And then it was three (almost)
Three weeks in. The dust is just settling in the apartment where we are laying our hats until the end of 2016, lacking only a mattress in the stakes to be a home. I think we're now official.
Things we've witnessed, in a bemused, isn't-this-city-fucking-crazy kind of way:
Things we've witnessed, in a bemused, isn't-this-city-fucking-crazy kind of way:
- Verbal slinging match between shopworker and lady: she wanted a bottle of brandy, in a box, for less than $35, he said they didn't have any. "You're not being very helpful" she says. "What do you want me to say? We don't have any" he counters. "I came here because you have a good reputation online. I am going to ruin it" she tells him." "Oh yeah?" he says as she walks out. He turns attention to us. I blow out my cheeks in what I hope is a sympathetic gesture. She strides back in "You don't know who I am!" and then leaves again. We quietly order a quarter cask Laphroaig and slink out.
- Santa-con. More Santas than you can shake a stick at. And its backlash - signs saying 'we don't serve Santas here' at plenty bars. Good.
- The scent of pine at various sidewalk tree-sellers. It's glorious and the first thing to make me feel festive in about a decade.
- Our stuff arriving. That meant loads of unpacking and fond re-acquaintance with farewell gifts. I've been enjoying the Time Out guide to New York with Sue's annotations. On the 'Surviving Times Square' page, she's written 'don't go!!' I like her style!
- Frank Stella retrospective at the Whitney. Absolutely bloody batshit goodness - the guy has no reverence for materials at all, making metal look like cardboard or fabric, 3D printing an object a foot taller than me and five times as wide. This guy revels in colour and rejects meaning. What a dude. The Whitney is pretty spectacular, too.
- The boxer boys a few floors down. They stand at the window in their undies. Don't nobody want to see that nut scratch.
- Daniel Kitson's 'A Show for Christmas'. Will forever bellow TRADITION! And he's claiming to coin the term 'hotchocolate oclockolate'. Some legacy.
- Hallelujah: a breakfast that is not only a sensible portion for a regular human, but is also a reasonable price. And it's three minutes from our building.
- Days so mild I haven't even had to wear a coat. And you think Brits talk about the weather all the time? New Yorkers beat that, hands down.
- Rollerskating. Unironically.
- Walking Broadway from downtown (or the jap's eye as I call it - seriously, Manhattan looks like a flaccid knob from above) to our old flat on 48th. One hour 50 minutes. Brilliant.
- The magnificence of doormen (a gender neutral term, I'm assured) and building staff. In River Place, Carla, Dritan, Melissa, Victor and Jaime are perfect illustrations of what my broker Louis told me: much of the fabric of the city is built to make your life easier, so you can get on with living. Cheers to that.
Finally, for the eyes: cranes and trains at the North End of the High Line.
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