New York - II

NEW YORK – PART DEUX.

Marc Jacobs and I:
There is a certain bond a girl must develop in the big city that borders on fantasy. It's called designer loyalty. Doesn't matter if you fancy yourself the upcoming muse to a collection, or name of a perfume, but you must swear by a designer [not brand] before you find employment, housing, a man or quel horror, even a proper date. With this piece of wisdom tucked behind my ears [spritzed of course] and slinging from my right shoulder [I have had a broken left clavicle, which forces me to have a good side, the right] I stepped on to a Soho pavement, more precisely, the pavement with an awning, which simply said in all lowercase, 'sixty'. In New York, as with all important cities in the world, you simply number a hot establishment as names are for plebeians. It goes well with the Robert Jr.'s and Walter III's who briefly take up residence in these hallowed halls of fame. But this journey, as easy I make it to be, has been a difficult learning experience in style [and poise might I add].

Back to Basics:
Seated in a limo again, pick up from the airport, I glanced at the skyline. The last time I was here, I told one of the editors, I left the city in tears. Now I had all their attention. "Oh no, what happened?" "Did you get mugged?" "Something in Central Park?"
"No, no" I assured them. "Nothing like that, I came to work for the UN and in their basement at 1st and 46th, trying to formulate the declaration of the rights of the child—I lost all hope"
"Oh" they almost said in disappointment-tinged unison, looking for something more sensational, but still interested.
"I broke down when, not being able to present my paper properly, I cornered the ruckus causing bunch who stood in front of a non-smoking sign and smoked away."
"What were they opposing?" one of the editors asked.
"Nothing really, they just wanted me to hurry up so they could smoke."
Stuck in traffic in the Lincoln tunnel, here I was, on a skincare junket. Totally different approach this time, I thought, and realized I had no clue about protocol or worse, what was expected of an editor, moi - to talk and discuss - with other editors, especially the American garden variety.
I dived right in. "So I was wondering, if one of you could tell me, like, where to go, and what to look at."
"What do you want to do?"
Damn. I should've slept on that one. Oh wait, there was a horny cat and production deadlines, never mind. "I am not sure, maybe a gallery or two"
"No shopping?"
"I've heard of Canal Street." Stunned silence.
"Don't go there, you could get mugged, not really mugged but your wallet could get picked."
"Oh, don't worry about me. I recently survived the alleys of Delhi and Calcutta, in style might I add, with not a scratch or stare" I added proudly. They were not impressed.
"We just don't shop there, that's all. Try Motts or Wooster."
"What are they?"
"Streets in Soho."
"Oh."
"Try Anthropologie," one of them offered kindly, "you'll really like it." That's the only store name I would've recognized given two very stylish friends had spoken of it before [co-incidentally for both of whom, I picked up a cute travel toothbrush and French milled soap respectively].
"Anyone for galleries?" I asked one last time.
They, in their infinite wisdom as fashion/beauty/senior editors advised, "Just try shopping this time, leave culture for next time around".
"But I am not much of a shopper," I added.[ My mother is a doctor, she’s never had time to bargain or go on extensive 'mother-daughter shopping expeditions'. That, and she lives continents away, all of which have stunted my shopping gene.]
"By the end of this trip, you will be."

I know
that
he knows
that
I know:
Concurring thought every hour, on the hour: "Oh My God, This is All So Glamorous"
Even though the stilettos were killing me and the rest of the NY crowd were in Puma sneakers, I needed elevation to strut, and having learnt to precariously balance on smoky dance floors in heels, I figured if anything, this would keep my poise going. It was before my stilettos met the street grates -- a death wish if your heels get caught in one, but luckily for me, I came away mostly unscathed thanks to being on the right glam-o-rama train. Instead I ran into Sex and the City's Samantha-Kim Catrall. "Cute tee [I know that he...know]," she said, as I was entering the store she was exiting "Thanks, I said," soon after losing all poise. "Oh My God, This is All So Glamorous, you must be Kim Catrall" I exclaimed obviously, to her very blonde self. She smiled at my glam-struck nerdiness. "Um, thanks, you are not from New York, are you?"
Damn, and to think I might've been strutting right.
"No...well..."
"Oh, don't worry about it. People just don't stop to talk, that's all"
Me, me- talking to a Sexy and City star, a show I incorporated into as many university papers as I could possibly cough up. Advertising and Sex and the City; Modern Emancipation or Old Stereotypes: Female representation in TV sitcoms; Syndications and HBO-you get the point. Academic pursuit guaranteed I never miss an episode. And here I was, unleashing drool over a character in a show onto a real person.

Time for some serious damage control. I adopted every thing Marc Jacobs before...
-dinner at Pastis in the Meat Packing District, brunch at Soho's Jerry's, drinks and something with rabbit meat overtly flavoured with olives at Gramercy's Tavern near Gramercy Park.
-a stroll in Union Square with a delicious friend's friend of the male persuasion.
- a trip to Canal Street and bonding with a Bengali man who ran a store, literally adopted me as a cousin, and gave me huge discounts on whatever knock offs I wanted [including, ahem, a Marc Jacobs purse] while steering me clear of the knock off of the knock offs.
-OK Harris Gallery on W Broadway for contemporary art [Re: check out Daniel Lee's work on 108 windows of the soul: shudder] and the Animazing Gallery on Broome for a retrospective on Dr. Seuss.
-Anthropologie, the post office and Kate's Papiere [for all of you who've received amply cool postcards].
-a peek into Zac Posen's collection as I buzzed myself into the wrong floor for a press meet.
-visit to an after hours-after hours place in lower east side, simply labelled '62' [cardinal rule for all things cool] where the Rastaman ushering me in said, 'Dey don make dem like dis in New York no more'. Damnit, why can't I just get it right for once, even though it was a compliment of sorts.

That night, as I danced away, I stopped trying to get it right and the next morning, stared unabashedly at the skyline.

On my flight back, a stewardess ushering me raised her pencilled eyebrows and said I looked familiar. I replied, "Well, I am from Toronto, perhaps we met at Karen's?"