it's telling, maybe, that i was most comfortable at the white horse tavern and in central park. the former: deserted back rooms, a decent jukebox, dylan thomas death memorabilia, kind bartenders. a dolorous expatriate vibe. three friends i didn't have to impress. the latter: a variation on the time-honored coffee walk with dad (in town for a conference). scenery to dissect (nice variation, there, on our customary strip malls and stucco blocks), couples with dogs, stories of dad's summer in town thirty years ago. it seems that a lot of people go to the city in order to brag to people who aren't there, so we did that to my little sister. ha, ha.
paul and i agreed that kidchamp and metameat would detail the nyc trip in ignorance of one another. i expect overlap, but i think that it will benefit me: turn to him, dear readers, when i skip details. he's a stickler (1).
my inner taskmistress planned this jaunt: we all knew i was bossy, but no one expected a clipboard and checklists. we've been home for days, and i still wince when i think i hear the cell phone: where to meet? where's our host? which subway died? i actually made myself sick with anxiety on wednesday morning. i fear that the boys hate me for morphing into a kindergarten teacher, but the high school memory of driving to los angeles without $200 concert tickets still pains me (2). fun was had. i think. i hope.
there was a brief, shining, rock star moment: luke took us to the prada store in soho and dragged me to a bank of elevators that turned out to be dressing rooms. he ushered me into one and stepped on a gray globe on the floor, whoosh, the glass doors slid shut. the mirror had a picture-within-picture video feed of our backs, so we watched ourselves like a football game in the middle of friends. then he stepped on another globe, whoosh, and the glass door became opaque. the fabulous folk on the other side oohed and called their friends over to watch me play with the dressing room. i have never awed so many for so long.
the actual rock stars (stephin merritt, lemony snicket, neil-gaiman-or-neil-gaiman's-publisher) were much less dramatic when we brushed shoulders after the second magnetic fields show. i told stephin that freezing girl scout cookies will make them taste nice and stale, and he found me much less interesting than the contents of his snifter. being awed is the first big no-no in new york, i guess. it will take a while to tell all of this.
(1) he told me about the corpse that turned up in the park the morning after my walk with dad. jesus.
(2) probably because it was an alanis morissette show, but i was with a church friend. we've all got dirty laundry.
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