Helping the Homeless with One To World and Midnight Run

I walk through the underground pass that connects New York’s Herald Square subway to the 33rd Street New Jersey PATH train most days.

As my boot heels clip the floor, worn smooth by hundreds of thousands of commuters over the years, the sound echoes off the blue and white scuffed walls. Men and women are tucked up against the sides of the tunnel, their feet pointing up towards the none-existent stars, next to heaped trolleys of belongings wrapped in brown tarpaulin and bound with string like old-fashioned presents.

Last night, I forfeited a Wednesday night of Greenwich Village Happy Hour(s) to help the homeless with the Midnight Run organization and One to World organization.

One cup of soup and a few sandwiches probably won’t change a homeless person’s life. But yesterday evening I got the chance to talk to men and women who had been ignored all day long. “The best thing isn’t the clothes or the food,” said one man. “It’s just people being here with a smile.” The irony was that this man gave me more food for thought than I could return. His perspective on life was nothing short of inspirational. I’d like to share just a few of his words -

“Even after the coldest winter, the warm always comes.”

“Only look down at someone if you are giving them a hand up.”

“In the winter, people are always too cold. In the summer, they are too hot. Sometimes, you have got to just be thankful with what you have.”

Midnight Run is a volunteer organization dedicated to finding common ground between the housed and the homeless. Find out more at www.midnightrun.org

One To World creates global citizens and inspires a peaceful world through one-of-a-kind programs in classrooms and communities. Find out more at www.one-to-world.org

NYC's Rough-Cut Diamonds: U.F.Os, Apocalyptic Weather & The Joker of Death

“Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius and it's better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring…” 

- Marilyn Monroe.

It only takes one breath of pretzel-scented air before you know that NYC is the most beautiful, mad, and completely ridiculous city that you'll ever have the divine pleasure to become acquainted with. 

In no other city will you spot a naked cowboy on your lunch break, grind with a leprechaun, or witness a traffic cop waving through mustard cabs on Broadway while (in the words of Snoop-D) popping it like it is HAWT.

There are enough restaurants in New York to eat somewhere new everyday for 54 years and never eat at the same joint twice. You'd definitely die of some form of cholesterol-induced heart attack after about year number four (give or take a few months, depending on how often you opted for low-fat ranch sauce) but one can dream. 

I have already sampled some pretty incredible NYC cuisine (shout out to the awesome fish shack in Williamsburg with margaritas so good I almost wept salty-lime tears) and come to learn not to question when it comes to American produce. (This chickenzilla breast is bigger than me, how? Why hasn't my bread gone mouldy after seven weeks? Wait, my sausage is actually a burger, is this normal?  All chewing gum is only available in strips, could I be stuck in a time warp of the nineties? What the hell is this strange piece of bright red meat in my Cuban sandwich?) 

U.F.Os: Unidentified Fried Objects. AKA: The hangover cure

And then there is the apocalyptic weather. I kid you not, the NY weather will mess you around more than Don Juan on Tinder.

Seriously. On Saturday, I sunbathed in Central Park. Men were topless, life was good.

On Sunday, shards of ice fell from skyscrapers onto the sidewalk, creating scenes worthy of 'The Day After Tomorrow'. The wind chill was so high that the Naked Cowboy nearly lost his most profitable asset. 

Another of NYC's roughly cut gems? The Subway. It's as creepy as it is brilliant, which is a bizarre cocktail by all accounts. Sights and smells which once would have made me wince are now familiar and inoffensive, a bit like growing accustomed to your eccentric aunt's moustache. The sight of a rat's tail as it flickers over the tracks, the guy taking a leak in the corner, the stalactites of rotting god-knows-what that drip from the grimy ceilings… A fuzzy-lipped kiss straight on the lips.    

I've even taken to making new friends on The Subway. All those lessons on Stranger Danger clearly paid off, especially at 3am after a night on the razzle.  One guy had seven black stitches in his face, a quilted overcoat so large that it covered three plastic seats, and a well-thumbed pack of cards in his grasp like some form of Dickensian pilferer. The deal clincher? Every single last card was a joker, and his favourite happened to be the Joker of Death. What else? 

The pleasure was all mine.

Mum, if you're reading this, he was actually a very lovely chap. I never thought he might take me hostage in his huge Lord of the Rings overcoat. Not once. 

Tartan Day Parade: Bagpipes and Belhaven

Once a year, the entire Scottish community of NYC (top-to-tail in tartan) congregates in Midtown to march ten blocks, from W45th up 6th Avenue to 55th. I’m not even Scottish, but I signed up with my Glaswegian pal Morvern (Girls who drink together, march together… err, said no-one ever).

THIS GUY HAS A SWORD

What a surreal experience. Firstly, I didn’t actually realise we would be marching in the parade. I thought we’d just be waving a few blue and white flags from afar. So walking down the middle of 6th Ave, with hoards of Americans whooping and cheering from the sidewalk, was not what I was expecting when I woke up that morning with a slight hangover.

Who let these scamps in?

I’m still not quite sure why they allowed us to get involved. Quite frankly, we did not fit in with the uniformed groups of professional-looking bagpipe-players.

Dad's Army

And at one point, we were so busy taking pictures of each other on the traffic-free avenue that we got left behind and had to run to catch up… and the crowd clapped us along. God Bless America.

Probably the closest I will ever come to running the NYC marathon

After the parade, a group of us dedicated Scots headed to Shake Shack* in Grand Central for some much needed replenishment. Marching is exhausting.

*If you have never been to Shake Shack, you are missing out. Get on a plane, and go. It is the food of the Gods. Like mega-NOM.

And to top off Morvern’s special day of Scottishness, we went to a bar where it was free-drinks for all of the parade marchers.

Morvern's 'special' day

Now a free bar is generally like sweet bagpipe music to my ears, except that the flyer omitted to mention that the only free drink was a form of Scottish stout called Belhaven.

A word to the wise: Never, ever, drink a pint of Belhaven after a vanilla shake. It is not big, and it most certainly is not clever.

Let There Be Brunch

In America, they have this incredible concept that goes by the name of BRUNCH.

I’m not talking healthy elevenses here. Unlimited champagne based cocktails for two hours and a meal for anything between $20 to $70 (shrimp bar dive right through to lobster on white linen).

My first NY brunch was in Revels on Little West 12th St, a place with a huge courtyard in the back and Bellinis as the tipple of choice. The waiter had a serious quantity of botox in his face and even more filler in his top lip. It was like some strange optical illusion.

Revels, Little West 12th St. Bellini heaven.

Brunch is amazing, but equally lethal. I’ve heard tales of people dancing on tables by two. In the afternoon.

The funniest thing about brunching (yep, I love doing it so much that I've made it a verb) is that when you leave the restaurant it's still daylight, and most people around you are sober. Invariably, you are not. After Revels I nipped into a bar to use the ‘restroom’ and ended up getting a dozen photos with a 50+ barman who was sporting an excellent flat cap. It was great.

The journey back to Newport, New Jersey on a crowded PATH train… Not so great.