Diary - 30 December 2006

New York

The highlight of my year was undoubtedly interviewing George Clooney. I don’t mean to be star-struck, but in the presence of the square-jawed one my professional façade went Awol. The United Nations is usually a bit short on glamour, but on the day George came to talk about Darfur, a little bit of Hollywood rubbed off on my world. He swept in with an entourage of 50, including the compulsory bossy PR, who kept trying to interrupt and spoil my brief few minutes with George. He was, I can report, devastatingly well briefed on the Darfur peace agreement. ‘What was he like?’ asked Husband, casually, via email. I crossed my fingers, looked heavenward for guidance, and tapped back with great difficulty — ‘that look is so 2006’.

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Ban ki-moon, who takes over from Kofi Annan as UN Secretary-General on 1 January, is not quite up there with George Clooney in the acting stakes. But he does have a certain something. At the annual UN correspondents’ association dinner in December, Mr Ban brought the house down by singing ‘Ban ki-moon is coming to town’. Edith Lederer of the Associated Press and I looked at one another in shock. We had been planning to surprise the audience with a farewell duet to Kofi to the tune of ‘Arrivederci Roma’. Mr Ban stole our thunder — and solo, too. Cometh the hour, we traipsed up and did our bit. Mr Ban was kind enough to congratulate us, but victory was his.  

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Thankfully, by the time you read this the Happy Holidays season will be nearly over. The sight of Christmas trees in New York weighed down with every kind of religious greeting will be but an unpleasant aesthetic memory. The piped music with the obligatory ‘It’s the most wonderful time of the year’ will be consigned to the dustbin of memory. For 12 months at least. As a small act of rebellion, I tried to teach my oldest son ‘Away in a Manger’, hoping this carol might somehow subversively work its way into his First Grade Sing. But no. As I sat hopefully in the front row for the event itself, it was ‘Rudolph’ and ‘Frosty’ yet again. I began to long for the flight to Heathrow, and the greeting from the pilot on landing — ‘We’d just like to take this opportunity to wish you all a merry Christmas.’ Such nostalgia can only be a sign of advancing age.  

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There is nothing quite so terrifying as the sight of a Type A New York mother in full swing. This individual has usually given up her high-powered CEO job in order to devote herself to raising a brood. The intensity once reserved for spreadsheets is now transferred to school fund-raising. The charm and clout applied to professional networking are used to propel one’s offspring up the New York social ladder. Raising an accomplished child is the goal — and so every after-school minute is scheduled, from chess to tennis to French. This modern-day Lady Carbury is for ever putting pen to paper to advance the cause of her small people. Luckily, our children’s school is robust in the face of the Supermom. Asked by one pained over-achiever why teachers didn’t provide ice skating and other challenging after-hours activities for her five-year-old, the head of the lower school replied, ‘We believe many of our kids are over-scheduled. And those treats should be saved for the weekends, so children can enjoy them with their parents.’ Ouch.

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If there is any time for parents and children to spend together at the weekends, that is. The phenomenon of the weekend nanny is big in Manhattan. Go to the swings on a Saturday morning and you’ll spot the nannies and kids together. ‘Me Time’ is a concept which has gained traction in a big way over here. Parents who work all week believe it is their constitutional right to go to Pilates on their days off, followed by a spot of personal shopping and a facial. Forget the guilt of the working mother. That’s so Seventies. 

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One of the dilemmas of the holiday season in New York is the seasonal tip. Doormen, delivery men, dry cleaners, the postman — they’re all expecting the fistful of dollars and the compliments of the season. The bar is set particularly high in Manhattan, where Tom Wolfe’s Masters of the Universe are alive and well. The über-rich tip generously — by comparison everyone else is a tightwad. Waitresses in smart and not-so-smart restaurants have been known to name and shame customers who tip less than 20 per cent, following them out of the door, shouting for more.  

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Native New Yorkers are on the whole an amenable lot. But there is one sight guaranteed to make them stony-faced. That’s a bevy of Brits fanning out across Bloomingdale’s, the department store, spending like there’s no tomorrow. The high exchange rate has brought Christmas shoppers here from Blighty by the planeload. Exuberant, eyes on the prize, they return to their hotels laden with iPods and other designer goods, congratulating one another loudly on the bargains they’ve found. New Yorkers, who find Manhattan is increasingly becoming a playground for the rich, can only grit their teeth and take the money.      

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Laura Trevelyan is the BBC’s UN correspondent in New York.