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Hotel St. Andrew
(Broadway and 72nd St.)
New York, October 10, 1926
Dear Professor,
Finally, a Sunday afternoon, when I have some free time to write.
So—to continue my last letter—, our ship held up well up to the last day; the weather was very favorable, especially on the last days of the trip. But I became quite unwell on a somewhat stormy evening—strangely enough, not sick to my stomach, but I again had intestinal ailments—, certainly an example of the fact that with these things it is also a matter of phenomena of regression; my intestinal tract was always not very capable of resistance.
Last Saturday, on October 2, at ten in the evening, we were already anchored at the quarantine island; but they didn't let us get any farther, and it wasn't until Sunday, on the morning of the 3rd, that we were permitted to tread the soil of America. On the pier I was greeted by the hurly-burly, already well known to me, of hanging around for hours on account of passport and customs inspection. But to greet us specially, there also appeared Herr Dr. Johnson,1 the director of the “New School for Social Research,” where I am lecturing, as well as a small group of former patients and pupils. A lady from this group procured an apartment for us and helped me fill my hours. In the afternoon we took a brief tour. Not far from our hotel begins Riverside Drive, which you probably still recall (along the Hudson River), which we drove along; then we went straight across Central Park toward the east2—finally up part of Broadway, home.—The impression of the city was imposing, but not attractive in the slightest; everything that could be called friendly or kind is missing. The difference from Paris,