Taxi fares and unfair taxis

One of the best – and most aknowledged – thing of New York is how cheap the taxis are in New York City.

I’m not a true taxi fan: I prefer walking, and walking, and walking when I’m in a new place: I can feel the vibe of the Country I’m visiting, I can put on trial the serendipity and see what fate decides to make me discover.

But well, when you’re on move through the city at night, it could happen you have to take one of the yellow cabs. Especially when the weather is so fucking freezing.

So, fact is: it’s incredible how unexpensive is travel via taxi in Manhattan.

You may not know it, but Italy is walking through a huge turbolence of economical reforms to survive the global crisis. One of that regards the taxi system, which is not competitive (license are sold via a huge amoun of money from private taxidriver to private taxidriver, and there is just a fixed amount of them) and too expensive for customers. Now the new Govern decide to liberalize taxi-license, aiming to improve the market competition.

Well, taxidrivers didn’t take it well, and are going on with several strikes in order to block this reform.

Yesterday night I went from Central Park to the 38th Street, flowing through the 5th Avenue: I paid just 8 dollars. In Italy, at night, I pay 8 dollars just as the start of the cab fare.

So, this is my reaction to the taxidriver strike in Italy:

Nice try guys, better luck for the next one.


New York: the City where no couple sleeps, and walk walk walk happy happy smiling I HATE THEM

What ever happened to the historical, cinematographical, cynycal people of New York? The “I want real love but I have no time for it, let’s go shopping and building an economical empire!” persons we (foreigners) learnt to love thanks to the never useless hollywood show-biz?

I have no idea. The streets of New York are literally crowded of smiling couple – man with woman, woman with woman, man with man – holding hands, flirting softly with their all-perfect-styled casual dressings and so on.


It ain’t kind, folks, swaggering about your couplingness. Did you forget about all the single people wanting real love (but without time for it) shopping and building an economical empire? This is so unpolite.

Go hide with your kind, couples! Reserve yourselves in your nice couple-y houses/homes/apartments/rooms, and leave the city to our sad single loners unable to find even a palliative for love.

Do it for your city: persons crying alone in front of shops or in the middle of a streets are touristically unattractive.


The hipsterization of Manhattan

Hipsters on MarsWell, actually the title could be not totally accurate. Why? Because. I’ve never been in New York before, so I have no idea how the City was before the invasion of the hipster aliens.

If you’ve been – or you’ll ever be – in the Meatpacking District or in the West Village ( + Greenwich, but also Chelsea a bit), you can understand what I’m talking about: lot of attitude-boys and attitude-girls gravitating on the streets, well casually-dressed, with the right weirdo-hairdo and perfectly chosen accessories.

And that’s weird, ’cause I actually feel like attracted to them, like someone with Stockolm Syndrome.

Today I’ve been in a tiny, nice restaurant called Westville. It’s located in the West Village, on the 10th Street West, between the West 4th Street and Bleecker Street: a place, I’m urging you to visit. Because the food is truly good, tasty, and even reasonably-priced for a restaurant in Manhattan. Ingredients were fresh and well cooked, and the setting – even if minimal – was fairly furbished.

The problem was: I’ve never seen a more-hipster place in my life. And still, I’m used to hipsters and scene-hipsters in Milan, where a lot of people inspire their style around London and NY hipsters (is there at least a synonim for this word? I’m sick of using it so many times).

The waitress was black clothed, black colored, black tattoed [NdR: dramatisazion], skinny-skinny, tall and big-eyeglassed. And very attitude-ish: ok, she was *clearly* kind with the customers, very professional, asking if everything was good, filling glasses of water, but… How could I explain it? She had all the time that look on her fase… The “whatever, whatever” look. Like I was some kind of alien (well, I’m italian: she could’ve been right).

And in the kitchen – except for some immigrants from undefined east countries – I’ve spotted in the order: girl with a flower-ish little dress and big eyeglass; guy with a checkered shirt; another guy with a checkered shirt AND A HAT.

So, if you go there, beware: hipsterize yourself, or at least pretend to. Blend with the wolfpack: you’ll survive.

[Hey, did I mention that I truly appreciated the food and the price? I would definitely come back there. If they’ll ever let me enter again.]


My conversations with every shop assistant in New York

There was a time when I thought I was quite able to talk and express myself in English. Really, I was. Then I came to NY, entered some shops and it was always the same routines:

SA: “How are you, sir?”
Me: “Hi”

SA: “What’s up, man?”
Me: “Hi”

SA: “How do you do, dude?”
Me: “Hi”

I won’t pass the language skills exam, I guess.