The last straw?

I went on a cruise last week. I’ve wanted to have a vacation on a boat for as long as I can remember. To set sail from Manhattan, with a Tiffany blue sky is a unique experience, watching the tip of America’s centre fade away as you feel the gentle chop of waves and the brisk air against your skin. 

We were heading for Sweden, well, something Swedish actually. Ikea Redhook, for a shopping expedition. I was certain that although we had gone because we wanted to purchase just one item (a silicone spatula) that we would walk out with no end of gnargs, fnargs and komss. 

The water taxi to Red Hook is A LOT OF FUN. It’s not quite the Isle of Wight ferry, but it’s damn close (sorry Sean). It’s clean, immaculate and came in flatpack form with an allen key. Who was allen anyway?

The store really is big. I mean, like HUGE. Bigger than this season’s Real World house (currently showing on MTV, check local listings) and bigger than most of the port that surrounds it. It’s the world’s largest cobalt blue lego brick – and everything within is available in huge quantities.

So shop we did – sensibly and frugally, getting just what we needed (3 mini palm trees as 79 cents, a roasting tray, tea lights and rice bowls) and hit the cafeteria for a snack.

KK had the Chicken Nuggets and Fries – obviously to spite me. And proceeded to empty half the salt from the dead sea onto his carbohydratey goodness. 

I, on the other hand (not that KK was on my hand, as it were) had the roast salmon and vegetables. As the meal was being plated by a man who had a rare form of dyslexia that prohibited him from comprehending the phrase ‘low-fat’ his ladle dipped in to a sauce.

The salmon was 300 calories. The sauce, fruit based (Swedish) was probably 3000. I said ‘do I need that’, he said ‘it’s what you asked for’ and proceeded to deposit a bee’s nest of weight gain onto my plate. You do indeed get what you ask for.

Orange juice to accompany, in one of those irritating boxed that take a 34 year old 2 hours to open and a 2 year old 3 seconds. I looked in vain for a straw. None. Ikea are selling probably a million of these orange cartons a day and no straws. Not even the little one that used to be glue gunned onto the side of the carton. 

I walked to the cashier – who was aksing her friend something, and asked her ‘we don’t stock straws’. Who the hell ’stocks’ straws? It’s not Lladro or Petunias – it’s cutlery for drinks.

Anyway, we got it open, finished our meals and took the subway back – the thought of the water ferry at night had a ‘US Airways on Final Approach’ feel to it.

The Holly and the Ivy.

There are things you do for friends and there are things you DO for friends. For many years Holly and I have referred to each other as VBFITWWW – an acronym that remains private to most. What Holly and I have that is public is a deep and loving friendship – and this weekend was the perfect example of this.

Holly has a beautiful daughter Eliza, to who I am a God Parent – an honour that I take great pride in and look forward to having some moral input into this beautiful little girl’s life. She’s also pregnant with another child. She knew that I’d ‘been through the mill’ as it were recently, and about 3 weeks ago she announced that she was coming to stay.

This is no great ’shakes’ as it were – but actually on closer inspection it is a crystal clear demonstration of the unique, caring and wonderful person she is.

She arrived Friday night (having had a taxi journey atypical to most New Yorkers, consisting of a constant dialogue about the potential of car-jacking) and settled onto the couch. After ordering food and watching her eat about a teaspoon of pizza (I know, it was a special treat) she admitted that due to the second wonderful baby growing inside her the mere thought of food brought on a sense of nausea akin to realising that you’re sat next to Sarah Palin on a flight to Sydney.

She battled through, the next morning – after I snuck someone in to the apartment on the condition of ABSOLUTE silence – so we barely spoke — and then she confessed she wore similar earplugs to those won in the McClaren pit-lane – we  woke and had breakfast – again, no mean feat. And off out we popped.

To central Park – where we both refused to admit (because we are British) that the weather was indeed so cold you could:

1. Hang dinner-plates on our nipples.

2. Had nipples like Scania Wheel Nuts

3. Had nipples like diamond cutters.

And the inexorable wait for a horse and  carriage (they look fit to me and they are licensed – what about bad pet owners? who licensed them huh?)… we trip trapped around central park looking all but the most Victorian save for the Carriage Driver who to all intensive purposes appeared to have escaped from the Maze. Nonetheless it was very memorable, which is great considering we were both remarkable stupid in forgetting our cameras.

Next some retail. Well, we tried, but 5th Avenue was almost unnavigable. Do these people realise we’re in the Great Depression? Do they have no idea? Is it hysteria? Or have there been a lot of Daily Mail ‘win a weekend in NY’ competitions recently?

We gave up and repaired to Lure for lunch. Which was jolly nice and had a ‘proper’ chat. You know, when you’ve known someone for a long time just being with them is enough – and then the ‘right’ sort of conversation starts and you realise all that they’ve ever meant to you is multiplied by the obvious connection you share.

That evening we stayed in, I know that’s remarkable but as Holly said ‘I was the sight she wanted to see’ and we watched telly and just relaxed. Perfect.

This morning to brunch at The Film Cafe on 9th. A brunch that involved a waitress who clearly hated customers, a fruit salad served in a scooped out pineapple – but without any pineapple – and a chopped salad that was in fact a deconstructed enchilada. When asking for more coffee the axe faced bitch bought me a glass of coffee so full the meniscus was clearly evident and the glass almost sunk through the table as it’s lava-boiled heat permeated the room.

We said good bye to Ratchat – who had had about 3 minutes sleep and turned up looking as fresh as a lotus flower – and headed to the Rockefeller Center – top of the Rock to be precise. And to be frank I was on top of the world to see her and spend such quality time with someone so special – albeit short as she left just a couple of hours ago. Leaving behind great memories, tranquility and two horrific pictures taken at the top of the tower that cost us (her) about 50 dollars. Daylight bloody robbery. So here are my two. 

It’s not write, but it’s OK.

Time heals all wounds. Slowly. Apart from a slash to the comedy jugular, which I’m sure this post will suffer from. There’s nothing nicer than celebrating your birthday in a way that only you know will work. And thanks to the support (and downright pressure) from close friends; I’m living my birthday dream. You might know that over the past couple of weeks I’ve been slightly nomadic, schlepping from place to place, country to country and more recently hotel to hotel.

I could now give out stars in this town, so many of their rich and verdant sleeping establishments I have visited. 

Let me run you though some highs – and lows.

Highs: 

There are no rooms like the Playhouses at Soho House New York. This time I’ve discovered that the shower has a ‘Mr. Steam’ function, and just shy of setting of the smoke alarms, I cranked it up and opened my pores.

The argument proving that to order Chicken Noodle Soup from the Millenium Hilton at 1.29am when the cut off is at 1.30 the ended in mutual multiple hang-ups.

The joy of the roof top bar at 60 Thompson, possibly the most beautiful rooftop bar in the world. 

The ecstasy of the breakfasts at the Gild Hall Hotel (brand spanking new downtown) and being informed that it had taken more time than it should because they couldn’t poach the eggs without breaking them.

 

The Lows:

No matter how high your floor, when you stay in a hotel that overlooks the World Trade Center site, you can’t help wondering if the foundations were damaged on that dreadful day. And by high I mean 54th floor.

The fucking bastard xylophone player (barely a musician) who would not stop until 2am on West Broadway meaning windows remained closed (a pet hate)

The paradox of wondering if you’re lonely and simultaneously enjoying the whole king sized, Frette linen’d bed to yourself.

 

So, in closing on this ‘lighthouse/corner turned’ post, I’ve hotel’d the fuck out of it. And I’m proud of me for doing so.  Happy sodding birthday.

Toto, I don’t think we’re in the subway anymore…

So I’ve lived in NYC for about 2 years (as I keep reminding you no doubt) and I’ve always had this thing about the subway. When I was working for Euro RSCG I used to take the subway to work and I used to take the 2 line from Chambers to Houston.

Nothing odd about that eh? Perfectly normal behaviour and indeed who wouldn’t?

Well bugger me if most mornings I’d get into work and suddenly realise I’d be humming the same song over and over again. It’s not a song I’m proud to be obsessing about, nor one that I’ve ever been known to sing out loud (or in the voice in my head). It’s ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’. The gayest song in gaydom. If it was a person it would wear white gloves in the house; or a facepack, or love Carson Kressley in an abnormal way or just get punched a lot at school.

It’s that gay.

Well I figured it out, again from my Moleskin – it’s the 2 train. When it pulls away from the station and begins its strained stumble towards Franklin the electricity passing through the system – see how technical I am – creates these tones, these electronic notes that sing a song. And it’s the notes that match the line ‘THERE’S A PLACE (that I dream of)…

Now This may make me sound completely insane, but I’m sure, almost certain that this is the case.

Imagine my chagrin when I took Abby and Tom on a joyride of the New York subway to prove my point (without remembering it was only on the 2 train) to end up looking like a total mentalist.

Hill and High Water

Well, we’ve just had a very late protein lunch at Hill Country (Broadway and 26th). It’s had a fair few rave reviews – including New York Magazine – and I hold that title in high regard.

For $49 you get the ‘Two-Step’ which is a meal for two. Two Orcs that is, two Orcs who like theivin’ and have bastard children to steal for.

If you don’t get it, I mean it’s  lot of meat. Ribs, pork and beef, chicken, and more pork and beef.

What’s GREAT about the meat is that it isn’t dipped in sugar based sauces (or ‘high fructose corn syrup). It tastes properly smoked and is sublimely spiced.

The sides rocked, the beans really were good for our hearts and darling Ben appeared to enjoy his German Potato Salad (although  it’s as German as I am Spanish).

Overall Great. Not brilliant but great. Ben’s complaint? ‘I wish they had plates’. I agree entirely.