‘This train isn’t going anywhere.’
So barked the conductor as we attempted to set off on our journey into the city this past weekend. And with those five words — and a last minute change to the departing track number — the die was cast for the day.
I should probably offer up the caveat that just about every trip to NYC tends to dissolve into some sort of absurd circumstance. Anything from hobbling through Manhattan in oversized slippers purchased from a corner Duane Reade en route to the ballet at Lincoln Center {shoes humbly dangling from hand} to spontaneously detouring from Long Beach, over the Atlantic Beach bridge, to somehow find ourselves ambling along the pedestrian walkway on the Brooklyn Bridge several hours later in search of pizza.
Then there was the time I was asked to ‘cover’ several shows at NY Bridal Fashion Week, a task I inexplicably saw fit to undertake while sitting cross legged on a runway shooting photos with my iPhone. Or the day {night, actually} we thought it would be fun to ride the Staten Island Ferry back and forth for no good reason, other than it equated to a free cruise across New York Harbor — save for the fact that we didn’t consider checking the schedule first before making the trek downtown. All on foot, of course. At midnight. Enough said.
So yeah. The track record is a bit spotty.
But, back to the story.
This particular journey in question was borne of yet another in a lengthening line of somewhat serendipitous connections made over the course of the last few months. What started as a tongue in cheek comment on a public Instagram post morphed into an invite downtown to chat with a rather well known figure in the underground tattoo industry. Coupled with his reputation as a renowned author and documentarian, the seed was planted to explore the prospect of some sort of future collaboration.
As we wound our way down Broadway to the East Village, I had earmarked a couple of photo ops along the two mile path.
First up, the Flatiron Building. Completely enveloped in scaffolding. Just the aesthetic I had in mind. Cool.
Take two. The Strand. Madness. How anyone would possibly go about locating a book among their ‘18 miles’ of literature remains a mystery. Thank you, next.
Food? Should be simple enough to locate in a span of 30 blocks. And yet… fast forward to sitting down to a good old-fashioned Moroccan brunch at 4 o’clock in the afternoon. {Which, for the record, was pretty good, though I still have no idea what I ordered.}
At last, destination reached. Anxiety unlocked. A solid 20 minutes spent pacing up and down the block, hovering by the entrance ‘taking photos’ of the façade. All that needless preparation, only to enter at the height of busyness and distraction and be met with somewhat of a blank stare and general befuddlement as to why I was, in fact, there.
A less than auspicious start. Which stumbled toward a clumsy, awkward end — in less time than it had taken us to relocate to the proper train track. Mission accomplished? Cue the tiny victory banner.
After briefly toying with the idea of climbing the Empire State Building {which almost certainly would have necessitated the purchase of another pair of slippers}, we instead opted for dinner at possibly the priciest, fanciest Italian eatery in Manhattan. As one does when you realize that the Saturday before Valentine’s Day is not exactly ideal for finding seating. Lovely as it was, I’m not sure we’re classy enough to require the waitstaff to cut our food for us and clear the entire place setting between every course. {Note to self: brush up on Italian.}
On the way back to Penn Station, after proudly providing directions to a passerby {score one for not looking like a tourist}, it seemed only fitting to stop off in a souvenir shop for some classic NYC apparel. Perhaps sensing that we’d had a rough day and could use a win, the owner announced with a grand flourish that he was giving us ‘discounts’ on all our purchases. {Actual tourists take note: that’s NY for ‘no prices listed.’} Honestly, I think we would have paid in bitcoin at that point. Anything to crawl onto the train and head home with a memento of the day.
And that, ladies and gentleman, is how you carpé diem. That’s Latin for face-plant, right? {Additional note to self: learn Latin. Perhaps while on a train that isn’t going anywhere.}