W159th Street.

It’s a well attested fact that America is one of those places that is replete with good names, names that lend themselves to song titles, film titles and hit musicals. They have a ring to them, probably because they derive from many cultures, and that lends them a certain air of romance and richness. Let’s be honest, Twenty Four Hours from Bognor Regis doesn’t have much of a ring to it, does it?

I remember as a kid feeling a curious fascination with the name Santa Fe. I’m sure it came about as a result of reading some sort of picture book in bed one night. There was a piece in there about American railroads, and it had pictures of old steam locos with cow catchers on the front. In the wide shots, the trains were heading west into the sunset, a concept that’s always been close to my heart (I associate the same image with sailing ships.) The name Santa Fe must have come up, and it stuck.

It isn’t only names though, it’s also those peculiarly American addresses that somehow define elements of the culture. Tonight I’ve had W159th Street constantly cropping up in my head. I feel I have to write a story about it one day, maybe with an obliquely alliterative title like Once Upon a W159th Street. I don’t suppose I ever shall because I would have to go there to feel the atmosphere, observe the architecture and learn the characteristic sounds. The environment is the essential bedrock for me, and it has to be authentic.

It would be an expensive trip just to provide material for a story, and given my one-time slight connection with that particular thoroughfare, it might be ill-advised. And I doubt that a visit to the Harlem Theatre would quite justify such an extravagant outlay, but I can dream, can’t I?