I can feel myself slowing down. I’ve been working all day, then trying to make the most of each evening. I’ve developed a cough, sore throat and a bit of a stuffy nose. Last night, Friday night in New York City, I couldn’t face all the people around this part of the city, so I took the subway down to Battery Park, and had a nice walk along the edge of the water. (Quick question: is that where Rosanna Arquette fell over and bumped her head in Desperately Seeking Susan?) Past the war memorials, past a fellow quite opening urinating into a flower bed, past a Latin-ish band (apologies for my ignorance, but they could’ve been from anywhere south of the US for all I know) that were making people dance, past lots of dogs taking people for a tour of the trees, past rather swanky boats, past many many many sweaty joggers.
I was exhausted by the time I got back to the hotel. The only time I moved from the bed after that was to let room service in with my food. I lay there letting my feet calm down, watching the Yankees vs Angels game and a documentary about the Bee Gees on telly.
This morning, the nagging little bastard who lives in my brain woke me up early to remind me it was the weekend: do stuff! do stuff! do stuff!
So I went for another walk. A leisurely walk up 5th Avenue along the east side of Central Park to do the Metropolitan Museum Of Art and the Guggenheim. The Met was going well. I went straight up to the roof to see the Sol LeWitt exhibit, Splotches Whirls and Twirls, on the roof, which was wonderful, especially against the Central Park and Manhattan skyline background.
Some African and South American stuff, some Greek stuff, some lovely Gauguin paintings and other lovely paintings by people who’s names I forget, and what should’ve been exceedingly impressive Egyptian stuff.
But that was the point when I faded quickly: I’ve seen too much this last week. Even something as simple as walking to a deli around the corner is filling my eyes with juicy delights, so as I stood there staring at some hyroglyphics, I couldn’t appreciate it. It was just old stone with pictures on it.
I guess I should’ve just gone straight into the park at that point, but I didn’t. I was close to the Guggenheim, so I still went in, paid my money, checked my bag, walked up the slope to the top, let pictures and sculptures drift past my eyes, then took the elevator back down. There, Guggenheim ticked off list. But not enjoyed.
The park was good, though. I just slipped my headphones into my ears, turned up The Concretes album (an album that I’ve been enjoying more and more since I put it on my iPod Shuffle for this trip) and sat on a rock and watched people doing their thing.
But still the nagging little bastard is telling me stuff (“It’s Saturday afternoon in NYC, you fool! Why are you sat in your underwear in the hotel room watching Jerry Maguire on telly?”). I have a feeling he’ll win the argument. Unless my brain and feet gang up on him by getting a beer or two out of the minibar.