Friday, June 23, 2006
New York (the bathroom quickie version)
A taste of french Canada - oh what beautiful men! - as bodies whisk away en route towards the city of cities. "New York City here we ar--- what!!!???" Lost luggage, an eternity in conveyor belt limbo, a drink before lunch...or breakfast. Alas! A reunion! Out the sliding doors - "TAXI!!!" - a theatrically quick change, the lights dim and the Phantom of the Opera makes his acquaintance; the room is hushed, all sit attentively, the fog rolls out, and two heads under the weight of sleep begin to nod away under the Music of the Night. Oh New York, what a fickle and irresistible temptress you are. Into Soho, land of the beautiful anorexics. But who mirror, mirror?!!! No, not the most famous manorexic of them all! Duck confit, Steak and Frites, Amerifrench at its best. Race to the top, but please no stairs... 'Stately' it is but no Meg's or Tom's in sight. Something old, something older, history, culture, and a hotdog to help with digestion. Speckled pathways with dancing beams of sun, sailboats, lovers and puppies, are we still in New York? Break out the MasterCard and a nervous sweat to match, *beeeeep,* let us leave the guilt for another day. Bottles clink, glasses spill, stairs and street grates become sinister traps for the unwary stiletto. Hips sway to some beat or another, an 'accidental' rub of a arm, leg, thigh - Watch it! or I might just have to...Slices of meaty carnivorous heaven. Hip-hop, a skip and a trot home...Oh right, home. 'All passengers may board now,' lift off, a sad last look and back we go...home.
A New York Monologue
Oh dear, it would be incredibly cliche to say that I too now "heart NY," wouldn't it? But cliche as it may be, and I guess cliche I'm destined to be, I have fallen for this chaotic and fabulous city - no, let me correct that, I'm madly in love with it. Perhaps it was the difference in company, squatting in an actual new york apartment instead of a hotel, the oh-my-god-yum! soup dumplings at Joe's Shanghai, perfect manicures, sublimely flaky dan tat's from the self proclaimed egg tart King himself, sipping organic lattes beside disheveled, bleary eyed, toocooltocare urban trendsters engrossed in their Macbooks's, or the charmingly funny older man that shared his life story on a bench in Central Park - whatever it was, it wooed the pants off me.
On my last trip to the Big Apple, I was lucky enough to stay at the luxurious boutique Hotel Elysee; nestled in mid-town New York just steps away from luxurious Madison Avenue boutiques and Park Avenue brownstones it was perfectly located, complimentary breakfasts, impeccable service, and home of the famous Monkey Bar. There would be no room service this time around. Moving a little further south of Manhattan to the Flatiron district, my friend W was generously letting me and my girlfriend take over his roommates room for the week. Arriving full of expectation, it was only to be expected that something had to go wrong. So after enduring a horrifically boring five hour wait for our misdirected luggage at the airport - giving our imaginations plenty of time to picture ourselves attending our first Broadway show in all our post-flight glory: sweatpants, flip-flops, and staticky hair - a situation only somewhat mollified by the novel consumption of a pint of beer before 10am, we were finally back on track, and en route to our new digs with just enough time to pretty ourselves up a bit.
I must admit something now - I hate musicals. I'd never seen a Broadway musical in my life, but I figured if it was anything like The Sound of Music (and yes, I know, what kid doesn't like The Sound of Music), it was definitely not my cuppa tea. Even my six year old love affair with Mr.Rogers became strained every time he began to sing "It's a wonderful day in the neighborhood...", and don't even get me started on that episode of musical Buffy the Vampire Slayer. With that in mind, one could only imagine my reluctance when my girlfriend J insisted on seeing a Broadway musical. But since it was going to be her very first visit to the Big Apple, and being the selflessly accommodating friend that I am (*wink* wink*), I buckled to her demands and agreed to attend a showing of Andrew Lloyd Weber's The Phantom of the Opera. And now I must also admit (albeit, grudgingly so) that it was pretty fantastic. Although, much to my amusement, I caught my girlfriend nodding off a few times throughout the musical, making me feel a smidgen less guilty about my own drooping head.
Rooftop drinking seemed to be a trend on our trip: Soho chic at Hotel Gansevoort, exotic and dark canopy vibes at the Hamilton Hotel, ostentatiously glittery crowds at 230 Fifth, and the newly opened sports bar Tonic, packed to the brim just three days after opening; it seemed as if all of New York had moved to the skies. As impressed as we were by the skyline, we felt that the people we encountered, for the most part, left much to be desired. At the Gansevoort we found ourselves amidst a sea of variously shaped, but uniformly arrogant, 'suits.' Being of rather smallish stature ourselves, we were unfortunately besieged by wave after wave of almost toxic BO. It appeared more than a few men that night had forgotten to add deodorant to last weeks shopping list.
First time in New York, I had the amazing fortune of stumbling upon a Chanel ad campaign being shot in the midst of Soho. The photographer was none other but the one and only Mr. Karl Lagerfeld himself. The man was simply fabulous. And the model? Drop dead gorgeous Canadian Daria Werbowy. Those interested can check out the final picture used in the campaign here. So it was pretty understandable that I was very excited to go back to Soho. While there were no celebrity sightings this time, we did manage to book in a lunch at one of the fashionista lunch hubs of New York - Balthazar's. Having heard all the buzz, our expectations were high, and luckily we were not disappointed. My girlfriend ordered the Duck Confit and I had the famed Balthazar Bar Steak, both were fantastic. After my meal, nursing a perfect cup of cappuccino, with the animated conversation of the two very chic french women beside us buzzing in my ear, I truly felt as if I'd just had a little slice of France in the heart of America.
Feeling our trip was lacking a bit in the 'broadening your mind' department, my girlfriend and I headed to The Met for a dose of culture and art. I like art. If I wanted to I could probably wax poetic about The Met for a paragraph, and rather convincingly too. However, I've always been a proponent of honesty and so the truth is I just don't remember it much. I mean, I saw some pretty paintings, snapped a cool picture of a huge stone buddah, saw some really old gold jewelery, but my thoughts were for the most part preoccupied with what we'd be having for lunch. Next up was Central Park. We must've set a record for the shortest stroll through Central Park. I don't think we were in there for more than ten minutes before the heat got to us and we had to find a building with air conditioning stat. However, in those ten minutes, we could already see why New Yorkers flock to Central Park whenever the sun breaks out. It is absolutely beautiful.
As with any holiday, it wasn't long before the days began to blur into one another. Impulse shopping on Fifth Avenue, navigating through the crowds in Times Square, dancing late into the night at clubs where "cool" or "beautiful" can apparently be part of the dress code, ravenously inhaling $1.99 NY pizza at 4am, honing our bargain hunting skills in cheap&chic monolithic stores like H&M, stuffing our faces full of delicious corned beef (with mustard of course!) at Katz Deli a few tables from where Harry met Sally, packin' in the food at Spice Market, finding chinese people in...well...Chinatown, giggling at the street signs and perusing through the quaint boutiques within Greenwich Village - ultimately concluding that if we ever had to call a place "home" in New York, that'd be it.
Then we were back in Montreal waiting for our connecting flight back to Vancouver. It was all over in, as they say, 'a New York Minute.' I am just the Queen of cliches today! However, it is almost unavoidable when it comes to describing New York. A city that is as talked about, written about, and seemingly obsessed about by almost anybody who is anybody will inevitably fall prey to the inevitable cliche. It may just be that even the cliches are part of what makes New York, New York. When we go there we want to experience all that we've been told the city has to offer. We want the sea of yellow cabs, we want the socialites in fur, we want the restaurant bill that's the GDP of a small nation in africa, we want the glittering nights of drunken revelry, we want to feel patriotic at the sight of the Statue of Liberty (forgetting for a moment that we're not actually Americans), we want to look out across the city from the top of the Empire State, but most of all we want confirmation that there is a place that can turn a persons dreams into reality; and if you're lucky enough that person could just be...you.
On my last trip to the Big Apple, I was lucky enough to stay at the luxurious boutique Hotel Elysee; nestled in mid-town New York just steps away from luxurious Madison Avenue boutiques and Park Avenue brownstones it was perfectly located, complimentary breakfasts, impeccable service, and home of the famous Monkey Bar. There would be no room service this time around. Moving a little further south of Manhattan to the Flatiron district, my friend W was generously letting me and my girlfriend take over his roommates room for the week. Arriving full of expectation, it was only to be expected that something had to go wrong. So after enduring a horrifically boring five hour wait for our misdirected luggage at the airport - giving our imaginations plenty of time to picture ourselves attending our first Broadway show in all our post-flight glory: sweatpants, flip-flops, and staticky hair - a situation only somewhat mollified by the novel consumption of a pint of beer before 10am, we were finally back on track, and en route to our new digs with just enough time to pretty ourselves up a bit.
I must admit something now - I hate musicals. I'd never seen a Broadway musical in my life, but I figured if it was anything like The Sound of Music (and yes, I know, what kid doesn't like The Sound of Music), it was definitely not my cuppa tea. Even my six year old love affair with Mr.Rogers became strained every time he began to sing "It's a wonderful day in the neighborhood...", and don't even get me started on that episode of musical Buffy the Vampire Slayer. With that in mind, one could only imagine my reluctance when my girlfriend J insisted on seeing a Broadway musical. But since it was going to be her very first visit to the Big Apple, and being the selflessly accommodating friend that I am (*wink* wink*), I buckled to her demands and agreed to attend a showing of Andrew Lloyd Weber's The Phantom of the Opera. And now I must also admit (albeit, grudgingly so) that it was pretty fantastic. Although, much to my amusement, I caught my girlfriend nodding off a few times throughout the musical, making me feel a smidgen less guilty about my own drooping head.
Rooftop drinking seemed to be a trend on our trip: Soho chic at Hotel Gansevoort, exotic and dark canopy vibes at the Hamilton Hotel, ostentatiously glittery crowds at 230 Fifth, and the newly opened sports bar Tonic, packed to the brim just three days after opening; it seemed as if all of New York had moved to the skies. As impressed as we were by the skyline, we felt that the people we encountered, for the most part, left much to be desired. At the Gansevoort we found ourselves amidst a sea of variously shaped, but uniformly arrogant, 'suits.' Being of rather smallish stature ourselves, we were unfortunately besieged by wave after wave of almost toxic BO. It appeared more than a few men that night had forgotten to add deodorant to last weeks shopping list.
First time in New York, I had the amazing fortune of stumbling upon a Chanel ad campaign being shot in the midst of Soho. The photographer was none other but the one and only Mr. Karl Lagerfeld himself. The man was simply fabulous. And the model? Drop dead gorgeous Canadian Daria Werbowy. Those interested can check out the final picture used in the campaign here. So it was pretty understandable that I was very excited to go back to Soho. While there were no celebrity sightings this time, we did manage to book in a lunch at one of the fashionista lunch hubs of New York - Balthazar's. Having heard all the buzz, our expectations were high, and luckily we were not disappointed. My girlfriend ordered the Duck Confit and I had the famed Balthazar Bar Steak, both were fantastic. After my meal, nursing a perfect cup of cappuccino, with the animated conversation of the two very chic french women beside us buzzing in my ear, I truly felt as if I'd just had a little slice of France in the heart of America.
Feeling our trip was lacking a bit in the 'broadening your mind' department, my girlfriend and I headed to The Met for a dose of culture and art. I like art. If I wanted to I could probably wax poetic about The Met for a paragraph, and rather convincingly too. However, I've always been a proponent of honesty and so the truth is I just don't remember it much. I mean, I saw some pretty paintings, snapped a cool picture of a huge stone buddah, saw some really old gold jewelery, but my thoughts were for the most part preoccupied with what we'd be having for lunch. Next up was Central Park. We must've set a record for the shortest stroll through Central Park. I don't think we were in there for more than ten minutes before the heat got to us and we had to find a building with air conditioning stat. However, in those ten minutes, we could already see why New Yorkers flock to Central Park whenever the sun breaks out. It is absolutely beautiful.
As with any holiday, it wasn't long before the days began to blur into one another. Impulse shopping on Fifth Avenue, navigating through the crowds in Times Square, dancing late into the night at clubs where "cool" or "beautiful" can apparently be part of the dress code, ravenously inhaling $1.99 NY pizza at 4am, honing our bargain hunting skills in cheap&chic monolithic stores like H&M, stuffing our faces full of delicious corned beef (with mustard of course!) at Katz Deli a few tables from where Harry met Sally, packin' in the food at Spice Market, finding chinese people in...well...Chinatown, giggling at the street signs and perusing through the quaint boutiques within Greenwich Village - ultimately concluding that if we ever had to call a place "home" in New York, that'd be it.
Then we were back in Montreal waiting for our connecting flight back to Vancouver. It was all over in, as they say, 'a New York Minute.' I am just the Queen of cliches today! However, it is almost unavoidable when it comes to describing New York. A city that is as talked about, written about, and seemingly obsessed about by almost anybody who is anybody will inevitably fall prey to the inevitable cliche. It may just be that even the cliches are part of what makes New York, New York. When we go there we want to experience all that we've been told the city has to offer. We want the sea of yellow cabs, we want the socialites in fur, we want the restaurant bill that's the GDP of a small nation in africa, we want the glittering nights of drunken revelry, we want to feel patriotic at the sight of the Statue of Liberty (forgetting for a moment that we're not actually Americans), we want to look out across the city from the top of the Empire State, but most of all we want confirmation that there is a place that can turn a persons dreams into reality; and if you're lucky enough that person could just be...you.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Another bite of the Apple
It is always exciting, the prospect of an upcoming trip. True, I often complain about short city-junkets. I find that they generally leave me with a strong feeling of discontent; the visit being just long enough to get comfortable, but not long enough to become truly familiar in a "let me show you something" kind of way. However, I do believe that I can make one rather large exception in this case.
New York City.
In some ways the Big Apple is much like any other big city. The streets are crowded with strangers that will likely remain strangers, never meeting or knowing each other, too busy with their own lives to realize that the person walking next to them lives down the hall; tourists pack into poorly ventilated double decker buses, holding up city maps the size of movie posters, swarming the city "hotspots" hoping to catch a glimpse of someone famous, or infamous, lingering in front of a piece of art just long enough to be impolite, laughing just a little too loud, or talking just a little too much, but more than enough to ruin the play for everyone else; everywhere one finds an abundance of everything and anything, to seek is to find not one, but an infinite number of choices, each better than the next, and a person discovers just how small and infinitesimal their place in the world is.
Yet, there is a certain something about New York which sets it apart from all those other cities that I just can't quite put my finger on...not yet anyways. Perhaps it was the incessant rain on my first visit to the city, or the near hypothermia inducing conditions, or the almost tragic scene that played out in Greenwich village, when after two exhausting hours of wading through freezing streets to find Darling, I gave up, hailed a cab, only to watch it pass by through the fogging glass as we turned the corner to go back uptown, that prevented me from fully grasping what it was exactly that one was meant to love about New York City. But here I go again...lets just hope it doesn't rain.
New York City.
In some ways the Big Apple is much like any other big city. The streets are crowded with strangers that will likely remain strangers, never meeting or knowing each other, too busy with their own lives to realize that the person walking next to them lives down the hall; tourists pack into poorly ventilated double decker buses, holding up city maps the size of movie posters, swarming the city "hotspots" hoping to catch a glimpse of someone famous, or infamous, lingering in front of a piece of art just long enough to be impolite, laughing just a little too loud, or talking just a little too much, but more than enough to ruin the play for everyone else; everywhere one finds an abundance of everything and anything, to seek is to find not one, but an infinite number of choices, each better than the next, and a person discovers just how small and infinitesimal their place in the world is.
Yet, there is a certain something about New York which sets it apart from all those other cities that I just can't quite put my finger on...not yet anyways. Perhaps it was the incessant rain on my first visit to the city, or the near hypothermia inducing conditions, or the almost tragic scene that played out in Greenwich village, when after two exhausting hours of wading through freezing streets to find Darling, I gave up, hailed a cab, only to watch it pass by through the fogging glass as we turned the corner to go back uptown, that prevented me from fully grasping what it was exactly that one was meant to love about New York City. But here I go again...lets just hope it doesn't rain.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
