We’ve been toying with the idea of following the cultural exploits of people across the world for some time, in fact since we enjoyed a series of ‘HomeTourist’ articles starting a few years back as it got people from Melbourne to Mexico tagging their local day’s out for a while. So we’re starting with a friend we’ve made in New York, Frances Uku, who kicks proceedings off by sharing something significant to her this weekend; Thanksgiving.
A week after university, I moved to Manhattan. My very first rental as a formally-educated adult was a poorly-lit basement flat on the Upper West Side, within shouting distance of Central Park. Like most girls my age, my steps were ordered by Sex and the City – so in spite of New York City’s consisting of five official boroughs – only Manhattan, “The City”, would do. This was before Girls, before Lena Dunham, before Brooklyn was the spawn of Posh and D. Beckham. I knew no one in my new county of residence, hence my sole companion was t’wireless – in particular, 1010 WINS – a local traffic and weather station that promised, most convincingly, ‘YOU GIVE US 22 MINUTES, WE’LL GIVE YOU THE WORLD.’ I had little reason to doubt.
I shared this first dungeon flat with two other recent grads -both young, foolish, and foreign, as was I. One of them grew up in New Delhi, and proved an apt companion for trips to the West Village to buy tea, chocs, and UK magazines. In those wild, heady days, we’d often fill shopping baskets (and our faces) at Myers of Keswick’s on Hudson Street, sniff smelly stuff at Murray’s Cheese Shop on Bleecker, then hit Magnolia Café for cupcakes and Thanksgiving pumpkin pie (again, see: Sex and the City.) But we were not the first to adventure forth in this fashion.
In July 1620, the Mayflower first set off from London, stocked up on food and supplies in Southampton, made a final stop in Plymouth, then hoisted sail for America. The Pilgrims had intended to hit the Hudson River, but first happened upon Cape Cod. There they settled, there began Thanksgiving, and there continued the British tradition of supping at table on foreign soil (pillaging and decimating indigenous populations aside, of course – but we mustn’t spoil the appetite!)
Neither must we steer too far off course: this is a column about gratitude, after all. I was not born in the North (of England), but it is where my relatives now reside, and I’ve countless reasons to swear fealty to the Yorkshire Dales. A few summers ago, under stress from life as an actor in Los Angeles, plus some grief over the sudden death of my dad, I was sectioned in a low-security psychiatric hospital in Wyke, very near Halifax. The details are best saved for another time, but I freely admit the combined forces of my family, various NHS care teams in West Yorkshire, and lots of nature walks on Ilkley Moor are the sole reason I’m sat here in Brooklyn writing you this today. After a life plagued by mental illness, my aunt died this month in Lagos, where I am also from. I’ve only faint childhood memories of her, yet we are linked: obviously by blood, but also by bizarre acquaintance with the DSM. Circumstance was kinder to me. For this, naturally, I am grateful.
Oh, and I now live in Brooklyn. Home to all things literary, hip, and boldly British – as my neighbours Martin Amis, Emily Mortimer, and Patrick Stewart (son of Yorkshire) will attest. Even for this, I am grateful. My daily brekkie might now come from excellent bakery Bien Cuit on Smith, or from Building on Bond (why indeed, on Bond Street.) For our Thanksgiving meal this year, my brother and both our significant others have opted to dine out at Rucola, a jewel in a neighbourhood already rather blessed with options on the fine dining front. It’s a gem on the drink front too, for which we can thank Brooklyn Inn, vintage pub on Hoyt Street, which famously stars in the 1995 Paul Auster scripted film Smoke. For books, I need stroll no further than a few blocks for in person appearances by Zadie Smith, Tom McCarthy, and more of their sort. Literary hotspots of note are BookCourt, Greenlight, BAM, Powerhouse Arena, and WORD. Thank Gotham for Brooklyn. Hurricane-turned-Superstorm Sandy largely spared our bit of the borough, but from taking in friends and volunteering afterwards in areas more devastated, I saw enough to inspire humility. I lost little. For this too, I am grateful.
I got a dog last year – a Boston Terrier beauty from Sean Casey Animal Rescue, a superb shelter in Windsor Terrace (again: Brooklyn place, British name.) She’s called Quincy (after the “City of Presidents”, just south of Boston) and I’m completely potty for her every clever trick or cock of the head. A most excellent writing muse she is, too. For my second Thanksgiving in the company of my pup, I am grateful.
That I cannot recall how I first connected with The Culture Vulture community is likely a testament to the magnetism of Emma Bearman. One is duty-bound to express gratitude to one’s editor (and she honestly is the best, is Emma), but there’s also thanks I owe Twitter – which tells me who and what’s worth listening to, or reading, or bothering to show up to in person. This works for any city, giving me my prized reputation for seeming in all places at once. All from my teeny mobile phone – might we spare a few thanks for technology? My audio allegiance lately lies with WNYC, to which I listen as guided by their Twitter feed. As my friend Annie Correal tweeted the other day: ‘It’s a little strange that phones have saved radio.’ Quite. I’ve also connected with far more Yorkshire creative types than I can name, and exciting stuff’s always popping up in the North, from what this New Yorker observes.
So from Gotham City, from America, I bid Happy Thanksgiving to Yorkshire, and to all Ye Northerne Counties. I’m keen on holidays that make sense, and for me, this one involves food, family, and a fair bit of reflecting. Lagos-born Leeds and London girl, salted and cured in California, honour-bound to dog-gone Brooklyn, spiritually sworn to Ilkley Moor. Wherever I’m with or without (baht t’at), that’s my home.
Frances Uku is a professional actor who has done plays, films, and telly. She’s also a writer for literary journals and magazines. Home is somewhere between Brooklyn and LA/London/Lagos/Leeds. She may be found on Twitter (@missuku), on IMDb, and at francesuku.com
Frances suggests you read Enduring Thanksgiving by Will Boast, in The New York Times