Oh sweet Jesus of Christ I love this city!
So after my fighting talk last night about how I was going to rouse myself as if from death to go out and meet my former Marie Claire blogging buddy Rachael, I promptly passed out and cancelled.
Much later I had a modest dinner ten metres from my house and then The Man and I flumped round our local supermarket in the style of two slightly animated turnips. We were seeking breakfast foods; we came away with roast turkey.
Obviously I was awake at 6. By 7 I was punching the man lightly in the face, demanding he play with me. He rejected me so I went off to play with the dog. She is amazing. I am taking her back to London.
After coffee – this morning courtesy of Variety (we are holding a best coffee contest. The Man takes coffee far more seriously than he takes our relationship so this is no small matter) we made for Midtown to get a load of tourist stuff. The Man, having travelled to pretty much everywhere else on the planet, has never been to New York. So we decided his first taste of Manhattan would be to explode from underground in Times Square.
That place never ceases to amaze me. It’s almost eerie; the cabs slowly forging through those gigantic blinking buildings. There’s so many screens and lights that even the air is coloured. It’s a strange, unsettling experience, but also humbling. Not in a wow-this-has-reminded-me-of-how-lucky-I-am way, rather in a shit-I-am-so-very-small kind of a way.
Our plan was then to march around taking in the Library, Grand Central Station, the Chrysler Building and then the Empire State, but unfortunately we both started to wild and die and had to stop. I was ill last week and am obviously not properly better. The Man is newly ill. By 2pm we were both miserable and beaten. “I can’t walk another metre,” I said folornly to The Man. My legs were actually shaking. The Man looked very melancholy. “I need to sit down,” he sighed.
Luckily, Katz’ Deli had the answer. I’ve avoided this place (the scene of the orgasm in When Harry Met Sally) every time I’ve come to New York in the past. I just presumed that, like the above locations, it’d be crawling with tourists. Well, I am a twat. I wish I’d been twenty times per visit. IT WAS AMAZING. Have you ever eaten a sandwich the size of your head? Full of fresh pastrami and melted swiss and other things that probably exterminate your guts on the spot? Served with pickles on rye in a vast room full of sizzling meat and cheeky counter staff and ravenous customers? I nearly wept when my Rueben sandwich was served. Out of this world.
The Rueben gave me enough strength to call the rather wonderful Delta Airlines who agreed to change our flights for us. So we now have enough time to go to bed for a few days, get ill and then carry on our mission. After all, I am here for work. Even though it’s like the greatest holiday ever. I am meant to be learning New York with the eyes of my heroine. And in my novel she is not a shaky-legged biffer who munches her way through ten kilos of pastrami and then goes home to weep in her bed about the unfairness of being ill in New York.
Thank you, Delta.
I did, of course, go out for dinner. Oops. But I arrived and departed in a taxi AND it was the best macaroni cheese ever AND I finally met up with the amazing Rachael Wright who I have a bit of a girl crush on cos she is awesome AND I even persuaded her to accompany me to a poetry slam. I ain’t shittin’ ya! A real life poetry slam where people from the Bronx stormed in looking all mean and then came out with the most emotive, shocking, moving poetry I’ve heard.
It was great. Then our taxi driver fucked us over and we had to walk half the way home but, meh. We’re in New York.