At George Bush airport in Houston, every piece of luggage is searched and we are stripped naked. Then we spot Bush Sr himself, staring at us in his cowboy boots, writes Maryam d'Abo
I love NY. We decided to celebrate Christmas with friends in TriBeCa, the trendy neighbourhood favoured by artists and actors. We land at JFK and are struck by the surprising friendliness of the immigration officer. He is unusually animated as he speaks to the man ahead of us in the queue. He tells me, while checking my green card, that the man was General Custer's great-grandson. This has made his day - and ours, as he's in a great mood. A nice welcome to American soil during these uncertain times! Rather less welcoming is the bumpy cab ride into Manhattan. I'd forgotten how uncomfortable they could be. Our driver is permanently on a mobile, speaking in what we think is Arabic. We arrive at our hotel near the Lincoln Centre rather the worse for wear. But it's impossible not to embrace the New York Christmas buzz. The streets are lit up. People are everywhere.
I go to Barneys, the famous department store. I want to get a balaclava to warm my ears. I choose a colourful hat, but it doesn't fit. I pull and tug and swear under my breath - and then I realise that I'm trying a dog coat made out of wool! It shouldn't come as a surprise, as New York is so dog-friendly. They're sniffing the streets with their dog walkers or shopping in stores with their owners. When I go to Gap to try on jeans, a corgi comes to check me out in his trendy raincoat . . . he barks at me: I hope he approves.
On Broadway, we catch Tony Kushner's musical Caroline, or Change, a story about a black maid who works for a Jewish family, set in Louisiana in the 1960s. She struggles to find "her voice" within a prejudiced white society. George Wolfe's production is magical, and the theme seems extremely pertinent in today's America, where fear of terrorism and a repeat of 9/11 threaten human rights and reawaken bigotry.
We celebrate my birthday. Drinks at the Carlyle followed by late dinner at fabled Elaine's. The scriptwriter (and director and actor) James Toback (works include The Gambler and Bugsy, as well as a small role in Woody Allen's Alice) is table-hopping, armed with his personal theory on how to deal with the Palestinian problem. This sparks a debate between two camps at our table. At loggerheads are the openly Zionist producer "X" and the liberal author "Y". The producer is passionately pro-Israel, and enrages the writer with his monologue about how the fence that Ariel Sharon's government is building to "defend" the Israelis from their Arab neighbours should be, if anything, higher. The conversation then turns to the forthcoming US elections. The producer claims to be really torn over voting for George Bush: he can't stand his domestic policies - anti-gay, anti-feminist and anti-environment. Meanwhile, the liberal writer tells us that Russell Banks, the author, was detained and questioned on the Mexican border for expressing his political views against the war. Banks was already "under suspicion" because six months after 9/11 he said that the lives of the 2,752 people who died in the terrorist attacks were not necessarily more valuable than the lives of the Afghan civilians killed by the US army. He had also raised eyebrows by claiming that the unity of the American nation is based on fear. While the liberal writer praises Banks's courage, the producer gets angry. Thank goodness, my birthday cake arrives. Just in time.
We're awake at 4am, watching Meryl Streep snorting green orchid powder and riding Chris Cooper in Adaptation. I go to the deli to have cappuccino and read the New York Times: "Shootout in Rao's" - an Italian restaurant in Harlem known for the best pasta in town. Two men from the mob squabbled over a female singer - one killed the other at the restaurant. Welcome to Harlem. I go to Tower Records and hear a loud voice coming from a shrunken old man claiming he's the Messiah. He's come to save us from those missiles that are heading towards New York City. Somebody asks if we'll go to heaven. The old man replies: "Heaven is in a real mess and I'm here to rescue you . . . It's true . . . ask the girls who were in bed with me last night." Good catch for an 80-year-old!
We fly to Houston, on our way to the Mexican sun. At its entrance, George Bush Intercontinental airport has the world's most efficient security checkpoint for car bombs. Every piece of luggage is searched, and we are stripped naked. Then we spot George Bush Sr himself - cast in bronze and carrying a book called The New Wind - staring at us in his cowboy boots. Finally, the two-hour ordeal is over. My husband has a $2 shoeshine. (Some things don't change.) Between General Custer and Bush Sr, it's been an insightful week in the wild west.
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