Start spreading the news, baby. I just got back from New York City! And it's a crazy-pants cool town. There are people absolutely everywhere on that 2-mile wide island. Do you want to know what that sounds like? Click below for the restaurant we ate in last night: (You can leave it playing if you like the ambience it gives our blog.)
Manhattan is like a living animal. It crawls and creeps and literally never sleeps. And people of every size, shape, and color roam the streets. Contrary to popular belief, they're very helpful and friendly--once you get past the crusty outer layers. I got lost in Central Park and was rescued by a boy from Mali and his bicycle before I died. He pulled me along behind him in a little cart and only charged $20 to get me out alive. After I talked him down from $40. He spent the entire ride turned completely backward on his bike seat to chat with me about his country and what he thinks of New York. Like, the dude never looked forward except when he seemed to sort of just know that there was a traffic light ahead. Then he simply . . . glanced. I sort of had a heart attack, but hid it and acted all nonchalant and New Yorkie. Yorkish. Whatev. Then I forgot to tip him. But at 20 smackers, I think he did fine.
In box seats, thank you very much.
At which game the Yanks busted their winning streak and lost, no thank you very much.
Our pal Mo is a miracle of friend-making and connections. He introduced us to everyone who was anyone at the stadium, including Tony Orlando--who shook our hands like we were so pleased to meet him, bless us--and a major league pitcher whose name I can't remember but it starts with "Chris." It was a crazy night for famous people. I even saw Regis Philbin at the Marriott Marquis right beforehand ("REEGE! HEY REEEEEGE! OVER HERE!" I did not scream or faint or otherwise palpitate.)
Well folks, I was only in the city for 2.5 days and it got completely under my skin. I want to go back. I want to buy the $700 gladiator sandals I saw at Bergdorf Goodman. (I mean they were HALF OFF! One has a moral obligation to buy sandals when they are half off.) I want to sample the Godiva chocolate covered strawberry-banana skewers. I want to break into Julliard and put on a recital for myself. I want to eat at the Boathouse in Central Park (except I'd never find it and we'd die of starvation.) What a place. What a character.
Here is a striking thing I noticed about The City:
Women wear dresses. A lot. And they know how to walk in them. This woman, whose dress barely hung about her frame in the fluttering breeze, scampered like a marathoner in those little heels. I had to run to keep up with her. And she marched along like the energizer bunny, block after block. I could use that stamina.
Then there was this OMYHEART-IT'S-FREAKING-104-DEGREES-WITH-99%-HUMIDITY-I'M-GOING-TO-DIE-OR-MAYBE-JUST-PRETEND-I'M-IN-SOUTH-PACIFIC dress:
And the I'm-Blurry-Because-Janiel-Was-Trying-To-Be-Sneaky-And-Take-My-Picture-Without-Me-Knowing-But-I-Totally-Knew-Look-At-My-Blurry-Expression dress. Saw a lot of little flowery things like this out on the streets. Along with the women wearing them.
And color? Did I mention color? And South-Pacific-ness?
I'm really liking this little plaid number on the right. Also the green one behind. This was inside a FABU Thai restaurant called "Room Service" (go figure) where I ate purple glass noodled Pad-Thai with scary seafood that had little legs and fur and I don't want to talk about it. But it was good.
Oh! And honey, this town has shoes. I didn't get a lot of pics. Okay, only one. But trust me. There are shoes. Great is the shoe-y-ness of New York City. Check out those bad boys down below. New Yawk chicklets hike miles in sky-scraper shoes like those.
And often they pay $700 for them.
I fit right in.
Yep. My Left Foot. No idea where the right one is. Probably off getting lost in Central Park, because THAT'S WHAT I DO.
These are very classy shoes. You might think they are some common brand like, oh, say, Sketchers or something. But no. These are the exceedingly expensive Squetchiérs-- an haute couture foot covering. Haute, I tell you. Their chicness is obvious if you look at the width of the toe-box and the green tint of the, you know, green part.
(I don't actually know how this picture got on my camera. I didn't take it.)
Well, to make a long story less long, if I lived in The Big Apple (or as they say in France, "The Big Apple"--except with a French accent), I would wake up every morning and dress in something like this, from Bergdorf's:
(ignore the bag-lady reflected in the glass)
(The "Westie Skirt," cousin to the "Poodle Skirt." Note the poodle in the corner. Clever, these New Yoikers.)
Then I'd ring up Paul Cartier and see if I could borrow something from his collection, because my neck was lonely:
Mmm. This would do.
And I'd jump into my Aston Martin:
(After asking 007 to get out, because, excuse me, he borrowed it twice last week)
And roll on down to Trump Tower for a nosh with my gals:
(I'm thinking we probably would not eat in the waterfall though. Wouldn't want to get the Aston's seat wet. Mine neither, for that matter.)
And then I'd finally wind up the day by gazing out upon the City from my corner apartment overlooking Central Park. Except it would be Times Square because that is what I can actually afford:
(Cool how I got the carpet pattern to reflect and overlay the city, yeah?)
This was a pretty great trip.
You should totally go.
Or maybe you've been.
What is your favorite thing about Manhattan?
Next time, I think I'll shall take in some theatah.