Dylan in NYC

First published in The Western Mail (UK), 2014.

Some people live in New York because they were born in New York and saw no reason to move. Others migrated here for a number of curious reasons. Some like myself came for the day, and decided to stay. Got off the plane, and forgot to get on again. Big lights, beckoning calls, music halls, taxi cabs. Transvestites delight amongst the throngs of tourists. Cameras pointing the way to the great-white-way of Broadway and off it. Off-off-off it…

I meander down the cobbled streets of Greenwich Village today, a Spring day with the sun shining bright. The chill is just cold enough to excuse my big rimmed hat and layered bohemian stylings. Once upon a time no one would have cared, given a second glance at my appearance. This is, after all the home of the beat poets and the abstract literati.

Here, I stand at a cross road. Christopher street. Downtown Manhattan at it’s finest. Nothing like the Times Square “Crossroads to the World” (I still don’t understand that slogan). There are no Lion Kings here, but there are a few good old fashioned pubs. I know which cross roads I would rather be at. This one.

Greenwich Village the playground of Kerouac, Cummings and Burroughs to name a few. I pass by The Minetta Tavern, the San Remo Cafe and of course The White Horse Tavern, now synonymous with Dylan Thomas’ untimely death. “The Horse” as it was affectionately known was often alive with jaunty debate, song and poetry. Editors, writers, essayists and fans alike would sit at the pew of The Horse drinking, toiling and talking far too loud! What a raucous bunch these writers were. E.E Cummings was said to leave the tavern many a’night a’stumble and on the way home would taunt the recluse Djuna Barnes calling out from the street — “Tell us; are you still alive Djuana?” You’d get a ticket for that nowadays.

Armed with my iPhone, a pair of headphones and a large coffee I am ready to take my first ever walking tour. Nine years in New York City, and it’s only right that my first tour should be the Dylan Thomas in NY tour. A gentle voice, reassuring and kind welcomes me to the journey. I am at once soothed by the familiar dulcet tones of home and instantly aware of how unaware I am of the city. Crossing the road is a challenge for me at the best of times, my minds eye wandering all over the place, dreaming of everything, anything other than cars. Of which there are many. I walk these streets, peering into the windows up high, imagining the gatherings, the wine, the pontification and the passion that once lived there. The romance of it all.

I recently spent an evening with a friend and teacher at her Greenwich Village apartment. She lives but steps away from Church of St. Luke’s in the Field, the place of Dylan Thomas’ memorial service. She and her husband are both writers and, as we sipped on a glass of red wine; Cusi flanked by a big red cat and a roaring fireplace, she casually joked that they might be the only writers left in the Village. She might be right. I live in Brooklyn, as do most of my friends. There are still some hold outs from the old days though… Every now and then, you see them patrolling the streets.

I continue with the walk.

The act of walking in this great mans shoes from half a century ago is a surprisingly sad one.

I fear that these streets are haunted. Listen carefully and you can hear the words that once flowed out from the coffee shops, the Cherry Lane Theater and bars. You must listen carefully though, otherwise you may be fooled into thinking that this Village is home only to Monica, Chandler and rest of that unbohemian lot. That the only place worth visiting is a bakery that was once on Sex in The City, or the home of a girlfriend in Seinfeld. Packs of pedestrians follow their guide to see the “reality” or their favorite TV shows.

I smile and think of what Thomas would think of this. He’d probably find it all quite funny.

The guide is still talking, and my mind wonders to a memory that has been long buried. My first visit to NYC. I came with my dear friend and then boss, Stifyn Pari. We were arranging a SWS party (Social Welsh & Sexy) in the heart of midtown Manhattan for Saint David’s Day. Many meetings were held, much work was done, and of course the obligatory celebratory shenanigans were had. Following a night at the Bowery Poetry Club (now sadly gone), hosted by poet Owen Sheers, a group of us ended up at a late night party in the bowels of the Hotel Chelsea. There isn’t much I remember from that night other than bright neon lights, animal prints and vodka. I do however remember causing a fuss in the lobby of Hotel Chelsea. They wouldn’t let me and my new friend Mr. Sheers, (friend all of ten minutes), an opportunity to walk the corridors where Dylan Thomas had stayed. We are Welsh, it was our right. I woke up the next day deathly embarrassed and nursing a hefty hangover. Dylan would have been proud.