Big walk home

(part 3 of 3)

I am at 80th Street and 5th. I do the calculations in my head- 2 Avenues and 67 blocks. 

I can walk it.

I've spent the afternoon lazing around in Central Park on the Great Lawn after the fight with The American. I've read my book, listened to my ipod and gazed skyward at the sun through scrunched up eyes. A hot breezy day that brought all forms of life out- school kids, Upper East Side Mummies, buskers, the unemployed, runners, cyclists, even a man playing the bagpipes. Unlike 95% of New Yorkers, I bet he'd know where Wales was. I didn't get a chance to ask him though, as he was surrounded by tourists asking him to play some Rod Stewart.

For a while it was a kind of nirvarna, my spot in the middle of the park. I wondered how long I could stay there, being left alone to just stare at the sky? Until 5.30 p.m. was the answer, when all these baseball teams arrived and I realised I was smack bang in the middle of everyone's outfield. Two guys came up to me and politely told me if I stayed I risked being hit by the ball.

"Shouldn't you all still be in work feeding the corporate beast?" I yell at no one in particular.

So with my peaceful escape cut short I decide I'm going to walk it, all the way home. I need to get my head straight, decide if I should apologise. I want to listen to my thoughts, soak in the changing landscape as I head downtown, so I leave the ipod off.

The Upper East Side never feels quite like New York to me. It's so...serene. Where I am on 5th, the park is on my right, walled off by 4 foot high stone. There are benches on my side of the wall, with wet paint signs on, which people are sat on anyway. I wonder who was the first to put their hands on and declare "S'ok people-it's dry now!"

Over the road are generic apartment buildings with grand awnings and doormen. Thin, tanned women  pass me, wearing preppy clothes and walking tiny, rat-like dogs. It's so quiet as if people are scared to interrupt the monied hush. There are hardly any black people. There are hardly any brown people. There are no visible homeless.

When I hit 60th, the restraint of the U.E.S. gives way to an explosion of people and traffic and noise. The Mac shop, it's glass cube, like an alien ship that landed in the middle of the city.

Opposite it, the gilded and newly renovated Plaza, with it's $20 million condos and tourists waiting outside for the movie bus tours. As I pause to cross the street on one side I am flanked by some French businessmen, on the other- a man in a rickshaw.

I take a right at 58th to cross over to 7th Avenue and grab an iced coffee from a food truck to fuel me up. I head South again, hitting luggage and camera shops and remembering what is coming up ahead: Times Square, the frenetic beast. The centre of the world, yet the middle of nothing. Neon winks at me seductively in the distance.

Then I am in it: total sensory overload, lights, noise, the smell of pollution mixed with caramalised nuts and hot dogs, people everywhere, their necks crained at the man-made beautiful ugly in the sky. Everyone's selling something: "Do you like Comedy?" "Hey Miss, you wanna bus tour?" "Sunglasses 5 bucks!" Teenage girls in too tight dresses and too high heels, out of towners lining up to go into an open fronted bar and drink watered down well drinks. The TKTS see-thru stair case that's in the Jay Z and Alicia video, around that the highest signs, clamouring up the side of skyscrapers.

It flirts with me, entices me, begs to be photographed. No. I am not a tourist anymore. I can't get my camera out in bloody Times Square....

I take out my camera and snap. Just one. Naughty neon clad whore.

I seek solace, escape into Sephora, but in this branch they are playing Abba's greatest hits. I go around and rub $160 face cream on my hands and play with all the sparkly make up. I put some bronzer over my newly freckled face and then I leave. The make-up makes me want to make-up. I'm going to say sorry to The American.

Another 10 blocks and I am at 34th st, dominated by Macy's- busy people everywhere, criss crossing my pathway, racing like worker ants to their destination. I go the wrong way at the spot where Broadway crosses diagonally. Then a whole block filled with people dressed in Mexican costumes for Cinco de Mayo.

The sun is setting and cars are turning their lights on. What time is out? I don't have a phone. How long have I been walking for? I see a sign opposite Penn station asking me to ''Feel the Love' for crocs. I scoff loudly to myself. No more than I will feel the love for a child molesting Tory, thanks.

Midtown makes way for Chelsea. The outfits are more interesting, people are younger, hardly any suits and plenty of gays. I pass the road where The Teenager's first school was. The Jamba juice where I would met her after school and she would tell me how much she hated it here and wanted to go home. And I would say "We are home. This is where we live now."

Then I'm into familiar territory, lower Chelsea, past all the shops and cafes I frequent and and I am nearly there. I  pop into the rip-off Gourmet market where your groceries still get thrown at you despite the high prices. I buy a chicken to make me and The American some dinner. I cross over 7th and take the right onto W13th Street and I am in Greenwich village, the trees, now lush and leafy with Spring, sweep aside to welcome me back.

I climb the three flights of steep stairs to my apartment that always leave me breathless, no matter how much I go to the gym. My apartment is called a 4th floor walk-up, but it's on the 3rd floor. There is no ground floor here you see. Ground is first. Another thing lost in translation.

The American is lying on the bed watching TV.

"I'm sorry!" he says pleadingly as soon as I walk into the bedroom.
"No. I'm sorry!" I say.

And that is how it goes, we both say sorry at the same time, like we are in a cheesy Rom Com. Now I am pissed off I apologised at all, but then I remember what Dr Phil says above love not being about 'winning' and 'scoring points'. Hurumph.

For two people who rarely admit they are wrong, this is quite a moment. I lie down on the bed next to him and I can feel the muscles in my legs starting to ache.

Walking is easy in Manhattan. It's all straight lines. If only relationships were the same.

Murder, death, Kiehls

The American comes home earlier this week and tells me he spent an entire subway ride staring at a girl's arse. Before I clip him over the head, he explains it's not because it was peachy and desirable, but because she was wearing the wrong style of jeans for her figure.

My husband is now a raging metrosexual and it's all my fault.

When we met back in 2006 he used Axe underarm deodorant, the American equivalent of Lynx-(under International Law chav body sprays require single syllable names with an 'x' in them). He wore nylon sportswear, some days head to toe, until I pointed out this wasn't the most suitable fabric for someone of such manly build living in the heat of L.A. So I got him some linen shirts. He had never used moisturiser, or eye cream, so I got him some of those too.  I was just in time, there were fine lines appearing.

Three years later and he's dropped 40 pounds, insists on using the entire Kiehls Facial Fuel range and won't step out without 'product' in his hair. He has rejected all but natural fabrics and he even plans his wardrobes ahead of time.

"What are these?" I enquire picking up a pink trainer from a pile of new purchases.
"They're my new spring sneakers honnneeee"
"You don't need trainers."
"No, I do, cos they are spring sneakers."
"What is wrong with your winter ones, or the summer ones you have in storage?"
"I needed some in lighter colours to take me into Spring!"

Need. The man says 'need'.  The fashion obsessive's classic get out of jail card. I didn't want it. I needed it. The pupil learns fast.  And the talk of seasons,  not just summer and winter, but Spring and Autumn too. This is how far down the rabbit hole we've gone.

Living in the West Village has likely aided his transformation from hairy Alpha male to groomed gay. Saturdays on Greenwich Avenue are like an Armani catwalk. If I owned any, I could polish my silverware in the glow from the local men's skin.

When I complain that he has taken things too far he says "You made me honneee." like he's some kind of reverse Frankenstein creation who has manlicures.

I guess none of this matters, as long as he doesn't start looking better than me?

But then the passport photos happen:

I am in a scruffy camera shop on W14th street staring open mouthed at the third attempt at my portrait. That cannot be me. The camera must be on a setting that makes everyone look like a 250 pound moustached convict who's just had a stroke.

The American looks good. Like, really good. Great even. If I was to be mean, I'd say at worst he looked like an applicant for the new series of Jersey Shore, but I would still say he was chanelling Mike 'The Situation' which is the one all the girls all fancy. At best though, and to give him dues, he looks...really good looking... kind of... smoldering even... like an actor.

"Honnneee, look at me! Look how good I look!"
''Fuck off" I snap at him
"Seriously, I'm hot."
*Silence*
"Let me see yours honneee?"
"No."
There is hysterical laughter as he snaps it away from me "You don't look that bad."
"I look like a 250 pound escaped mental patient."
"Aww, well I love you baby."
"Piss off. How the fuck do you look that good in yours?"
"I did a look."
"What?"
"A look!"
"What kind of look? Like Blue Steel or something?" I mock.
"Smirking drugs bust actually." he says, without a trace of irony.
"Jesus Christ."
"I can show you how to do it if you like?"

Stop. Right. There. Show me? SHOW ME? I invented the pout. The pose is mine. I was an amateur teen model for god's sake! In Cardiff! If I had been able to lay off the cakes I could have gone far. Me and Campbell and Crawford would have been besties.

I pay the bemused photo man $18 for photos that will never be used and stomp off in search of a British style photo booth that let's you do multiple attempts for a fiver. 

Show me how to look good?

When the pupil thinks they can teach the master things have gone too far.



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Paging Dr Love...

On the issue of finding hot, eligible men- I am not quite sure what was up with those four women from the long running New York based HBO TV show. The one that we... never dare speak it's name... since it sold out with the saccharin big screen version. 

Anyway, they should have just hung out on 7th Avenue between W13th and 12th. There are more hot male doctors on that block than you can shake a tongue depression stick at and it's only a stone's throw away from The Pleasure Chest. It's just good planning to have your future love and a great sex shop within walking distance.

Specifically the places to frequent are Subway Sandwiches and Duane Reade. Always docs in there from St Vincents, wearing scrubs, no doubt fresh from saving the lives of babies and dealing with multiple G.S.W's.

It's too late for me girls and boys. I married a man who works in media accounting. The only thing he saves is budget costs on a PDF.

I suggest you get yourself a $5 footlong and a pack of Advil and go meet your future husband.

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April 20th UPDATE.

As an addendum to this post St Vincent's closed shortly after I wrote this. Now I cannot walk by for fear I placed some hot doctor arse curse on it.  Aside from the sadness for NY's singles, the hospital has been a major part of the community in the West Village for 160 years. Efforts are now underway to try and save it.

It would also make The American happy, his general paranoia was eased by having a hospital on our doorstep.

Say a little prayer for St Vincents and all it's doctors, whether they are hot or not.

Shitshine day

On Thursday New York basked in a freakish 70 degree March heatwave and out came the inevitable display of flesh. Stoops burst to life with lovers and smokers and The American and I strolled leisurely down to Union Square and felt the first heat of the year on our faces.

Then I saw a man trying to do a poo on the street.

I didn't spot it at first, at least I didn't catch what he was trying to do. I saw him from the other end of W16th street because he looked as if he was trying sit down on an invisible chair. Some kind of performance art I wondered? He was wobbling around a lot, so sitting on his make believe chair was quite hard.

It's not until I'm next to him that I see it's not so much a chair, than a throne the guy needs. Or a potty even. He is fiddling with his jeans zip when it hits me.

"Jesus Christ." I say under my breath to The American ''That man is trying to do a poo on the pavement."
"Gross." he says and walks on dismissively without looking back.
"Honey, look!" and I point back down the street.
"Emma, I don't want to look."
"No, you have to! Check him out, he can't even get his pants down."
"I am not looking!"
"Well I am."
"You are going to stand here and watch a man shit on the street?"
"Yes."
"You're grosser than he is"
"Just look! There's no poo yet, he hasn't even got his jeans off." 
"He probably went already in his pants."
"Oh. I feel bad for him now."
"Why are you still watching him then?
"Because... It is morbidly fascinating."
"Watch away, I'm going to get cigarettes."

He dives into the nearest deli and I stay outside to watch poo man. He is still trying to sit on his imaginary toilet. I wonder what you have to be drinking to think there's a loo right in the middle of the pavement.

I raise my head up to the sun, push my glasses back onto my head and breathe in the sun.  I hear a loud rattle and look right to see a lady coming up 5th avenue dragging a giant sack with hundreds of empty soda cans in. She stops right in front of me.

"Hey honey! I love your top!" she enthuses to me.
''Umm...Thanks"
"Where'd ya get it sweetie?"
"Oh, in the UK."
"Pretty!"

And then she clatters off down fifth with her bag of cans, each one worth a few cents rebate.

The American comes out of the deli, Malboro already in his mouth.

"A bag lady just told me she liked my top." I say.
"Cool!" he mutters, clearly not listening.
"Hello? A bag lady just complimented me on my top!"
"And that's bothered you more than that guy taking a shit on the street?"
I nod.
"You're a real New Yorker now honey."




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For obvious reasons this blog has been somewhat difficult to pictorilise. So here is a picture of my new beloved Liberty London for Target lamp, to take your minds off poo. 

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Fashion Avenue's fur clad cycling Grandma

Yesterday while rushing to the Toni Mess-o-rama show in Chelsea I was stopped in my tracks.

There she was. The fur wearing Jamaican grandma that my taxi nearly knocked over last week. Unmistakable, draped in top to toe mink and wobbling up 7th Avenue on a bike to small for her ample frame.

This time she was riding the wrong way on Fashion Avenue-in the opposite direction of the traffic. Very, very slowly.

She rode without regard for the rest of New York. She was doing her own thing amongst the hub bub and noise. Oblivious to the self regarding importance of the Fash Pack around the corner.

"Are you going to go my way?" I could hear her silently call.

Hell yeah.