That’s one of the wonderful things that I’ve done this week that I haven’t done for ages. Having a bath, too. My oh my, I can’t tell you how marvellous that was. Little things that I hadn’t even considered that I’d miss so much.
My time in this Newest of Yorks is pretty much an intermission. A break from packing and unpacking. A break from the unfamiliar. And, as you may have noticed, a break from daily blogging. The feeling of being a travelly-type-person has kinda disappeared. Mainly, I imagine, because I’ve been staying with friends and I’ve hung out with other friends, too.
I’ve enjoyed eavesdropping a lot. Actually understanding what fellow subway passengers are saying has been excellent fun. Highlight so far was a large woman chatting to her friend who looked kind of in the ballpark of an whiskey-soaked version of Ric Ocasek: “…she’s so fuckin’ fat. She got all fat ‘n’ shit comin’ out of her bra!”
I’ve enjoyed getting drunk with Marta and Ariel, friends I met earlier on my travels, in an Irish bar where some middle-aged Yankees fan called Jimmy decided that I looked and sounded like Russell Crowe (I don’t). This is Jimmy:
That evening ended up going back to some dude’s roof with several midwestern ladies, a mystery New Yorker who may or may not be a psycho killer, and the incredibly tall host who claimed to be the writer of the Tom Hanks film, “Big.” It certainly was a swanky enough apartment to be owned by the writer of a hit movie, but either he uses a pen name or he’s telling porkies. Further confusion came when one visited to bathroom. You had to go through the bedroom to reach it, and in the bed was an elderly woman snoring loudly with the TV on. Still, liar or not, his apartment had an amazing view of the city, and someone bought a crapload of beer on the way, so fun was had by all before taxis were stumbled into.
I’ve enjoyed meeting up with Keith, one of my best friends, who just so happened to be in town on business. And I enjoyed the time I spent chatting to two random chaps while I was in a hotel bar waiting for Keith to finish his meeting. One of the guys had gone to the lav, and the other said something to me after I’d order a beer from the waitress. I didn’t hear what he said, so I turned and asked what he’d said. “She’s hot!” he said, gesturing to the waitress with his Stella Artois bottle. “Aye” I replied, slightly uncommitedly. We got chatting. He and his brother-in-law were in town with their wives, who were upstairs asleep. This seemed to be reason enough for them to ask the waitress to buy a couple of ladies across the way a drink. Classy.
Mainly, though, I’ve been taking advantage of the large amount of arty museums. Some Klimt stuff at the Neue Galerie; some rococo stuff at the Cooper-Hewitt; Murakami at the Brooklyn Museum; “Dargerism” at the American Folk Art Museum; the Whitney Biennial; and “Take Your Time,” the Olafur Eliasson show at both MoMA and P.S.1. Here’s a bunch of pictures of Eliasson’s work.
I know, I know: the blog gets a bit dull when life is easy and there are no hassles to overcome.