New York became my first American city. I could have spent the night in Manhattan and taken the morning bus to Cleveland, but my trip budget dictated its own rules. Furthermore, the absence of an American credit card turned out to be a serious obstacle: since the pandemic, most hotels require one to block a security deposit, while all I had was cash. Instead of Broadway — The Bus Terminal Initially, I planned to see Times Square in the evening. Back in the 1920s, this area was referred to as "the city's underbelly," and today it retains a somewhat notorious reputation. Locals tend to avoid the square due to pickpockets and aggressive individuals, yet there I was, spending the night waiting for my connection. I left the restaurant at nine in the evening. Despite the darkness, Sixth Avenue was teeming with people. I walked down to Bryant Park, glanced at the glowing advertisements of Times Square, and headed toward my destination — the Port Authority Bus Terminal. Port Authority: A City Underground The main NYC bus terminal opened in 1950. It is a monumental structure covering nearly 100,000 square meters, descending four stories underground. The history of the place is darker than its facade. In the mid-60s, the terminal gained a reputation as a haven for vagrants. Following a damning article in The New York Times, management installed surveillance cameras and beefed up security, yet the atmosphere remained unchanged. When I descended to the lower level where intercity buses depart, I saw a cross-section of society: the waiting hall was filled with African Americans, Latinos, and migrants from the East. There were very few white faces. My departure was delayed by only 15 minutes. Later I learned that this is standard practice for American buses. Announcements are usually made by staff, but our driver checked tickets himself, shouting out the destinations loudly, and waited exactly ten minutes for late passengers. Geography Through a Greyhound Window The bus turned out to be an older model, but the cabin was clean. A leather seat with an empty spot next to me felt like luxury for an intercity ride. We crossed the Hudson River into New Jersey, and then the road wound through Pennsylvania. It was there, at the intersection of highways I-84 and I-81 amidst the hills of Pennsylvania, that my first sleep on American soil finally came. Instead of a premiere on Broadway and a hotel room, my first night in America was spent in a seat on a Continental Lines bus. My backpack served as a pillow, and the engine's hum replaced a lullaby. But this is what real America looks like — not the postcard version, but the life rolling past outside the window. David Polyakov (Special Correspondent for API TV from New York, USA) MORE: White Among Blacks, Rich Among Poor: Survival in One of America's Dangerous Cities JFK — Manhattan: My First Steps in the USA Rockefeller Center: The Steel Flower of the Great Depression Cleveland: Where an Empire Was Born. The Story of Standard Oil and John D. Rockefeller Akron, "All-America City 2025": One Year After the Triumph Cleveland Marks the 70th Anniversary of the Council for International Programs (CIP) A Bridge Across Space: How a Bronze Gagarin Spoke to Cleveland Древние люди из Сунгиря. Экспедиция Андрея Полякова «По Пути Афанасия Никитина» #ДавидПоляков #USA #Clevelend #CIP #наука #Экспедиция #АндрейПоляков #APITV #ЭкспедицияАндреяПолякова #Путешествия #Туризм #Авто | |
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