Family Finds New York Full of Good Surprises

The wildest, busiest, glitziest and most unpredictable city in the world . . . and we’ve arrived.

From Central Park to Chinatown, over the Hudson River to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. The Paget family is exhausted and inspired by the biggest man-made tourist attraction on Earth.

We are able to bop till we drop in a friendlier, cheaper, cleaner and safer Manhattan than we ever expected.

“I will never forget this,” our 5-year-old son Henri tells us, standing on top of the World Trade Center. “Even when I die I will remember,” he says, looking wide-eyed across the sprawling panorama of the Big Apple.

Our New Jersey landlords, Grandma and Grandpa Nardelli, are our seasoned New York City guides. The journey begins with a drive through the Lincoln Tunnel to Manhattan.

“There is only one way to get around this city in a car,” Grandma Nardelli says as we bounce through an intersection heading uptown. “Beep and drive.”

We are waved into the Lincoln Center parking lot by a break-dancing parking attendant spinning wildly in the middle of 65th Street. Welcome to New York.

Our visit to Manhattan coincides with the first sunny day after a week of rain washed the city clean. Even the people who are talking to the trees in Central Park seem cheerful.

We walk through Strawberry Fields, John Lennon’s grass- and tree-covered memorial garden near the Dakota apartment building where he was shot 12 years ago. Nearby, photographers snap away at models as we eat our picnic lunch on a large grass field in Central Park called Sheep Meadow. The sparkling skyline surrounds us, and the air is peppered with the noise of traffic and emergency sirens.

Walking down Fifth Avenue, we find the “mother of all toy stores,” F.A.O. Schwarz. Henri and Matilda are let loose for 15 crazy minutes. Outside on the wide sidewalks, we soak up the street energy that is New York. People, people and more people walking quickly in all directions. Suits and short dresses. Steam rises from manholes. Honk . . . honk . . . squeal.

Doormen wearing bow ties stand seriously outside classy stores and apartments. At “The Donald’s” Trump Tower, there is blinding gold chrome glitz, but no sight of Marla or Ivana.

We run with the city: A subway ride for cappuccino and biscotti at Ferrara’s, a 100-year-old sweet shop on Grand Street in Little Italy. A city bus ride wisks us down Broadway to the World Trade Center, the second-tallest building in the world (Chicago’s Sears Tower is tallest) and a complex so large it has its own ZIP code. We take an ear-popping, 107-floor ride straight up to the top of Manhattan. At street level, this city is a mad, chaotic creation, but from the top of the world it is peaceful and orderly. The only noise on the observation roof is a cool wind rushing around our ears.

Back to Earth, there’s no need for us to pay $60 for a Broadway show. Observing New Yorkers shout at each other between street-side vegetable and fish stands is pure theater. “Nothing is free in New York except death,” we hear one vendor tell a customer.

He was half wrong. The Statue of Liberty and the now-restored Ellis Island Immigration Museum are free--but there is a charge for the round-trip ferry ride from Battery Park to the island, the busy gateway to America for more than 12 million immigrants in the early 1900s.

It has recently undergone a $160-million renovation, but some things have not changed that much from the old days. We file out of a boat packed with people. The giant, hollow registry hall echoes with accents and foreign languages. Films, artifacts and personal accounts help us turn the clock back.

A shuttle boat motors us over to the Statue of Liberty--Henri’s New York highlight. “I think this must be the biggest statue in the whole world,” he says.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

We decide to skip a two-hour staircase walk to the statue’s crown, and instead stroll around the base under her shadow, feeling quite privileged to be here.

Back in New York City, on our subway trip north under Manhattan, the train doors shut, signaling the start of another show. Two rappers, about 12 years old, perform for tips on the floor of the train. The dancers are among numerous regular subway entertainers. We are told about a saxophone extortionist who is paid not to play, and a steel drummer who’s only tune is “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

We choose subway stations after checking with the local police to make sure they are safe. The trains we ride are clean, air-conditioned, well-lit and we feel safe. Our biggest surprise is the friendly people.

“Why do New Yorkers get such a bad rap?” we ask a subway rider who has just given our daughter, Matilda, his seat. “Don’t worry, you’ll probably get mugged at the next stop,” he says with a hearty laugh.

We don’t! Walking back to the car, in the warm twilight, we find a gathering of “beautiful” people at the Lincoln Center fountain waiting for a performance of the New York Ballet. Around the corner, our dancing parking lot attendant is still gyrating for business eight hours later.

That’s our cue. The Paget family joins in the dance, twisting and turning to the noise of the traffic in the middle of 65th Street.

We are definitely in a New York state of mind.