But I’m not strong enough. I keep heaving and pulling as I’m moving along with the carousel but I simply can’t get them off. As I knock a few more people out of the way, I hear cries of ‘Just take one and wait for the other!’ and ‘Let go!’ and ‘Bitch, youcrazy!’
‘Aaaaaargh,’ I hear someone saying quietly. Then I realise it’s me. I’m basically just bent over, walking my cases around the baggage carousel like dogs on leads, making weird noises every time I try to liftthemoff.
‘Heeeeelp!’ I yell. ‘Help meliftthem!’
A few seconds later a beefy guy grabs one of the cases, leaving me with the strength to grab the other with a loud cry and a stumble backwards into more planepassengers.
‘Oof! Sorry,’ I say, looking up to see that the beefy guy is actually airport security. He doesn’t lookimpressed.
‘No problem, ma’am,’ he sniffs. ‘It’s not like I have anything else to do beside, you know, protecting our great nation from the threat of those who want to attack the values of LadyLiberty.’
‘I’msorry.’
He responds with a roll of his eyes, striding off cockily. I feel my cheeks sting at his sarcasm. Everyone else at the baggage claim stares at me as if I am the worst. Worse than someone who wants to attack the values of Lady Liberty. Worse, even, than a queuejumper.
‘Sorry!’ I say to them, feeling beads of humiliation sweat forming on myforehead.
Man oh man, I am failing hard ateveryturn!
I’ve only been in New York for twenty minutes and already it’s a totalshitshow.
* * *
After a seriesof gentle disasters (not being able to find a trolley, annoying the cab driver by pulling up the information about where I was goingaftergetting into his car, and not being able to find my dollars when we reach the destination), we arrive outside a sixteen-storey building with a cream and red brick façade looking lovely in the brightsunshine.
Once the cab driver has deposited me onto the pavement, along with my cases, I look down at my phone to the emailBirdiesent.
Apartment 3C, 400 Riverside Way, Upper West Side,Manhattan.
Here I am then. My home for the nextfivedays.
Blowing the air out of my cheeks, I peer up and down the street. It’s a really, really long, wide road with huge, attractive red and cream buildings as far as I can see. I look at my watch. It’s only midday here, which feels weird. People are milling around, going about their days, walking their dogs and hailing yellow cabs to take them tolunch.
I try to gather the energy to heave-ho my cases towards the green canopied entrance when a middle-aged man in a blue uniform and matching hat hurries over and grabs them like they weighnothing.
This must be the doorman. Birdie’s instructions say he’s the one who’ll let me into theAirbnb.
‘I’m Olive,’ I tell him. ‘I’m here forapartment3C?’
‘Of course!’ he says warmly. ‘I’ve been expecting you. My name is Lloyd. If you can let me see your passport, I’ve been instructed to give you the keys to theapartment.’
I pull out my passport and Lloyd checks it withanod.
He grabs my cases and we get the lift up to the thirdfloor.
After depositing my cases inside, Lloyd gives me the number of the superintendent of the building, and an extra spare key. When he’s left, I take in my surroundings with a sigh of relief that I amfinallystill after an entire day ofmotion.
‘Bloody freaking hell!’ I groan, rubbing my eyes with a mixture of pure tiredness and pleasure at the studio space before me. The room isn’t big but it’s lovely and, more importantly, neat and airy. The floor is a slightly scuffed parquet, the ceilings are high and there’s panelling in the stark white walls. To the right of the room is a small open-plan kitchenette area with a full-size fridge and a two-hob cooker. I wander in and open cupboard doors and drawers. Plain white cups and plates, heavy steel cutlery and a small selection of pans. Nice. I open the fridge which holds nothing but bottled water, and the freezer which contains only a bottle of fancy-looking vodka and a tub of frozen yogurt. I’ll definitely have to goshoppingthen.
In the centre of the room there’s a small pale blue sofa that pulls out into a bed. I perch on it and give it a little bounce. As I do a little cloud of dust rises up, making mecough.
Ooh, I hope there are no bedbugs. I read something online about bedbugs being a serious issue in New York. I lean my face down to the fabric of the sofa to see if I can identify any bedbugs when I realise that I don’t have any clue what a bedbug looks like or even if they’re visible to the naked eye. I’m just a person pressing my forehead into a sofacushion.
Wiping my hands on my jeans, I get up and open a door on the right wall and peek my head around. It’s the world’s teeniest bathroom. A tiny person-sized toilet, like the kind you’d get in junior school. There’s also a very, very narrow glass column holding a shower. I try to step in. I barely fit! And, apart from my gigantic hair, I’m a pretty small person. I mime washing in the shower and realise I will have to keep my elbows in at my sides if I am to successfullydoit.
Back in the main room, I walk over to what are surely the room’s best features, two large rectangularwindows.
I take a peek out, only to find myself looking directly into someone else’s apartment in a different building! The person in there – a long-haired man of around forty who is wearing a khaki coloured vest and, from what I can ascertain, nothing on his bottom – half looks up at me from his rocking chair and scowls. Eeek. Creeptastic or what. I close the blinds as quickly as I possibly can and vow to never ever open themagain.
