Day 5 -So I accomplish a few things today but I will only focus on my trip to Harlem. This tale is about how a white guy who is clearly out of his depth can miss a tour of the Apollo Theatre (a tour he has already paid for mind) because he decides to alter with his own schedule. Please note that no one should take pity on the subject in question. It is his own fault.
So my aim is to make the 1pm tour of the historic Apollo Theatre. It is one of my must do sites on my trip and I am busting to check out the place where every great Soul artist worth a damn has plied their trade.
It is currently a little after midday and I am still in Midtown and busting to take a leak. I am also a little peckish but this is my secondary concern. I decide to try the old 'kill 2 birds' routine by going into a diner, order lunch and use the restroom.
The diner I pick isn't the cheapest (you win some, you blah blah some) but it does have a restroom and my bladder is thanking me, especially after ordering the Pepsi and the waiter offering to bring me tap water as well.
Ordered and relieved, I wait the longest time humanly possible to receive my Chunky Chicken Salad Sandwich. My 1pm tour is starting to look a little pear-shaped as the chefs in the back work their magic on the Chunky Chicken behemoth.
Smart move McPhee, real slick.
No matter as there is a 3pm tour as well. The sandwich finally arrives (I foolishly expect its entrance to be accompanied by the heralding of trumpets) and it is so huge I half expect that it needs its own building permit.
Lunch done with, I faff about for a bit and get in to Harlem at about 2:15. I hop off at 125th street and take in the surrounds of Harlem. It is everything I expected and nothing that I was hoping for. The island certainly changes North of Central Park that you assume you have landed in another city.
I walk the streets looking as conspicuous as a man on Viagra in a nudist colony. Considering every two bit street hustler is selling 'Genuine' Michael Jackson merchandise (who was whiter than my pale ass) this is the text book definition of absurdity.
I locate the Apollo and purchase my ticket for the 3pm tour. The lady behind the counter tells me to sing my lungs out when I go on stage. I am about to tell her of my drunken night when I ruined the Billy Joel songbook in a Karaoke Bar in Melbourne but think better of it.
With just over 40 minutes to kill and a face that hasn't met a razor in well over a week I decide to head to a Barbershop to get cleaned up. I spot one that looks exactly like a textbook Harlem Barbershop and I enter.
Imagine the deathly silence you hear in Westerns when the stranger enters the Saloon. That is me walking into the Barbershop.
Now there are about ten people in this narrow shop, a shop whose Air Conditioner is leaking from the inside and has lawsuit written all over its slip and slide linoleum. Now there are 2 barbers and 2 people sitting in the chairs (though there is an empty third chair and barber) so it has got me stumped what the other people are there for. Other customers perhaps? Half of them were a few weeks away from a cut and the rest were bald and clean shaven that their appearance in a Barbershop was suspect at best.
One guy in particular (I made him for a shifty Uncle) was in an all grey track gear outfit and taking generous pulls of his Malt Liquor bottle which for some reason was covered up in a plastic bag (as if anyone would mistake it for a Gatorade bottle).
I'm sitting on the bench awaiting my turn but the barbers seem to be in no such hurry, nor their customers for that matter (bar Opie over here). I wonder if they are in cahoots with the diner downtown but the delay here in Harlem is due to endless cell phone calls and a parade of characters walking in off the street to chat and then depart. I want to point out that this is a work day and why aren't these people at their place of employment but my travel insurance isn't fully comprehensive and I am still a season away from finding out what happens on 'Lost' so I let that one go.
Instead I wait patiently as once more the minutes tick away. At 2:45 and no end in sight I go to make my excuses and leave, promising that I will come back after the tour of the Apollo.
As I get up, one of the barbers points to me and says that I am up next. I want to tell him I no longer have the time but his demeanor suggests that I sit in the chair quick smart.
I am in no position to make any other suggestions.
I meekly sit down while my cut man appraises my scruffy condition. He asks if I would like to shape it into a goatee.
I am in no position to make any other suggestions.
The guy works meticulously, doing a helluva job. But he is going past 3 o'clock and it looks like I will miss the start of the tour. I want to tell him I am on a time limit but he is too busy either chatting/performing secret handshakes to new customers/drop-ins or talking on the phone to someone named Patrice who is looking for J.J. (the missing third barber).
Finally done and dusted by 3:10, I hightail it to the Apollo to try and catch up to the tour guide but alas when I get there the doors are shut.
I start cursing but frankly I look like an idiot. Defeated yet goateed I skulk my way back to the hotel hoping that I can exchange my ticket for a new one tomorrow.
Postscript: I return the next day getting a feeling of de ja vu as the doors to the Apollo are closed once more. How can this be? I am a quarter of an hour early for the 11am tour so I ask the security guard what gives. He tells me there is no 11am tour on a Saturday. I somewhat foolishly ask about the 1pm tour. It is at this juncture that he informs me there are no tours on a Saturday. I begin to point out that my Lonely Planet guide begs to differ however...
...I am in no position to make any other suggestions.
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