past unrecognisably: 5th Avenue, Madison Avenue, Broadway…
Uncerimoniously deposited at our hotel, we check in.
A room fugged with smoke so we drop a floor.
No trouble, sorry for your trouble. Madam.
And then it’s just us and the city.
The map mocks and the sun goes down.
Not today. You’re not ready. Today.
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