Visiting New York made me realize I am ‘young old’

I read with some disappointment recently that the Encyclopaedia Britannica considers sixty-one the age I am now — to be the beginning of old age. It defines “middle age” as being between the ages of forty and sixty, which means that’s in my rear-view mirror. The only crumb of comfort is that some more charitable encyclopedias describe the years sixty to sixty-nine as “young old,” which is better than being an old Young I suppose.

When I turned sixty last year, I told myself that you’re only as old as you feel and took succor from the fact that I’ve never spent a night in hospital, apart from when I got knocked off my bike, which doesn’t count. My energy levels remain high and I can still put in a fourteen-hour shift — even pull an all-nighter — when required.

We could hear the throb of music coming from the rooftop bar — but felt no temptation to visit 

But a trip to New York last week did make me feel rather old. I was there for the annual freedom dinner held by the Atlas Network, a global, free-market organization founded by Antony Fisher, who set up the Institute of Economic Affairs. The following day Caroline flew out to join me and we spent the weekend seeing old friends and strolling round the West Village. We first got together when we were both living there more than twenty-five years ago, and we thought it would be nice to take a trip down memory lane.

It was extraordinary how much had changed. The West Village still had a faintly bohemian air in the mid-1990s, with its jazz clubs and dive bars, but now it’s like Notting Hill on steroids. Every second shop on Bleecker Street is a high-end fashion boutique. The dilapidated building opposite my old apartment on Perry and West 4th, where the local chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous used to meet, is now a fancy French restaurant. Had the area aged gracefully, like its two former inhabitants, I wouldn’t have felt out of place. But it has had a major glow-up, making me feel dowdy.

We met up with two other couples on Friday night and had dinner at Balthazar, Keith McNally’s New York restaurant, which is still going strong. As a man in my mid-thirties, I liked nothing more than going to noisy, fashionable restaurants, but now that I’m a bit deaf I struggle to hear what people are saying above the din. I do that thing of turning away and leaning closer when someone’s speaking to me so my ear — my good ear, if we’re being brutally honest — is closer to their mouth.

But the decibel level in Balthazar was so high that I only caught one word in three, which made conversation difficult, particularly as I was too embarrassed to repeatedly say “Sorry, what?” didn’t want these old partners in crime to realize just how decrepit I’d become.

After dinner, we went to a piano bar called the Nines and, God help me, that was even louder. I could tell it was the place to be because one of my friends, a New York fashionista, kept pointing out famous people. But in addition to not catching their names — “Gwyneth who?” — I couldn’t make out their faces in the gloom without my glasses, which, of course, I was too vain to put on. I felt like Mr. Magoo wandering into Studio 54 in its heyday.

Having not been allowed to pay for dinner, I volunteered to split the bar tab and my share came to an eye-watering $220. I added a tip of 12.5 percent, but was then taken to task by my waitress for being so mean. I’d forgotten that in New York anything less than 20 percent is taken as a grave insult.

The following evening, Caroline and I bought a bottle of red wine and lay on our hotel bed eating chips and watching The Diplomat. We couldn’t quite believe we were in the nightlife capital of the world and had chosen to spend Saturday night doing exactly what we do in Acton. We could hear the throb of music coming from the rooftop bar — but felt no temptation to visit. On the contrary, we debated whether to tell them to turn it down.

On our last day, we went shopping, but the only item of clothing I was tempted by were some tracksuit pants that had been tricked out to look like a pair of trendy jeans. The resemblance really was uncanny. This was in Nordstrom, the glamorous department store, and the price tag was $228. But in addition to the expense, I was put off by the stretchy waist. I’m not one for raging against the dying of the light, and I look askance at people in their sixties who wear “age inappropriate” clothing. But I’m not quite ready for an elasticated waistband. That really would be the beginning of the end.