New York City

Timezone: UTC-4.

Morning service at a Lutheran church near Times Square, and what a service it was, unobvious though it may be, considering the flashy and hedonistic neighbourhood the church is located in. I think I saw America at its best, and it was not even 24 hours since I set my foot on American soil. Great singing of the hymns, a very sensible pastor with an uplifting sermon, first Communion of a girl, a prayer of intercession for the unity of the American nation in advance of tomorrow's presidential inauguration, and an amusing – but very American – arranged self-introduction of all visitors in front of everyone else. A few people expressed interest in Poland, and I got engaged in a lovely conversation with a gentleman, a professional actor, who once played Roman Polański in a play and knew a little bit of Polish.

Next, the Cloisters, a branch of the Metropolitan Museum, located beautifully on a steep hill in Upper Manhattan and laid out in resemblance of a European monastery. There is plenty to be said about the Romanesque and Gothic art exhibited there, but I will leave it to the historians of art and limit myself to the observation that the art collection of the Cloisters seems to be just half the story. The significance of the place appears to be in the American longing for a medieval heritage, which America doesn't possess directly, but for which, in this particular place, it looks to its older Sister across the ocean. The Cloisters are about America just as much as they are about Europe. I appreciate anything that keeps the transatlantic bond vivid. Something I noticed whilst walking in the midst the walls of the Cloisters, is the behaviour of my body, still very much inclined to stay in harmony with the swaying of the sea with gentle movements of its own. I still don't stand firmly on the ground.

I made my debut on the NYC's subway. It was filthy and dodgy, and I won't go there again.

Dinner at a friend's. She has a most lovely deaf, odd-eyed cat.

I feel almost like asking your pardon for my long silence; it seems an age since I last wrote to you, although it is scarcely three weeks since I gave you an account of my humiliating fortune-telling success. I suppose I should not remember it to-day, had it not been brought back to me this morning at church, in a way not at all agreeable. I went to the French Protestant Church, the pastor of which is a compatriot of mine – a good, earnest man who still preaches with old-fashioned fervor. This morning he spoke with indignation against Christian science, spiritualism, and superstition in general, in which was included fortune-telling. You can imagine how much at ease I felt! When, in the very hottest part of his discourse, he thundered out, “Ceux qui disent la bonne aventure sont tenus en abomination par Dieu!" I actually blushed and had to lower my eyes, for he seemed to look straight at me; and when, after service, he came up to me, I thought that he wanted to have a private conversation on the subject; but, happily, he only came to welcome me as a new lamb to his flock.
Lina Bögli, “Forward. Letters Written on a Trip Around the World”