The South Street Seaport is in a pretty sorry state these days. Hampered by geographical isolation, to which only the dumb tourist is oblivious, it suffers also from a confusion about whether it should primarily serve an educational purpose, by concentrating on the institutions located there to provide exhibitions on New York's great seafaring history, or whether the thrust should be commercial, as typified by such upscale i.e. such expensive stores as Abercrombie & Fitch. (Incidentally, I have also wondered precisely what is meant by the term "upscale" - as far as I can fathom out, the strict dictionary definition is something along the lines of "Black people will be glared at if they try to come in here, even if they are wearing expensive suits," but I may be wrong.) Needless to say, in this country where culture is evaporating as quickly as air from a stuck pig, it is the commercial wing which seems to be winning out at the Seaport, but, in that role, since you can't easily drive to it, it is losing out to its new natural competition, New Jersey. So, what we are left with is a few empty, boring stores and a few empty boring restaurants, where not even the B & T pseudo-yuppies can be bothered to hang out. However, there is one notable exception: the North Star Pub stands like a beacon amidst this sea of dross, or like a coherent analogy amidst a sea of mixed metaphors, as what, in my opinion, is the best authentic example of an English pub I have encountered outside the home country. Apart from its vicious prices and the fact that there is not actually anywhere to stand comfortably, I highly recommend it. (Of course, it is wholly unsuitable for Hashers, which did not prevent the Brooklyn Hash from using it once in the early days for an On-On-In, disconcerting the proprietors but massaging the cash registers nicely.)
Thus, this neighborhood, dull, boring with nothing to do but drink beer, brings us rather neatly to last Sunday and the start of Brooklyn Jerry Nelson's Hash. The cold weather not exactly having abated, it was nice to arrive (last, of course, detained as ever by literary duties) and meet a crowd of over a score jumping from one foot to the other, eagerly awaiting instructions. Jerry muttered something, and the pack headed North. Having assumed, for no good reason other than my new Brooklyn-centric perspective on life, that my fellow-resident of that august borough would lead us straight over the Brooklyn Bridge into normally uncharted territory, I spent several minutes sniffing around the staircases leading up on to the Bridge, and fell immediately behind the pack. Once I had lost this initial momentum, I feared that I was headed for yet another lonely afternoon, forced, in Hardy's absence, to re-solve a series of unmarked checks, only to finally give up, call the Hotline, get on the subway and arrive in a state of irritation a half-hour behind everybody else. But I was wrong. I had not counted on the surprising expertise of the relatively inexperienced Hare. Having been soundly lambasted, on his previous effort, for kinda sorta forgetting to set any checks, he had taken the kindly criticism of his peers to heart, and, set about, in that Stuart Smalley nineties kind of way, to make himself a better person, and make everybody feel touchy feely toward him by setting a nice trail. And a nice trail it was indeed: whenever I fell behind, hampered by my habitually booger-clogged nasal passages, I would sooner rather than later arrive at a check about halfway through the checking process, perfect timing to ensure that I had just enough time to rest up while not getting cold through excessive standing around, all the while avoiding doing any actual work. If Jerry had deliberately set out to do just the perfect job for my comfort, and thus my good mood when writing about his efforts, while making everybody else suffer, he could not have organized it better. Not, of course, that I would ever advocate such an approach.....
The trail itself followed a more or less north-north-westerly course. From the aforementioned Brooklyn Bridge, it went to City Hall, before proceeding through Chinatown and Soho and arriving in the West Village. I think I am correct about this; given that my mind has gone a complete blank, I cannot remember the precise detail of the trail, although I do specifically recall that it was extremely pleasant, the checks were not too difficult, and there was just enough doubt at all times about where we were headed to make it interesting, without that sensation of fear that comes from being lost. In short, had he not been unfortunately overshadowed by the genius that set the Brooklyn Hash the night after, we would be looking at Jerry's effort as one of the finest trails set in a very long time. So why is it that I am having such trouble recalling the trail? Satisfying in all respects, no stress, pleasant, very pleasant, so fucking pleasant.
But then came the On-In. Peter McManus has long been one of my favorite bars in the whole borough of Manhattan; I have many happy memories of times spent there in past lives, and will wax lyrical to anybody who will listen about its being the perfect place for a quiet, intimate drink and a liverwurst sandwich. Unfortunately, as I discovered a couple of years ago, it is another incredibly unsuitable place for an On-In. (On my Hash, we gave up after an hour and decamped to O'Flannery's around the corner.) On the surface, the augurs seem positive: working-class joint, no frills, jukebox kept low, cheap pitchers of piss etc. etc. Unfortunately, a less welcoming place could not exist: from the oversized tables dominating 90% of the space in the back allocated to us, to the glares of the Straw Dogs-like regulars at the bar at the slightest hint of raised voices on our part, to the response of "Unnnnruhhhh" by any one of the ancient funereal barmen (led, it seems by the esteemed Mr. McManus himself) to any customer-service-related request, it was made clear at every twist and turn that we were welcome for our money only. Jerry, who hangs out a great deal in such places, smiled gamely through the whole thing and seemed to be winning them over, when impatience and prior commitments prevailed and I was forced to leave. My sources told me that the event went on until "at least 6:30".
PS Not easily wound into the narrative, but of great note anyway, was the return of Nick and Margo, accompanied by their new hairy black son Bradley - we hope to see lots of all three of them in the future!