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| Walking around after the Whitney, Saturday, 29 October 2011 |
It was probably the most wonderful belated birthday gift I've ever received. A trip to New York to see my dear friend, Melissa. It was only to be a long weekend, taking the Thursday night red-eye, landing Friday morning, then returning Sunday evening. But it was a perfect getaway, and much needed. It was my first non-work, no obligation vacation in nearly seven years. Yes, it had been that long since I had gotten on a plane purely for pleasure.
I'd kept an eye on the weather, expecting cooler temperatures than the lingering warmth of Los Angeles, and, perhaps, some rain. About a week before, The Weather Channel predicted clear skies and temperatures in the mid-fifties. I was excited to pack my hardly-worn-in-LA-weather trench coat, and looked for a new pair of flats for walking. I could never seem to find the right pair, though. Then, three days before, when I checked the weather report again, it predicted snow on Saturday.
Snow? In October? And me travelling with carry-on?!?
I don't have what anyone east of Arizona would call a proper winter coat. I'd have to make due with my warm, black, turnkey raincoat, scarves, hats and gloves. It all comes down to the layering, anyway. It seems I can over-pack even with carry-on. By some miracle, I was able to make it on the plane with two pairs of boots (one of which I wore), slacks, jeans, blowdryer, makeup, toiletries, three turtlenecks, three long-sleeved t-shirts, a skirt, a dress, socks, smalls, pajamas and a dressing gown, two hats, a clutch, a small shoulder bag, three scarves and my aforementioned gloves. Oh, and a neck pillow for the attempt to sleep during the flight, and my rather large purse. All of which was going to have to travel on the trains from JFK to the West Village on a rather crowded commuter morning.
I've found the secret to a happy flight is to imbibe two vodka tonics before boarding. I typically have vodka sodas whilst on terra firma in order to save calories, but I believe tonic has healing qualities, hence the name, no? Once safely tucked in my window seat, neck pillow resting against the wall, coat draped over my legs, my two long scarves (actually, faux pashminas), were wrapped around me, one draped over my head to block out the light, I slyly put in my retainers and readied for slumber. Unfortunately, I didn't ever actually sleep. I simply drifted in that place between asleep and awake during the gentle flight.
Being a night owl, I can count the sunrises I've seen on one hand. The one that greeted me over New York was the most glorious, and my smile beamed as it levitated out of the Atlantic. By eight, we were on the ground, and I was off to the AirTrain. Even though I had my HopStop directions, I'm always one to ask a New Yorker the best way around. After all, how often have online directions sent you on a goose chase? The nice Metro attendant told me I could take the E train to the 2, quite different from the directions I was given, but I trusted the advice and onto the E I went. I was fortunate to grab a seat next to the wall where my luggage and I would try to take up as little space as possible, as the train started to resemble a sardine tin more and more with each stop.
When I got to Penn Station, where the Metro man told me I should get off to grab the 2, I found there wasn't a transfer to that train. I started to ask those making their way around the station if they could direct me to the 2. This is when I first discovered the amazing amount of people who didn't speak English, but French! Everyone was speaking French. It was amazing. Had I gotten any sleep, I might've been able to conjure together enough high school French to at least say good morning. However, without a cup of coffee, even my English was rusty. Finally, I found a kindly Transit worker for help. He suggested the C train to 14th Street. (Turns out, I could've just stayed on the E. Lesson learned. Also, I love cabs.) Now, I was late and would miss my friend before she left for her two morning appointments. But, I must say, that was rather a blessing. Because, by the time I made my way in my high heeled boots from the subway to her fantastic flat in the West Village, I was a sight, I'm sure. Nothing quite as glamorous as working up a sweat in the cold. (Also, to get into the city for only $7.75 is well worth the adventure.)
Melissa made it back for a late lunch. After dropping off her Boston terrier, at doggy day care, we went to Souen for a healthful lunch...and sake. It was, after all, a belated birthday celebration. One of the things I love about New York (besides there being cheery yellow designated drivers everywhere), is running into people I know. Every time I'm in Manhattan, I always see a familiar, friendly face. That day, it was my talented friend,
Jennifer, who spotted me on her way out. Ironically, she and I both live on the Westside of Los Angeles.
Since Melissa had been doing her fair share of travelling in the weeks before my arrival, we opted for ordering in pizza (because you have to in New York) which would go perfectly with the bottle of Veuve she had chilling for me. She is a very good friend. I love that I can have a delicious, vegan pizza (replete with Daiya "cheese") delivered in Manhattan, but not in Venice Beach. Someone must remedy that. Our dinner was a slice (well,
slices) of heaven. We watched the finale of "Project Runway" (where my favorite designer finally won), laughed at fond memories and went to bed early.
Saturday, we were up early, enjoyed soy lattes and made our way to lunch. It was raining, and umbrellas navigated the sidewalk. I soon witnessed my first episode of umbrella sidewalk road rage. There was a gentleman crossing the street heading toward us against the light. On our corner, there were four of us waiting to go. The light turned right before the gentleman reached our corner, and I moved to the side to let him through, as one would do. After he passed me, though, we heard him exclaim, "What? You're not going to move for me?!" To which the tall, older gentleman who had been standing behind me said, "No. Why should I move for you?!" Melissa, the younger gentleman who had been on the corner with us and I waited for the punchline, the "How's it going, buddy" kind of break, but these men were serious and the right-of-way argument continued until we were out of earshot. The three of us found it rather funny. Welcome to an inclement day in New York.
We had a change in plan, as Melissa's brother wasn't able to keep our lunch date, so we ended up at the Stage Door Deli just as the snow started to fall. Challah French toast and turkey bacon were perfection on that cold day. And the snow falling was a beautiful backdrop for conversation. Then, we faced the freezing weather, hopped into a balmy cab and made our way to MoMA. I took off my gloves to get out cash for our charming driver and realized about three steps from the closed door that I had left my beloved Isotoner gloves, lined with angel wings, in the cab. The gloves I have cherished for twenty years. I mean, really, I love those gloves. This was the one time I did not ask for a receipt. No medallion, license number or name to have any hope of finding them. They were gone. And my heart broke. The only thing more devastating than that was the line to get into the Museum, which ran down the block. We took one look at the ocean of people inside and opted for Plan B: The Whitney.
Every piece of art was dutifully admired, and we did a fair share of people watching before braving the cold again. I must say, a snow storm without gloves is less fun. But I didn't want to give in. It was too beautiful not to be out in it. But, you must remember, as I was often reminded, I was not wearing boots for snow. I was donning my trusty Nine West platform boots, which are fabulous walking shoes, but not so much slipping-in-ice resistant. This is where watching "Style with Elsa Klensch" all those years ago paid off, because I pony-stomped my way through the snow like a 90s runway model, literally following in Melissa's footsteps, who was kind enough to walk ahead to break up any ice with her snow-friendly boots. Bless her heart.
The snow never stopped that day. While I have been in Manhattan in the dead of winter, during springtime and in late summer, this was my first autumn in New York. We drove past Central Park, the trees covered in white. So much for my plans to see the changing leaves. "Do you want to do the Park?" Melissa kindly inquired. "Nope," I smiled back. Back to the West Village to pick up the pup, run a few errands, and change for dinner.
Hungry from our long, snowy stroll, we did the most uncool thing one can do in Manhattan and had dinner at 5:30, or "grandma hour" as we called it. But who cares? I've done New York City. I've been in limos, worn couture, hobnobbed with celebrities, battled paparazzi. Heck, I've even met Marc Jacobs and Anna Wintour. Sitting at the bar of Spasso, when most happy hours are just getting started, to have dinner with my most darling friend was fine my me. This was not the weekend for clubs and bars; it was time to just be. I was happy as a clam as we dined on the most delicious food (my first foray into chicken liver pate; also, I highly recommend the spaghetti) and imbibed the most incredible wine (which I'm kicking myself for not getting the name of). The staff were dressed in costumes and were serving us fabulously entertaining conversation as well. We ate, we drank, we laughed, and then we took our desserts to go. We had a bottle of rosé champagne waiting for us, and three episodes of "An American Horror Story" to watch. Melissa's new to the series and it was Halloween weekend, after all. And there's no one better to watch something scary with than Melissa.
We stayed up much too late on Saturday night, but I think that helped me stumble upon the secret to avoiding jetlag when flying the red-eye: When you arrive, don't have coffee -- no matter how badly you might want it; Don't take a nap -- no matter how badly you might need it; Do go to bed early -- even though, ten o'clock is really seven o'clock where you reside and it's kind of humiliating to admit you've gone to bed at that hour (which is the second most uncool thing one can do in Manhattan). Then, wake up early-ish on Saturday morning and stay up late on Saturday night (perhaps even indulge in an early dinner). Sleep in on Sunday, have a wonderful deli lunch, then walk around the city much more before getting on the subway back to JFK.
I had packed before we left for our Sunday lunch at Artie's to meet up with Melissa's brother. Of course, I had a bagel with lox, which was divine. We wandered around the city a bit more. Went into a Trader Joe's (because, all of us being from California, have never been in a NYC TJ's), then saw how long the line was and went right back out. It was bright and clear and still quite cold. But another stunningly beautiful day. The weekend couldn't have been ordered more perfectly. And I hated to leave.
We got back to the flat about four-thirty and I rushed my way back to the subway after a heartfelt goodbye. I was already behind schedule. On the train, I went into a bit of a panic when I noted my boarding time was six-twenty for my seven o'clock flight. Golly. I do this all the time. Well, it does make getting to the airport that much more interesting.
I tried to recall how long it took me to get into the city, and it seemed like well over an hour. It was five o'clock by then, and I was growing more worried. I texted my friend: Should I get out and get a cab? She wrote back, "Yes." But, with intermittent reception, I didn't get that message until I was halfway to my destination. I watched the stops tick off the monitor in the traincar. Seven more stops, six, five, four, three...I just might make it.
Luckily, Delta was the third stop on the AirTrain and I ran to the terminal, along with other travellers who seemed to read their tickets like I do. The security line was double-wrapped around the terminal and they were calling out for the six-forty-five flight. I waited as the line inched. Finally, with ten minutes to spare before my boarding time, I line jumped. I'm not proud of it, but this was a flight I could not miss. The woman holding the rope took pity on me, and let me through, much to the raised eyebrows of the VIP security man. There would be no time for one pre-flight vodka tonic, let alone two. I did have enough time to get a bottle of water and some chocolate (priorities) and made my way to the boarding line. Finally, going through the gate, I was called back and asked to measure my carry-on. While it fit fine in the overhead on the way there, it did not fit in the little metal measurer. I gave the attendant a smile and head tilt with an eyebrow raise. She smiled back. "We'll have to check it. It's a full flight, but have a cocktail on me," she said as she handed me a drink ticket.
Now, I have to admit, my running streak of finding money in New York seemed to have come to an end with only finding a penny in the street. However, a drink ticket was Willy Wonka gold as far as I was concerned. It beat every fiver and tenner I've ever come across on the streets and in the taxis of NYC.
It was indeed a full flight. And, much to my chagrin, I had rather loud, squirmy children seated both in front of and behind me. I needed that cocktail, STAT. When the food cart finally came about, I handed the steward my drink ticket for that vodka tonic and requested a chicken sandwich from the menu. "We don't stock the sandwiches on this flight," he said. I pointed out that they were listed to be on a flight with that departure time. "They don't sell, so we don't carry them. Sorry," he said. "But, to make up for it, the drink is on me."
"Well," I smiled back, "the drink was already free." He handed me back my ticket and a lonely bag of pretzels along with a mini bottle of Skyy and a full can of tonic. I sighed as the boy behind me kicked my seat yet again, mixed my drink and ordered
The Help for my in-flight film, hopeful it would help shorten this long flight. Just as the movie started, the steward came back. "Here," he said, handing me the sandwich. "I found this on the other cart. It's on me. Thank you for flying Delta." I smiled and gave him a sincere, "Thank you," then caught the stewardess as she passed and asked for my second vodka. "What would you like to go with it?" she asked with slight concern. "Oh, I've already got the tonic," I assured.
The Help was a lovely movie, and I'm sure I'll enjoy it even more the second time I see it because I really only heard half of it, in spite of my earbuds. Instead of much of the dialogue, I got to enjoy the disruptions of the ill-behaved children behind me. If there was room to rise, I would have turned around, addressed the mother and children, and told them that I'm terribly allergic to children, as they give me an awful headache. The only known cure for this affliction is for said children to sit still and be quiet. Instead, I resorted to a well-time whacking of the boy's table when he was pushing, pulling and pressing on it. After that, I didn't hear a peep out of him. Now I know to do that much earlier in the game.
We actually landed a half-hour early, and my checked bag was one of the first off the baggage claim. A dear friend picked me up and whisked me home. What a wonderful weekend. It was by far the easiest trip to New York I've ever had (in spite of the subway confusion, and children in need of sedatives). As I snuggled up on my sofa to catch that night's episode of "The Walking Dead" (it was the day before Halloween, after all), I made mental notes on what I'll need for my next trip to New York. First,
noise cancelling headphones are a must (and these seem nice for the price). Always pack
two pairs of gloves on wintry trips. Get a receipt on cab rides...you never know when you might need that medallion number. Wear a watch (because reaching for your smartphone isn't as easy when you're bundled up as checking your wrist). Find a good real estate agent. Because, by this time next year, I intend to be fully bi-coastal. Where there's a will, there's a way. And, hopefully, next year, I'll see the autumn leaves in Central Park, sans snow.
Thank you again, Melissa. xo
