State of Mind

New York. The Big Apple. Concrete jungle where dreams are made of and one’s life savings are efficiently squandered. The city that never sleeps, and still has me sleepless long since my departure.

Months before my London bound disappearing act, I had planned a ten day holiday with my closest friend, Jan. It was his birthday and Fashion Week; the two most important events of the year for him, and therefore now me. We began our departure at Gatwick airport where, upon waiting to board the cheapest and therefore worst airline flight, I decided to throw my travelling partner’s passport in a Starbucks garbage bin, thus nearly putting our entire trip to an abrupt end. Fifteen minutes of unadulterated panic, one quick dumpster dive, two mind numbing, in-flight entertainment free flights, one eventless layover in Iceland, two wasted hours inquiring about lost baggage in Newark Airport, and an added hour of misguided train rides later, we had finally arrived. Manhattan. We exited Penn Station and gazed above at the notorious Madison Square Garden bearing down on us like some overbearing and rather intimidating welcome banner. Snow was everywhere, and as the icy winds nearly rendered my nostrils dysfunctional, I quickly realized just how long it had been since this seasoned British Canadian had properly felt the brittle hands of winter. Knee deep, we waded our way through frantic, snowy white streets hoping to God a cab would eventually stop instead of rushing past, shooting streams of grey slush in its pitiless wake. By the time one finally showed mercy, we were completely soaked, and worried for the wellbeing of all extremities. But we drove, nonetheless, through borough after borough-- correction, neighbourhood after neighbourhood; easy, Toto. You aren’t in England anymore-- Midtown, Chelsea, West Village, Greenwich Village. And there we were. Our suto home for the next ten very posh and glamorous American days. Jan had found a very generous mate whom he had met back in London who now once again lived in New York and resided in the most fabulous one bedroom apartment in the centre of Greenwich Village. He was from Philly. He said things like, “Tuesdee” and “Weuter” and had a name Tony Saprano would have envied. He played the Saxophone and had two Charles Bradley records in his possession next to several John Coltrane and one Raphael Saadiq. I was in love. He was gay. I was still in love, though unrequited.

Thirty-something hours had passed since we set sail on our cross continental excursion, but one would be a fool to think this would come between any invitation to extend the evening a few more hours with more than a couple well deserved welcome cocktails. We began at Wogies; a classic american bar, dark and dingy, that specialised in Philly Cheesesteaks. Naturally. And even more naturally, Jan and I opted to substitute said phillies for pony neck bottles of beer and notorious pickle backs. Now nicely buzzed and only mildly conscious of our sleep deprivation, the bill arrived, and with it the most accurate introduction as to what the entirety of our trip would inevitably end in: One hundred dollars. It became abundantly clear that New York was more accurately the city that rapes your pockets and bleeds you dry than any other sentimentality heard throughout the ages. There i was, day one, crunching numbers, weighing the importance of eating for the next 10 days over the view from the top of the Empire State Building-- which, itself, we would learn cost fifty bloody bucks. Please, take me home. Alas, we were anything but quitters. Especially when it came to international alcohol consumption. The night was still young and Philly had wanted to take us to a local cocktail favourite of his. It was called Happiest Hour and as we would discover, the weirdest hour. Flamingo shirt clad bartenders, a bizarrely tropical theme without any, in fact the very opposite of, tropical decor--minus a row of palm tree wallpaper shellacked across a single wall. It was like stepping into a pretentious wine bar whose employees were desperately poached from a tacky tiki version of a Red Robin. Our fellow patrons were as sadly ostentatious as their boastful old fashioned which tasted more like cheap cinnamon hearts from three Valentines prior than even the worst of whiskeys. Desperate to escape the tragic island, we cut towards the back door and pleasantly discovered a small set of stairs leading to a basement bar that didn’t require a personal floatation device or heavy SPF. Slowly Shirley, it was called, and spectacular it surely was. Quaint, and intimately lined with dark oak, warm leather upholstered booths and dimly lit wall shades, this retro bar was everything old hollywood and everything Chelsea (Beamish, not Borough). But not so much Jan. He sat in silence while I sipped, glamorously on my just dirty enough gin martini, draped in a sleek black dress that flawlessly hid the ridiculously unclassy black boots the godforsaken snow had forced me to stomp around in. Our barboy was from Boston, and he had the chops to prove it. He was cute, in an odd and very American way, but he had an accent I could gladly fall asleep to every night, thus planting my new found obsession with what would continue to pull at my ever so susceptible infatuation strings for the remainder of our stay; the beautifully beguiling Boston Accent. But the night was due to end, and with the final drop of my third martini, I felt my international eyelids begin their descent into what would be the the one and only full night sleep I would incur over the next nine days...

Day two began with a strict itinerary of fashion show after fashion show after Chelsea getting aggressively hostile over lack of food-- I’m not one of the models, I can’t live off air-- which then lead to a hasty intermission of pizza by the slice after pizza by the slice after more fashion shows, and then copious amounts of recovery alcohol…

And so we begin...

Herein lies a guide to the fashion world, described in detailed by the wise words of a mere commoner who’d sooner shoot herself in the mediocrely clad torso than endure another moment of the hierarchy that is NEW YORK FASHION WEEK:

1. Wear fur. No one will acknowledge your presence if you are not draped in the hide of the most endangered of species... unless they are seeking the whereabouts of the nearest bathroom.
2. Entrance is everything. Begin to adjust your strut ten yards prior to entry and be sure to clearly state your dissociation from those who dress inferior to you by passive aggressively cutting them off; nose tilted in an upward direction.
3. Having your photo taken amongst the fashion welfare is fashion week suicide. But regardless, you are nobody unless your photo is being taken. If your photo is not being taken, revert to Rule 1.
4. Outerwear is innerwear. Do not remove your sunglass. Or your hat. Or your fur. Even though there will be no central air and you will literally boil your insides and die. Air conditioning is so last season.
5. Wear black. Colour is dead. Unless it is shiny.
6. Drink the activated charcoal juice provided to you in mass quantities even though it comes with a warning and is revoltingly inedible. It’s black and goes with your outfit.
7. While waiting in line, feel free to compliment others, but only if you’re certain you look better than them.
8. If you are forced into conversation, keep it brief and only discuss yourself. Preface each introduction with “What’s your Insta?” (don’t say gram, gram is also dead) and immediately devote all your attention to creeping the newly acquainted to gauge whether or not they are worthy of words exchanged.
9. Name drop everyone and everything. Regardless of relevance. If your husband just returned from competing in the Semi Pro Japanese Heavyweight Wrestling Championships with a medal of honour slide that into the conversation. Even if the conversation was about pastels. (If you’re having a conversation about pastels you have not been listening to Rule 4).
10. You can never overuse the word “like”. Like, not even ever.
11. You will not be fed. If you feel pangs of hunger, you’re fat. Stop it.
12. Once inside a show, don’t look excited to be there. Mimicking boredom is encouraged. Smiling is prohibited. Pouting is preferable. Pout like you’re mourning the memory of what food tastes like or the ear drums you lost to the obnoxiously remixed house music blaring three inches from your face.
13. No one will know you’re a bigger deal than them if you don’t take a selfie to prove it. Always take selfies. Don’t bother wasting a good lighting opportunity by taking photos of the immaculately constructed garments before you. You are more important.
14. Contrary to Rule 10, if you’re important enough, you might get a box of cookies. Don’t eat the cookies. But don’t give away your cookies to the less cookie fortunate. It shows weakness.
15. Silence is a must during the shows, but be sure to cheer extra super loud for the plus size models to help them feel just like the real models (even though we know they’re not).
16. Always look for cellulite.
17. Yawn often and ignore D list celebrities. Unless they’re Nikki Hilton. If you see what’s left of Nikki Hilton, ask her where her sister is before offering to buy her a cheeseburger. (This will be the only time it is acceptable to break Rule 10)
18. If you feel you are incapable of successfully abiding by each and every one of these vital and pertinent rules, simply do as I did: Stand at the back, speak to no one unless you happen to be standing next to a stage hand in which case offer to buy him a beer if he’ll help you escape, and if you find yourself trapped and forced into intolerable conversation, ask if they got their outfit at TK Maxx and offer them your myspace page. They will run like hares from a hound.

Needless to say, after one day of fashion shows, I kindly handed Jan my verbal resignation as his plus one to any further fashion excursions while vowing to delete my instaGRAM account as soon as I no longer felt the incessant urge to throw my phone at every beaver pelted, Moschino wearing Kate Moss wannabe that slinked past me. Thankfully, Jan knew just how to cheer me up, and that was allowing me to randomly navigate us toward The Fat Black Pussy Cat; a very dark, very dude-like pub, its walls adorned with dart boards, its speakers humming The Eagles, and its happy hour pleasantly reassuring my pocket book while sufficiently warming my insides. We followed a bottle or two of coronas with a trip to the most New York-esque restaurant that could possibly exist. Minetta Tavern. As I sat at our tiny red gingham dressed table chewing on the most impeccably cooked steak and frites, Jan sat across from me in a red leather upholstered booth, a lifetime of old Italian American film scenes flashed before my eyes; mob bosses closing deals over spaghetti dinners and grappa digestifs. Old men labeled ‘Fat Tony’ and their questionably aged wives in hoop earrings, teased bleached hair, and some kind of skin tight leopard who call themselves Trixie but are actually named Maria Theresa. It was wonderful.

But nothing would compare to our first evening in Brooklyn. I present to you, The Nighthawk. A charming wee cinema planted amid the quaint streets of Williamsburg, hosting midnight viewings of spectacularly bad films from one’s childhood all while supplying round the clock in theatre table service. Our choice of poison? I Know What You Did Last Summer, buffalo wings, and two entirely thirst quenching bottles of prosecco. Well pissed and incomparably giddy post fisherman terror, we found ourselves in what would go down in vacation history as the Country American bar that put every other bar to shame, also known as Chelsea’s favourite bar and Jan’s least favourite bar. Skinny Dennis-- the name of the bar, not the gentleman I stole peanuts from, though equally fitting for both. Warm, red neon lights flooded through windows adorned with two words that are bound to take you back in time, that is so long as you remember your stetson and blue wash bootcuts: Honky Tonk. On the window adjacent, a horseshoe is bordered with the promise of Cold Beer and Hot Peanuts and as the door swings open, the heat from inside, mixed with the sweet twang of roots tunes leaves you wide eyed and dreaming of Hank WIlliams and Dwight Yoakam as you crunch your way through discarded peanut shelled floors, narrowly averting hords of countrymen and the likes of those pretending. A bottle of Bud in hand--when in Rome--I watched as a sufficiently lubricated patron purchased a signature Skinny Dennis trucker hat while Jan suppressed the urge to vomit. If there was ever a more fitting revenge for my fashion show turmoil, I wouldn’t believe it. As I shared a cardboard bowl of salty nuts, perfectly warmed as promised, with a potential male suitor who prefaced his offering of nuts with hocking a rather large, and overtly masculine loogie onto the floor, both Jan and I could not help but laugh at the ridiculous cliche in which we were immersed. I never wanted to leave. But Jan was beginning to show signs of going postal and dawn was looming, so we made our descent back towards the swanky streets of wanky Greenwich, my honky brothers left in the dust of shattered nutshells and my wayfaring heart.

The next morning, both our pockets feeling concerningly light, we agreed that in order to survive this thief of a city, we must make sacrifices and thus, make breakfast. And so, I ventured the length of West 6th St, the sun now bearing down on melting sidewalks (thank Jesus), in search of a grocer and the largest cup of coffee my Honky Tonk hangover could handle. Instead, I found Strand Bookstore. The largest second hand bookshop I had ever laid eyes upon, stemming eighteen heart pounding miles of new, used, and rare books. I was lost. Three hours later, I returned home with twelve books, seven less dollars in my pocket, and the biggest grin on my face. I suddenly never wanted to leave New York. And Jan was suddenly very hangry.

To make up for my literary distraction, I agreed-- though still strongly against my will-- to an evening of gay, with the one exception that we enter at least one lesbo bar. I had never been. I was curious. The feeling was fleeting. Much like my sexual curiosity towards women…

A cramped room  full of khaki clad butch lesbians later, I was rendered still very much hetrosexual, and thoroughly disappointed in what was wittily entitled The Cubbyhole. We then strutted our way through gay bar after gay bar, through tight shirts and dilated pupils, vodka sodas and hair spiked hard enough that pigeons would fear to land. The city became a blur of bronzed skin and perfectly tailored outfits until, at my long awaited relief, we found ourselves balls deep in Hell’s Kitchen at The Flaming Saddle; basically Coyote Ugly if Violet Sanford were a twenty-four year old hard bodied homosexual in ass hugging jeggings and a black wife beater tight enough to cut off all circulation to one’s pectorals, or simpler put, Jan’s kind of Honky Tonk. I wiped the drool from his face as I scanned the room in search of something that would make my panties tingle as much as his and there before me, high above the bar (or more predominantly the stage in which the Coyotes perform their laughably well rehearsed sexy two step) was a large screen, and playing on that screen just so happen to be my lifelong favourite film of all time. Seven Brides For Seven Brothers. I instantly forgot all about Skinny Dennis and his warm nuts. The Flaming Saddle had become the best place on Earth. Jan and I sat side by side, our elbows propped at the bar, our chins nestled in hands that kept our jaws from hitting the floor, our eyes gazing longingly at God’s most precious creations as they danced and sang their way into our once cold and bitter New York hearts.

The remainder of our days presented themselves in a rather routine fashion; Jan would go to fashion shows while I would suss out any and every jazz club in all of Manhattan, making friends with the owners, the pianists, the saxophonists-- not a single one asking me for my insta, but every one of them inviting me to more jazz-- and free jazz. We would meet in between over cocktails and oysters, soul food in Harlem, a horse drawn carriage ride through Central Park, a stroll or three through Time Square. Then more shows and more jazz, his birthday celebrated at the infamous Stardust Diner where broadway singers on the verge of making it big were making your milkshakes and serving you fries while belting out a ballad from their audition repertoire-- if I had to listen to one more Wicked song… I would because it was Jan’s birthday and it was all about him and not about me. Ugh. The worst. We vintage shopped, and wandered the ever posh Chelsea Market and the rather underwhelming Chinatown. We ate cannolis in Little Italy (OK I ate cannolis. I ate both our cannolis), tested just how open minded we believed ourselves to be with a visit to the Sex Museum-- turns out not that open minded, all the while saving on expenditures by limiting our food consumption to street meet; I’ve never devoured so many hot dogs in my life, and no that is not a euphemism for anything encountered at the Sex Museum. But the best and only way we could possibly dream of ending our time was on Broadway. Sunset Boulevard. Glenn Close. Magic in the making.  

By the time our trip stood on its final legs, I was certainly ready to come home. Part of me felt like it had flown by in a New York Minute, another felt like we’d been there for ages; the latter being mostly due to my dwindling finances.

Manhattan is a world all its own, rammed to the very highest skyscraper with an energy unmatched by anywhere I’d ever been. It can’t be compared, and I struggle to find words to describe our brief affair. It was wonderous at times, it was exhausting at times. It felt utterly romantic and at the same time oddly unattainable. But we’ve shaken hands, we’ve become acquainted, and I have a funny feeling this old town plays her cards close to her chest and there ain’t no way she’s gonna give it all up in one go. And so, New York, until next time..