They say New York is a city for walking, so I decided to find out for myself

Now that the city is slowly emerging from lockdown, Holly Baxter has braved scorching heat and dodgy bridges for a nice long stroll

The walk was a good way to burn off an overpriced lunch (AFP/Getty)

Back in February, one of my good friends from the UK moved to New York City. I was excited – being an expat who moved to NYC in my thirties, I had to leave most of my friendship group behind in London and I knew making friends wouldn’t be as easy as it might be as a student – and I envisaged lengthy Saturday brunches on the Upper West Side, Sundays in Central Park and weekday nights getting beers in my favourite bars in Brooklyn. We’d take the boat to Governors Island for the day, we’d sunbathe during beach trips to the Rockaways and we’d shelter from early spring snow in speakeasies.

Or so we thought.

It will come as no surprise to hear that we have yet to do any of these things, thanks to the coronavirus pandemic and subsequent lockdown. My friend spent the first few weeks of her New York experience unable to leave her apartment, in the epicentre of a global emergency while also trying to unpack furniture that slowly made its way across the Atlantic. We met for a walk and a coffee in March, just before the stay-at-home order, and we hadn’t seen each other since – until a couple of days ago, when I decided that enough was enough. Having not visited Manhattan in months, I decided that now New York has entered Phase Three (allowing outdoor drinks and dining), I would leave Brooklyn and give a new British transplant a bit of a taste of the East Coast life she was missing.

I kept becoming paranoid that someone might sneak up behind me and chuck me through one of the large holes in the flimsy fence, leading me to career into the dark river below

New York has the reputation of being a walking city, same as London, Paris or Lisbon. Unfortunately, a walking city in America isn’t quite the same as a walking city in Europe. Outside of New York in the US, most people have cars – and when I say cars I mean SUVs – and think nothing of driving five minutes down the road for a coffee. In New York, the streets actually have pavements – a big plus, which puts it miles ahead of Texas or California – but the coffee shop is probably the same distance away, and it will take you twenty minutes to get that iced frappuccino from Dunkin Donuts, whether you like it or not.

So when I say that I decided to make the trip from Brooklyn to Manhattan to meet a friend, I don’t mean it was simple. Most people I know are still avoiding the subway – a lot of stations even have posters in asking: “If you’re not an essential worker, what are you doing here?” – so I decided to walk the bridges across the East River. It started off nice enough: the Brooklyn Bridge is an idyllic ramble, with wooden boardwalk-type footing and American flags flying proudly off the top while that iconic Manhattan skyline shimmers at you from across the water and the Statue of Liberty holds her torch aloft to your left. It was hot – 29C at 6pm, which should demonstrate exactly why I would never recommend walking around New York in July in the middle of the day – but I enjoyed it. I arrived in Tribeca an hour later, still sprightly, if slightly sweaty. My friend and I slipped into the garden of a little Italian place and had overpriced octopus salads with spicy goats’ cheese on the side. Then we meandered along the Hudson for a while, watching the sunset bounce off buildings in New Jersey and chatting about how life had been in the intervening weeks and when either of us might be able to see our families in Europe again.

Around 9pm, I began the long walk back home – and boy, did it feel long. Disoriented from weeks away from Manhattan, I took a wrong turn and ended up walking through Chinatown, the golden dragons in fairy lights connecting streets and Cantonese signage on shops announcing to me that I wasn’t following the same route I’d came. That meant the bridge I was approaching was the Manhattan Bridge, a much less pleasant version of its Brooklyn counterpart, where the way across is simply a concrete slab with plastic diamond fencing on the sides, shoved up against a highway and a busy subway line. It was loud and unpleasant and mainly deserted apart from traffic, and although the lights of the skyline twinkled prettily in the dark as an aesthetic distraction, I kept becoming paranoid that someone might sneak up behind me and chuck me through one of the large holes in the flimsy fence, leading me to career into the dark river below.

Needless to say, that didn’t happen. Instead, at the very end of the Manhattan Bridge, I was treated to the calming view of people on the hilly slopes of Dumbo (the riverside Brooklyn neighbourhood so-called because it’s Down Under the Manhattan Bridge) having nighttime picnics surrounded by lanterns. It was a nice end to the journey, even if my feet did hurt a lot from pounding the concrete. I certainly felt like I’d burnt off that octopus salad.