It’s bad enough that Sandy is moody, tempestuous and full of wind. She’s also trying to ruin my holiday.
I’m scheduled to depart for London in less than two days, just as the hurricane brewing off the east coast threatens to strike New York. Her path isn’t clear as yet, but her size is encouraging residents to prepare for the worst. I need to get the hell out of here and am trying desperately to bring my flight from JFK forward to avoid being trapped indefinitely and missing the London footy match altogether. If anyone has mates in the UK with goal umpiring experience or aspirations, tell them to stop sinking pints and warm those index fingers up … they may be needed!
In brighter news, I successfully navigated several arms of the New York subway system today. As someone who is notorious for losing their sense of direction – even back home where I’ve lived for five years – this was a huge accomplishment. After waking up close to midday – again, not uncommon – I was determined to make something of the remainder of the day and so, fuelled by a scrumptious late brunch at the top-notch cafe downstairs (more about that later), I ran the subway through its paces. First stop: uptown to 57th and Lexington to collect an exquisite pair of pony hair pumps from my persuasively charming friend-slash Achilles’ heel, Kenneth Cole. We reacquainted last night on 5th Avenue after what started as a veiled attempt at ‘just browsing’. The moment the leather handbag in the display window penetrated my nostrils, I was riding high. I’m not even into handbags or shoes, and I don’t really even like shopping. But let’s just say Kenneth has one hell of a rack.
Pumps happily in my possession, I crossed town for my first visit to the High Line, a beautiful public park built on an historic freight railway that runs above the Meatpacking district on Manhattan’s west side. The elevated tracks offer stunning vistas of the city, accompanied by landscaped gardens and public art. If you’re lucky (or unlucky), you may even be treated to a spontaneous show from the Standard Hotel, whose floor to ceiling glass facade is famous for making unwitting performers of naked guests who have forgotten to draw the curtains.
No such frisky finale for me this eve. Instead, a walk through the open, cobbled streets of the Meatpacking district, buzzing with nightlife and windows illuminating designer fashion … a perfect end before returning home to tune into the Fox weather forecast and start praying.