A Visit to the Dakota
Someone asked me a while ago about the time I went inside the Dakota building in NYC. Here’s the longer version of the story… blame
@Good Dog Nigel for encouraging me!
I made my first visit to New York City from the UK in December 2000, a trip to mark my 20th birthday. To say it was special would be an understatement. For years, I had lived and breathed The Beatles, and more specifically, John Lennon. Every book, every magazine clipping, every grainy VHS documentary I could get my hands on as a teenager – I devoured it. So when I finally crossed the Atlantic, there were certain places that were non-negotiable. The Dakota was at the very top of that list.
Now, my poor girlfriend (who, against all odds, is now my wife!) bore the brunt of my obsession. We went to the Dakota not once, not twice, but on most of the days of our trip. While most tourists were taking in Times Square, the Empire State, or Macy’s Christmas windows, there I was, loitering outside this gothic fortress on 72nd Street, soaking in its atmosphere like it was a holy site.
On those visits I began chatting to one of the doormen, Luis. He was one of those instantly likeable people – warm, approachable, not at all put out by this young British lad turning up again and again. We spoke about Lennon, about the building, even a little about the city. To my astonishment, he told me that if I left a CD with him, he would ask Yoko to sign it. I thought he was just being polite, but he meant it.
On the last day of our trip, we saved the Dakota for last. The December light was already fading and we had to make our way back to family outside of Manhattan. Trouble was, no yellow cab wanted to take us that far. I asked Luis what my options were, and he explained I’d need to call a local car service from the area we were staying in. My best bet was the nearest payphone, which happened to be in the subway entrance across the street.
So off I went, rehearsing how I was going to explain myself on the phone. Only when I picked it up – nothing. Dead. I tried again, banged the receiver, but no luck. Heart sinking, I walked back across to the Dakota to explain my problem. That’s when Luis looked at me, paused, and simply said, “Well, you can come in and use the phone in the office.”
I couldn’t believe it. My stomach flipped and my heart hammered in my chest. He beckoned me in under the famous archway. The same archway I had seen in countless books and documentaries. The same archway that would forever be connected with tragedy. I followed him up the narrow driveway to the door on the right, the one marked Reception.
And then I found myself climbing those steps. Those steps. The steps John had walked so many times. Suddenly, all the teenage years of obsessing, of poring over details, of wishing I could somehow go back in time – it all came crashing down on me at once. It felt like a thunderbolt. My stomach sank. The sadness hit me with a force I wasn’t prepared for.
Inside, the reception was small but functional. On the wall were multiple CCTV monitors showing the hallways and doorways of apartments inside the building – the private, unseen world of the Dakota. I stood there with my disposable camera in my hand. This was before smartphones, of course, so that little cardboard box was my only way of capturing the trip. But the last thing I felt like doing in that moment was taking photographs. It felt wrong, almost intrusive. So I just held it quietly, trying to process where I was.
The call was made, arrangements sorted, and I thanked Luis profusely before stepping back outside. I can still remember the cold air hitting me as I waited for the taxi, signed CD tucked safely away in my bag. When I got home to the UK, I opened it – “To Paul NYC 2000 love Yoko Ono.” I don’t think I stopped smiling for weeks.
And yet, the story didn’t quite end there.
Weeks later, I finally took that disposable camera to be developed. When I opened the packet and flicked through the photos, I froze. Among the blurry shots of Manhattan streets and holiday moments was one I hadn’t taken myself – a photo that had somehow gone off as I was leaving. It showed me walking back through the Dakota’s archway, out to the street – a view John would have had thousands of times.
It was eerie. Chilling, even. Random, strange, and deeply moving.
I never forgot the kindness of Luis. True to my word, I sent him a gift from the UK when I returned home, though it never felt enough to repay what he had given me – a once-in-a-lifetime moment. I’ve often wondered since how he is, or what he went on to do. He probably never realised the depth of the gift he gave me that night, but I’ll always be grateful.
So, sorry if this isn’t the “short version” of the story. But some experiences are too extraordinary to be cut down. And for me, that December evening in the Dakota wasn’t just a brush with history. It was a moment where all those teenage dreams, all that sadness, and all that wonder converged in the most unexpected way. I’ve tried to write this with
@Sean in mind and avoid “that” part of the history and hope I have done that.
I’ve been back to the Dakota many times. Every time the history of it all never leaves me and each time is special. Now I get to visit it with my son, Lennon. Despite years of wishful thinking, I’ve never actually made it back inside. Though I have always had reoccurring dreams of walking the famous hallways. That’ll have to do for now.
! Any suggestions?
