I forgot that what I do in New York is not sit around and be miserable, but go outside and walk. With my book and my camera and my red kungfu shoes, heat be damned, I take the city by storm. Through the Meatpacking District, through the Village, and into SoHo, I clicked pictures all the way.
(I recently came into a camera. Which is to say, I’d mentioned to Jill a couple of weeks ago that I was thinking of finally getting a manual focus camera (of course he will be named Manuel) (of course it is pronounced like he goes by Papito and me by Mamita), and then, because the girl is surprising that way, when we took India out to a birthday tea last Sunday, Jill reached into her bag and handed me her Nikon FM10, as if it were my birthday. We like Jill a lot, even if we had to return the camera loan this evening. Sunday after tea, India loaded in the film for me in the low light under the scaffolding opposite the Union Square Walgreen’s, and then I took a picture of a water tower. Click, advance. Man, that click doesn’t just sound good, it feels good.)
An hour or somesuch into my trajectory this afternoon, wilting, I popped into the Apple store on Prince, because it seemed like the kind of place where the A/C would be on high. I was admiring a green argyle iPod case when an Apple guy came over and said, “Do you need some help?”
“Well—” I said.
“I like your dress,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said. “Are you gay?”
“What?”
“Kidding. Do they make these for third-generation iPods?”
At 5 Ninth, a giant gnarled vine crawls up the brownstone façade, and the door knocker is a brass hand. I was twenty minutes early for an eight-thirty dinner date, but I’d been walking about for at least two hours by then, and I needed a sit-down. I was trying to get the bartender’s attention for a glass of water when I was invited to join Robert and Robert for champagne. Shit, why not. (I didn’t know then that they were Robert and Robert. They both kept referring to Robert, and just as I was about to ask whom Robert was, exactly, the Robert dropped. Apparently sometimes everyone’s Robert.) Robert runs an advertising agency. He is fluent in Vietnamese, having served in Vietnam when he was part of the Marine Corps. Robert is a lawyer whose work often brings him to Eastern Europe. He likes sunrises and sunsets. In a couple of years, he is going to retire and spend six months on the beach.
And then Jill tumbled in, grin and smiling eyes, and, Lord knows why, in the swelter helter-skelter, we asked for a table on the patio out back.
“Jill,” I said once we were seated, “our waiter is hot.”
“I know,” she said, because it was true.
Our hot waiter brought me a florodora cocktail, which was described in the menu as gin and lime juice and raspberry syrup. I could have drunk six of them, it tasted like candy. There was nattering, then, and noshing, two of my favorite things; that nun can keep her raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. We turned down the pig cheeks for arugula and fontina-anchovy panini, for suckling pig and scallions, for polenta and olive oil, for sweet treats outside on a sultry summer night.
The ice cream sandwich was strawberry gelato and coconut macaroons. And the coconut macaroons were coconutty and macaroony and quite delightful, but the strawberry gelato, well, the strawberry gelato was like picking frozen strawberries off glistening icy sugar bushes and having them melt and bloom on your tongue.
On West Twelfth, we hugged, and then we hugged again. We didn’t say good-bye, because what good is that, and because Jill likes London better than she does New York anyway. Just after midnight, the F train was waiting for me at the West Fourth station. The F train is on the orange line, but no one turned into a pumpkin tonight.
(I recently came into a camera. Which is to say, I’d mentioned to Jill a couple of weeks ago that I was thinking of finally getting a manual focus camera (of course he will be named Manuel) (of course it is pronounced like he goes by Papito and me by Mamita), and then, because the girl is surprising that way, when we took India out to a birthday tea last Sunday, Jill reached into her bag and handed me her Nikon FM10, as if it were my birthday. We like Jill a lot, even if we had to return the camera loan this evening. Sunday after tea, India loaded in the film for me in the low light under the scaffolding opposite the Union Square Walgreen’s, and then I took a picture of a water tower. Click, advance. Man, that click doesn’t just sound good, it feels good.)
An hour or somesuch into my trajectory this afternoon, wilting, I popped into the Apple store on Prince, because it seemed like the kind of place where the A/C would be on high. I was admiring a green argyle iPod case when an Apple guy came over and said, “Do you need some help?”
“Well—” I said.
“I like your dress,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said. “Are you gay?”
“What?”
“Kidding. Do they make these for third-generation iPods?”
At 5 Ninth, a giant gnarled vine crawls up the brownstone façade, and the door knocker is a brass hand. I was twenty minutes early for an eight-thirty dinner date, but I’d been walking about for at least two hours by then, and I needed a sit-down. I was trying to get the bartender’s attention for a glass of water when I was invited to join Robert and Robert for champagne. Shit, why not. (I didn’t know then that they were Robert and Robert. They both kept referring to Robert, and just as I was about to ask whom Robert was, exactly, the Robert dropped. Apparently sometimes everyone’s Robert.) Robert runs an advertising agency. He is fluent in Vietnamese, having served in Vietnam when he was part of the Marine Corps. Robert is a lawyer whose work often brings him to Eastern Europe. He likes sunrises and sunsets. In a couple of years, he is going to retire and spend six months on the beach.
And then Jill tumbled in, grin and smiling eyes, and, Lord knows why, in the swelter helter-skelter, we asked for a table on the patio out back.
“Jill,” I said once we were seated, “our waiter is hot.”
“I know,” she said, because it was true.
Our hot waiter brought me a florodora cocktail, which was described in the menu as gin and lime juice and raspberry syrup. I could have drunk six of them, it tasted like candy. There was nattering, then, and noshing, two of my favorite things; that nun can keep her raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. We turned down the pig cheeks for arugula and fontina-anchovy panini, for suckling pig and scallions, for polenta and olive oil, for sweet treats outside on a sultry summer night.
The ice cream sandwich was strawberry gelato and coconut macaroons. And the coconut macaroons were coconutty and macaroony and quite delightful, but the strawberry gelato, well, the strawberry gelato was like picking frozen strawberries off glistening icy sugar bushes and having them melt and bloom on your tongue.
On West Twelfth, we hugged, and then we hugged again. We didn’t say good-bye, because what good is that, and because Jill likes London better than she does New York anyway. Just after midnight, the F train was waiting for me at the West Fourth station. The F train is on the orange line, but no one turned into a pumpkin tonight.
posted by stellou at 7:32 AM
4 Comments:
I hope the rest of your week is wonderful like this. I envy your ice cream eaterage ... but was the icecream sandwich held with a hand or eaten with a fork and knife...
oh, but it can only be wonderful, especially because the weather finally decided to stop being six thousand degrees. it is spring, finally, sun and a breeze to take us through the last days.
the ice cream eaterage was amazing, truly, and i was envious of myself. the true story is, a waiter (not the hot one, alas) came over to say that he envied us, because we looked like we were enjoying our ice creams that much. i told him he could just go to the back and snarf all he wanted, but apparently that was against house rules.
anyways.
the ice cream sandwich was eaten with a spoon, deconstruction-style. a little bit of gelato, a little bit of macaroon, and it all came together in mah belleh! if i had tried to eat the sandwich like a sandwich (but i will admit here that i often eat a sandwich, deconstruction-style, with a fork and knife) with my hands, the gelato middle would have slipped out and headed straight for my dress. i know this much is true because i was wearing the white dress that i have spilled or splattered food on everytime i have worn it.
Yet the dress is still, mostly, white? Is it because you use Dynamo? :)
Funnily enough, my friend just got back from China and his mom had bought a 2.5 kg pack of OMO detergent, which I swear I used to see on the shelves in Singapore, but apparently they're a) no longer available here, b) fabulous for washing clothes clean.
So if your white dress is no longer pristinely white by the time you touch down in Singapore, maybe I'll beg my friend's mom for a wee spoonful of her precious OMO and we can try it out on your dress.
eh, fab possible!
no, no, actually the dress has held up terribly well. first of all, it is not a white white dress, it is a white dress with crazy flowers on it. so maybe the stains are a bit camouflaged. but truly i see no stains. apparently i am win at getting stains out--regular soap and water is your friend.
the new thing i have discovered, what would we do without the internet?, is that shampoo is good for oil stains. incredible. i use neutrogena. rub it into the stain, let it sit overnight, then the next day wash it out. voilà you are good for another night out on the town.
the thing i want to know is, how come mothers are so interesting as to go overseas and buy laundry detergent? when my mum was here, the big thing she bought that was a major hit back home was sunblock.
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