13~Carrot Juice with a Side of Wheatgrass, a Poet and a Turtle

New York City is certainly a vibrant place. I tune into dialogues, hear snippets of chatter and listen to conversations that never fail to amuse, amaze or entertain me. So having found my feet in this whirlwind of a city, I was innocently heading home (from yoga, downtown- a little sweaty and in my yoga get up) and stopped off for a carrot and ginger juice just to keep me going until Lydia got home for dinner. Little did I know, I was about to engage in a conversation that may just have been deemed unusual.

A man (in his 50's, maybe 60's), joins me at the counter and orders a shot of wheatgrass. He is clutching what looks like a "Dunkin' Donuts" iced coffee (quite possibly butter pecan flavoured; it is heavily advertised and I see many people clutching these large and very unhealthy looking beverages). But I try not to judge his choice of tipple, although certainly the two seem to contradict each other or perhaps balance each other out, I guess. He asks me what I have ordered but before I can tell, he gives me an aside about how he now realises the benefits of wheatgrass when back in the day people were concerned about its effect on the body. I must have looked surprised at this. He went on to say, with a hand motion, "Well, it was thought that if you drunk it, it would go straight through you." Hmmmm. He quickly moved on, perhaps seeing my surprise- this was not a very princess like conversation! I disclosed my drink of choice, explaining that it reminded me of back home and it supposedly works wonders for your hair and skin, if drunk regularly (sworn by my friend, Moy- who does indeed have wonderful skin and hair). He asks where back home is. I said North of England. Where exactly he asked. I said Leeds. I have never said Leeds before- with the children in the Bronx at homework club, they all could not get past London so that was just where Lyd and I are from to them. Even that is quite mind blowing as they can not quite imagine England, a land so far away with red buses and tea. So some strange knee jerk reaction, I said somewhere I thought he may know. He says he does not know Leeds, but does have an uncle that was involved in the movie industry back in the day and his last name is Leeds. He begins to show me on his phone, some images of the movies, directed by his uncle, that are currently being restored. Do I know a place called Hull? Yes, yes! Actually that is where I am from! I never say it because people hardly have heard of it! This guy just brushes over that, not thinking it that strange that I told a lie. I am a little annoyed with myself for not saying it in the first place. Not because he actually knows it, but I have always been proud to say where I am from. We are a City of Culture now, so perhaps we will be more on the map, even across ponds and oceans. 

I realise that this guy does not think it strange or it does not even take him off his trajectory because he is very much in his own bubble. As I pass him his wheatgrass and his change (he is absorbed in his sharing and the juicer man has others to serve), I hear him quoting Philip Larkin and talking generally about his poetry. This guy is very knowledgeable. I talk about Mama's Richard working in his office at Hull University, the statue in the train station and the frog statues we had around our city. So, it turns out this guy is actually a famous poet (not to me, but in the poetry circles!). We are stood outside now, on Broadway and 102nd, the whole NYC world going by. He shows me his books and recent reviews on his phone and says he is struggling with something he is writing; he talks a lot and I can not follow it all, some of it is about poetry and a lot about Larkin, both of which I know nothing! He is talking about a turtle. I can talk about turtles: I love turtles! I was snorkelling in the Maldives and one swam beside me- it was amazing. My dad has been back to Turkey twice, just to see the turtles. Have you read Esio Trot by Roald Dahl? I asked. That is a great piece of writing concerning a turtle. No, he has not read it. He interjects my blathering: Do I want to see a turtle? It is only on 101st. Do I want to see a turtle? I think for a split second and I guess I do. I wonder if he means a statue, or maybe a turtle in a pet shop. 

So we start walking down the street and around the corner. He swears at a taxi driver (we were crossing when there was a very clear, not flashing red hand) and is blathering on to me. I begin to realise this turtle is obviously in his apartment and must be real. A few doubts creep into my mind. I would definitely tell the children never to go with strangers but at the same time, I feel like this guy is legit and I kind of want to see the turtle now. Sometimes you have to trust your gut. We enter the building and there are people around, I am making a few mental notes just in case I am walking into a trap. We go up the staircase and into his apartment, he leaves the door slightly ajar and I am comforted by that. There is masses amount of books and quite a lot of crap everywhere. Beneath and beyond all of that, this is a beautiful place. A sort of tortured artist type pad, someone that lives in between worlds. We move into the kitchen and sure enough, here is the turtle. He is called T. His behaviour is pretty incredible. Apparently this poet watched him for hours and he is very attached to him. Calling him sweetheart, getting me to stand close to the tank (he loves women and responds differently to them??), explaining his movements to me. I have to say that this turtle, this ancient creature, is incredible. I feed him some chicken. T's favourite food. The poet is aware I have to go, I am meeting my friend and she will be worried about me because I am now late, I tell him (a little lie). He does try and keep me with stories and I notice he is sweating profusely. It makes me a little nervous and wary. It would be incredibly annoying and foolish to be murdered here, at the promise of seeing a turtle, at the beginning of a worldwide adventure. As much as a little doubt creeps in, I push it out because I do know I am safe. He kindly gives me two of his poetry books, inscribing one from him and T. They are very beautiful books. We exchange email addresses. He would like to share some of the poems about T with me. T has allegedly responded well to me, in fact he does not want me to go. T does seem to be craning his neck, taking in the movement in the corridor as I begin to leave. The poet says I have inspired him to write and he thinks he can sit down and get right to it. I blab quickly about the blog and say how tricky I can find it to sit down and write, but I tell him I have some material right here. He ends on the note of, "Some people would say it is strange to meet a woman in the juice bar and bring her up to meet a turtle but they just do not understand the wonder of T." I kind of have to agree on both accounts. 

I scurry home, clutching the books. Bemused by the experience, touched by the gift of the books. I Skype with Mama Wolff who is not impressed that I so willingly went to a stranger's house. Richard is meanwhile googling the poet, who in fact has a juicy list of credentials. A genuine New York experience? Mama Wolff reckons yes and no- only you, Jessica Wolff! Minutes later an indecipherable email comes through from my poet friend. I am a tad weirded out. Some of the text I think is possibly poetry about our meet and some may be the poems he is working on to do with T. I know not how to respond. So I respond by sending a rather polite thank you and I copy and paste the summary of Esio Trot from Wikipedia. I tell him that the character Ms Silver feels very attached to her turtle Alfie, just the way he does to T. This is the extent of my literary frame of reference. When Lyd gets back and we regale our daily events, she casts her eyes over the email. She understands these things as she goes out with a poet and is a bit of a brain box. Conclusion: some of it nonsense and the kind of lovesick stuff stupid Cambridge types might write. Oh. Well, it was all rather unusual, I have to say. It made for an interesting post yoga experience. Maybe in the future I will just stick to carrot juice without the side of wheatgrass, poet or a turtle! Aside from good hair and skin though, where would have been the fun in that?

Here he is: T the turtle