Suddenly, the city that never sleeps seems awfully far away. It seems, well, rather sleepy. After passing under the Spuyten Duyvil Bridge, the boat emerges from the puny Harlem River into the mighty, expansive Hudson. To the left, Inwood Hill Park sits undemonstratively, coating the northern tip of Manhattan in a tranquil blanket of atypical greenery. To the right, the New Jersey shoreline has eschewed its usual high-rise competitive spirit to become gently bucolic.
The whole scene feels like rounding a bend in a rural stretch of a European river. But this is arguably the most pulsating city on Earth, showing off its gentler side.
This wasn’t what it was meant to be about. Classic Harbor Line’s two-and-three-quarter-hour cruise around Manhattan is supposed to be all about the architecture. As the on-board American Institute of Architects guide Joseph Lengeling says: “This is all about the edge. It’s where the buildings become individual rather than part of a single mass.”
Sure enough, it starts in a blizzard of starchitects. Jean Nouvel, Renzo Piano and Frank Gehry crop up shortly after the departure from the Chelsea Piers, all given licence to put their thumbprints over a once down-at-heel area of the city that has been rejuvenated at least in part by the High Line.
That remarkably successful piece of urban transformation – a former elevated train line has been turned into a long, snaking park lined with sculptures – has seen the area become intensely desirable. There’s plenty of money for flashy new developments.
Further south, Lower Manhattan’s new skyline is dominated by New York’s new tallest building – One World Trade Center. But for Lengeling, the Battery Park City area to the west of the Financial District has more sentimental appeal. He worked on the Stuyvesant High School in the district that brought residential life back to Lower Manhattan.
Battery Park City is built on the Hudson, or rather, landfill excavated from the original World Trade Center site and dumped in the Hudson – and it fits a common theme in New York. Much of the real estate that has prime water views is given over to affordable housing and projects for those on low incomes.
These are most noticeable around the East River, where chunky red-brick high-rises bulk up the shoreline. And the reason that these projects have prime, desirable real estate was that the real estate wasn’t at all desirable when they were built.
“This used to be known as Blood Alley due to all the slaughterhouses,” says Lengeling. The waterfront was not an area you’d choose to live by choice.
There are still plenty of hints that being riverside wasn’t particularly appealing. The massive Brooklyn Navy Yard and a big power plant occupy far more space than the slinky glass high towers gradually being introduced to transform patches of urban wasteland.
Amidst this is the UN complex, with Le Corbusier’s hulking utilitarian tower soaring above the General Assembly Hall and sculpture-strewn grounds. Approaching from the land, you could be forgiven for thinking the UN chose one of the best spots in Manhattan as a grand statement. The opposite is true when seen among its surroundings from the water – it was gifted the land that was most expendable.
The circumnavigation of Manhattan continues under the city’s great bridges, passing Harlem and the Bronx. And the longer it goes on, the less it feels to be about marvelling at individual buildings. It’s about the surprisingly staggering variety. On land, New York can feel intensely, overpoweringly uniform. From the water, there’s a multitude of different views, different pasts and different perspectives.
The classic perspective, of course, is the one from the Staten Island Ferry. In a city overburdened with clichés, the half-hour journey from Lower Manhattan to the drowsy, suburban fifth borough is one of the most perpetually appealing.
Every day, tens of thousands of people make the free crossing of New York Harbor on the chugging ferries. Most are commuting to work from Staten Island, but many coming the other way are coming for the gratis boat trip and classic skyline views, then coming straight back again with barely a thought given to exploring Staten Island itself.
It is not New York’s only great ferry journey, however. In recent years, the ferry to Governors Island has become a popular escape for New Yorkers, especially in the sticky summer months.
The island is an odd place, best described as a park in progress. Formerly a coastguard training station, New York State purchased it from the US government for US$1 in 1995. Since then, all manner of projects have been on the go. Hills are being created out of demolition debris, trees and flowers are being planted and an oyster cultivation scheme is aiming to bring back the shellfish that were once prevalent in the harbour.
The most famous New York island of all, however, is one with a rather recognisable statue on it. Liberty Island is best reached by boat with Statue Cruises, which runs numerous trips out there from Lower Manhattan every day.
The sheer enormity of the Statue of Liberty only properly strikes when close up. It stands on top of an old fort, and it’s possible to see the joins in the 300-plus sheets of copper that form her outer skin. Everything was shaped in France, then shipped over and assembled around an iron framework designed by Gustave Eiffel (of Eiffel Tower fame).
The second leg of the Statue Cruises jaunt is more unexpectedly fascinating, though. Ellis Island is Liberty Island’s sister, and got the personality instead of the looks.
Ellis Island was once the major gateway to a new world and a new life. Between 1892 and 1924, over 12.5 million immigrants were processed there, most coming from Europe to earn money, escape persecution or join family members who had already migrated. The likes of Bob Hope, Irving Berlin and Bela Lugosi passed through before they were famous.
Most of the main building is now devoted to one of the most gripping museums on Earth. It charts how North America was populated – not just from the 18th- and 19th-century migrants processed at Ellis Island – and delves into individual experiences. It’s a barrage of endearing anecdotes, shocking detail and historical knowledge. At one point you’re learning how the banjo came from Africa and somehow became the bedrock of bluegrass music, the next it’s discovering the questions asked to screen out the insane and feeble-minded at Ellis Island.
One such question was: “Would you wash steps from bottom to top or top to bottom?” And one immigrant’s reply passed into legend. “I didn’t come to America to wash steps,” was the perfect response that summed up the expectations of those being screened.
Until recently, the rest of the Ellis Island complex had been off limits. But now it has been opened up for visitors who advance book on to the special “Hard Hat” tour. Going around the old hospital wards, dusty corridors and hulking laundry rooms is partly about the history. But it becomes much more about the visuals.
The broken windows, the rusty old machines and the warped bed frames feel like something out of an apocalyptic zombie movie. Ellis Island was left abandoned for years, and that sense of decay and dereliction is incredibly powerful. It’s like stumbling through a ruined city long forgotten by mankind, and the quiet stillness stays in the mind long after leaving.
One final exploration of New York from the water is self-powered, courtesy of the Manhattan Kayak Company. Being low down on the bobbing waters of the Hudson in a kayak frames New York differently again. The city looks profoundly intimidating, with hundreds of separate developments trying to put their own brushstrokes on an already hyper-detailed canvas.
Sundown is closing in, but there are small lights tied to the front of the kayaks. Quite whether they’ll be of any use in terms of the passing ferries seeing them is another matter. There’s an element of thrill waiting for a gap in the traffic and sprint-paddling across.
With the sun gone, the skyscraper lights on and the water plunged into a murky blackness, Manhattan enters a different mood. The Empire State Building takes the lead in a light show of spires, but the car horns and sirens are muted. The low hum of tunnel traffic rumble, generators and ferry motors becomes the soundtrack. The city that never sleeps is snoring.
