Home Sweet Home

I once read somewhere that if you live in New York City, it has to be in an interesting building. And mine definitely fits the bill, in more ways than one.

I remember vividly talking through my requirements with the real estate brokers back in January. Watching Sex & The City had set my expectations too high. I was looking for a one bedroom apartment in a brownstone walk-up, ideally in the West Village but definitely below 14th Street... oh, and for $2,500 per month of course.
I essentially wanted to live in Carrie's apartment, perhaps hoping I would live the same life - without a closet full of size zero clothes and designer shoes in my case however!

When I came over for my relocation trip - 3 days in which I had to find a flat with the help of the brokers - I was surprised that the estate agent wasn't taking me to see brownstones, let alone in the West Village. All he had in my price range were portered buildings (with a concierge) in West Midtown (well, that's what he called it, the non-marketing friendly name being "Hell's Kitchen") and the Upper West Side. $2,500 barely gets you a small studio in trendy downtown.

But when I first visited the flat I eventually chose, I knew it was the one. Granted, it was the largest one I saw and had actual sunlight - 2 of the rarest things to find in the city - so the choice was an obvious one. The large walk-in closet that would comfortably house my shoe collection was another very persuasive factor.

I wasn't sure about the building itself at first, the hallways reminding me of the ones in "The Shining" - to this day, I still expect the evil twin girls to appear around the corner on their bicycles!
But I could feel the history and former grandeur of the place. It was built in 1902 and was formerly know as the Bretton Hall Hotel and still retains an impressive Beaux Arts facade.
Much to my sadness however, management seems intent on eliminating original features. I had to witness how they covered up the ornate cornices in the lobby and tiled over a beautiful mosaic floor during a recent refurbishment project.
Some original features I wish they had changed are still there though - I swear my cast iron radiators date from the turn of the century (they certainly sound like they do) and the plumbing is temperamental at times to say the least.

I love having concierges, as it's not only very practical (they take delivery of your laundry and collect your mail) but also very safe as you have to be buzzed in to get inside the building. They knew my name within 2 days of me moving in (impressive considering there are 461 flats in the building) and we always exchange pleasantries as I walk in and out.

But perhaps what I love the most about my building is the fact is that it contains some rent-stabilized flats which really contribute to the rainbow selection of inhabitants in the building.
I have seen every race and every type of people - the dope smoking students on the 3rd floor (you know as soon as the lift doors open on that floor), the frail looking elderly folks who look like they should really be looked after in a retirement home by now, the urbanites carrying small dogs in big designer handbags, the 2.4 children families along with the 8.2 children families, the sharply suited business men anxiously typing on their blackberries, the musicians cramming their instruments in the lift, the single girls toting yoga mats and perfect make-up, the weary taxi drivers on their way home from a night shift ...

I still harbour hopes of living downtown - the spiritual home of my social life - or so I tell myself every weekend as I take the unpredictable subway down to Prince Street ... but the fact is that this building feels like home and so does the relative tranquility of the Upper West Side.

The New York Man

I believe I now have the statistically significant sample size to describe the New York man, a very distinct breed, fairly accurately.

I usually hate to generalise and I realise this will make me sound bitter (I'm not), but the following observations are not based on my experiences alone, but also that of my girlfriends.

They are obsessed with their appearance - 5 times a week gym sessions, pedicure, manicure and eyebrow threading are all part and parcel of being a New York man.

They really believe that the grass is greener on the other side, not letting a small detail like being in a relationship get in the way of trying to sleep with you or at least flirt with you. There are many more single women than single men in the city, so you *almost* can't blame them.

Their blackberry is surgically attached to their hands and any attempts to distract them from it will induce withdrawal symptoms and a strange, vague look in their eyes - until said eyes settle on your cleavage or legs.

They come in 5 categories: married (50%), gay (30%), in an open relationship (a fact their girlfriends are unaware of - 10%), opportunistic single (5%) or desperate to get married (5%).

They always try to impress you, usually with tales of their glittering careers, marvelous friends and refined tastes in wine or food. If that fails, they will resort to flashing their membership card to the latest trendy club.

They never call the morning after the night before, no matter how much they want to. That would be, like, so uncool. There is an unbreakable 3 day rule that men have institutionalized here.

Their concept of commitment usually only stretches as far as booking that elusive table at the latest trendy restaurant for next week.

They are intelligent, successful, well read, up on current affairs and completely at ease with women - making them great company and irresistibly attractive unfortunately.

In 32 years of existence and with, what I thought, plenty of experience under my belt (no pun intended), I have never been made more aware that men are indeed from Mars ... it does make dating in the city that little bit more challenging but never dull!

More random observations

* The subway operates according to its own mysterious and random schedule at weekends. Express trains become local trains or even change numbers and colours. That would be OK if there was some kind of predictability to it, but they sometimes change half-way through the journey and sometimes not all the time. I got lost in Harlem, thinking that the train I took was operating the local route only to be told by the train driver that today, it was local until 103rd and then express onwards. No announcements, no signs, no forewarning. I have come to realise that taking the subway at the weekend is the city's equivalent of the russian roulette, less deadly but similarly unpredictable and, of course, infuriating.
* I have noticed the same woman, sitting in the Winter Gardens of the World Financial Center, every single day without fail for nearly 7 months now. She sits on one of the benches and sometimes wonders outside in the Marina, doing nothing and meeting no-one. She's not homeless - in fact, she dresses up every day. I am puzzled as to why she is here when she clearly doesn't work in the building. My theory is that she is hoping that, one day, a rich investment banker will notice her, ask her out and maybe they'll marry and have lots of children. That's clearly, and depressingly, the kind of desperate measures one has to take in New York!
* I once watched - OK, oggled at - a very good-looking and fit black man, sporting tracksuit bottoms and a bare chest, running backwards in the middle of Broadway (possibly one of the busiest avenues in the city) while throwing boxing punches. He narrowly avoided being run-over more than once but seemed unfazed by the danger.
* At the subway station at 181st Street (yes, I did venture that far north), you have to take a lift to get back up to street level. The lifts are operated by a man who has decided to numb the dullness of the job by setting up his own DJ booth in the lift, spining out loud Reggae tracks, much to the amusement and pleasure of the passengers.
* According to the NY Times quizz I took, my New York age is 27. I clearly have a lot more to do here before I can consider myself a local. I will make sure I take the quizz periodically and I aim to be achieve a NY age of 50 before I can really call myself a local.
* In my hotel room in Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas, I watched the film "Showgirls" on TV and was amazed that they didn't bother bleeping out the numerous swear words but instead recorded bad voiceovers (that didn't even match the actors' voice) to re-phrase the offensive sentences in a more politically-correct manner.
* My favourite slogan t-shirt sighting - "Rehab is for quitters". Enough said.
* One of my favourite sites is http://www.overheardinnewyork.com - a collection of things that people have heard other people say in New York. Funny, stupid, rude, raunchy - it's all there. I hope to contribute to it one day!

Ce n'est qu'un aurevoir

It is with a heavy heart that I waved goodbye to my brother and his girlfriend on the subway platform at 86th Street, as they began their journey home to France.

But it is also with a head full of wonderful memories of their stay ...

How they fell in love with bagels and eggs benedict. The boat trip around Manhattan, sipping cosmopolitans in the sunshine while gazing at the skyline. Walking around the tiny streets of the West Village and the ornate community gardens of the East Village. Encountering live music and performances in every single park we went to. How quickly they realised that eating out in New York is not a luxury but a way of life. Watching their jaws drop in Times Square and then again in Grand Central. Feeling like we were in the middle of a secluded forest and then an enchanted garden in the northern part of Central Park. How we seemingly ate our way around the World while in the confine of the city - Cuban, Argentinian, Chinese, Japanase, Italian, French, Jewish, and American (both "nouveau" and traditional) of course. Realizing in horror that they have freak shows at the San Genaro festival in Little Italy ("Pay $1 to see the world's smallest woman, smaller than a 2 year-old child!"). How they mastered the intricaties of the subway system much quicker than I did when I moved here. Laughing at the rudeness of the waiters at Barneys Greengrass, my local Jewish deli/diner. Revelling in the crowded atmosphere of Harlem, its streets lined with market stalls selling everything from books and socks to mysterious scented oils and braiding sessions. Looking out for European religious artefacts in the Cloisters. Enjoying a very American barbeque in Brooklyn on Labor Day, complete with macaroni & cheese, corn on the cob and a guy sporting an impressive "Village People" moustache (don't ask!).
And absolutely everywhere, marvelling at the architecture, the beautiful weather, the friendliness and simultaneous madness of people and the raw energy - feeling lucky to be alive and here.

Just as I had hoped, they fell head over heels in love with the city and didn't want to leave.

Jules, Cat - it was wonderful having you here ... please come back very soon! New York City and I miss you very much already ...

What happens in Vegas ...

doesn't necessarily have to stay in Vegas ...

My trip started well. I picked up a book on my stopover in Chicago, something of a ritual of mine. I like seeing books on my shelves and remember which far flung airport I happened to buy them from, my choices either influenced by the trip itself, friends or random encounters.
This time, I bought "Naked" by David Sekaris because I spotted a guy reading it on the subway in New York a little while ago. He couldn't stop laughing to himself during the whole ride and the title intrigued the vixen in me. I highly recommend it by the way.

It got a little less smooth however, when I reached Las Vegas. My luggage hadn't been transferred and I had to go to Caesar's Palace, tired and crumpled, without them. I was meant to attend my friend Lia's (whose wedding I was going to Vegas for) bachelorette party that evening in the Belaggio but didn't get my luggage until around midnight, by which time I had collapsed from jetlag anyway.

As soon as I started walking through the airport, I realised that I was not in the normal world as we know it. The slot machines and bars everywhere were the first clues. The crowd around the luggage carousel was an interesting mix of morbidly obese American tourists and size zero girls sporting enormous fake breasts that even I couldn't take my eyes off.
Driving to the strip and spotting the billboards advertising "hot babes direct to you" and places named "Fat Burger" were other unmistakable signs that I had arrived in the land of hedonism.

Las Vegas is like no other place in the world.

It is where one doesn't bat an eyelid upon seeing women wearing full ball gowns at 4pm. Where one can get beer, drugs and or whatever else they desire at 7am – and not realise it is 7am anyway as there are no clocks anywhere. Where one can share an escalator with Cleopatra & Marc Anthony impersonators and be unfazed by it. Where one gets asked if they want to sit inside or outside while dining in a fake Italian trattoria inside the Venician hotel, despite being very much indoors either way. Where one can get sickly sweet cocktails by the yard in brightly coloured plastic receptacles. Where one can get severe sunstroke by standing outside for less than 15 minutes. Where one can lay by the pool and feel that they have wandered onto the set of Baywatch - in a "face like Crimewatch, body like Baywatch" kind of way.

However, the wedding was wonderful and much fun was had in the form of reckless dancing to 80s tunes late into the night.
I didn't gamble and therefore didn't have to sell my body to cover my debts. I didn't marry my gay best friend and therefore didn't have to get divorced. All in all, a good weekend away.

I had to catch an early flight back to New York the morning after the wedding, in a drunken daze, the flashing lights of the slot machines torturing my sensitive eyes.
The crowd at the gate looked like they had all just come out of a nightclub (which they probably did) - bloodshot eyes, shaky hands, slumped uncomfortably over the chairs.

The air crew team on Southwest Airlines was another Las Vegas stereotype - a freaky Barbie & Ken type pairing. Her - too thin, penciled in eyebrows and lips, caked on foundation and unnaturally jet black hair. Him - too muscular, penciled in eyebrows and lips, caked on foundation and unnaturally jet black hair. Maybe they do each other's make up or at least share clumsy beauty tips.

Las Vegas is like no other place in the world ... and it's probably better that way.

New York virgins

I am so excited about my brother and his girlfriend coming to visit me in a couple of weeks time. They have never been to the States, let alone New York, and I can't wait to see the awe on their faces as they first glimpse at the city's infamous skyline.

I almost envy the fact that they haven't been to NYC before. I wish I could experience the overwhelming feeling I had when I first came here on a windy day in March 1999 again.

We had landed in the early evening and somehow, I had missed the approach to the city and driving through it as I was asleep.
It was only when I stepped out of the bus at Grand Central Station and looked up at the towering buildings. Took in the snaking taxis. Processed the sound of the car horns. Breathed in the heady scent of asphalt, exhaust fumes and stale hot dogs. Sensed the raw energy through every one of my nerve endings. That I felt it ... love at first sight.
I slowly uttered the words "New York ... just like I pictured it" from Stevie Wonder's "Living for the city". I seem to remember that I even said it with the accent (which must have sounded comical - listen to the song and you'll understand why I will never sound like that).

I knew, there and then, that I would have to live here some day. My long love story with New York started that very minute.

I will make sure that I visit places with them that I haven't discovered yet. But for our first weekend, I want to give them: "my perfect New York weekend".

They arrive at lunch time on a Saturday. We'll stop over at H&H Bagels, on 79th & Broadway, and head over to Central Park to eat them under the shade of an old tree in Sheep Meadows. We'll walk down to 71st and take a boat trip on the lake.
We might stroll down 5th Avenue for a little while, where the buildings are so impressive. I'd like to end up in Times Square by early evening, catching the tacky yet jaw-dropping light show that it is, amongst the sea of backpack wearing tourists and dressed up theatre goers.

If by luck they can still walk/remember their names/keep their eyes open by then, I'll take them to Bryant Park and eventually to Grand Central, where we'll try to avoid bumping into people while walking with our noses in the air, admiring the elaborate ceiling. Maybe we'll stop at Cipriani Dolci on the upper concourse for one of their fiery (jet-lag kicking in this case) Bloody Marys and to take in the atmosphere of the station a little longer. But that's a probably a little optimistic.

On Sunday, we'll have brunch of course. Trying to convince my brother not to have breakfast until 12.30 will be nearly impossible. But these are the New York rules - it's totally, like, uncool to brunch before that time.

So we'll hop on the subway (hopefully encountering plenty of colourful characters for the full experience) down to Prince Street in Soho. I'll take them to Jerry's because, if you have read this blog properly, it is my NYC institution. We'll get a booth and I will force them to have eggs Benedict and a glass of champagne.

We'll walk down Prince Street a little further, hitting West Broadway, turning right onto Thompson, all the way to Washington Square Park. Have our picture taken in front of the gate. Head down West 4th and stop over at "Extra Virgin", a recent fantastic find, sitting outside under the awning for a restorative beverage (coffee for them, cocktail for me).
We'll then get lost in all the little streets in Greenwich Village, popping into some of the quirky boutiques, until we reach Little W12th and the start of the Meatpacking District.
We'll walk along the Hudson and the paved streets. Go to the top of the Gansevoort Hotel for the fabulous view.

Then we'll jump in a cab - "East Village, Tompkins Square Park please". We'll stroll through the small park, go down to 6th street to see all the small but artfully decorated community gardens that line it. Then back up to 12th to have Cuban food at Cafecito.

I can't wait, I really can't. And the best bit? I'll be doing it all over again, with my parents & my sister when they come in October, wearing a few more layers but minus a few cocktails.

Lost in translation

I've just had a lovely green salad with ham, green pees and beetroot ... Not something worth blogging about you may think but when what I actually wanted was a green salad with turkey, sweetcorn and roasted mushrooms I think it is.

But let me provide some context. There is a lovely little deli, just downstairs from my apartment building, called Cafe Broadway. I have already admitted to given up cooking as soon as I landed in JFK 6 months ago, so I often go there because they have a big salad bar with lots of fresh ingredients that you can pick, as well as a dizzying array of salad dressings.

The thing is that you don't physically make the salad up yourself. A lovely and helpful person behind the counter makes up the salad for you based on your specific requests.

And this is where the problem begins for me.

As lovely and helpful as the deli boys are ... they do not understand a word I say. What is puzzling is that I haven't had any problems in making myself understood anywhere in New York despite my accent - I mean this is the city that manages to pack more than 170 different nationalities in just 23 square miles!

But for some reasons, these guys just don't get me, despite my desperate pointing at the items I actually want and my (clearly poor) attempts at an American accent (you know, the whole "tomahto/tomayto" thing).

Most of the time, I persist until they get it ("on your right, now up, up a bit more and then right again") or resort to getting outside help. Like once, when the gentleman behind me, in witnessing what was happening, proceeded to "translate" everything I asked for to the deli boys ("she said broccoli").

But I was too tired today to do so. Oh well, I enjoyed it anyway.