Allright July. But the sentiment is there.
My favorite moment of my New York day is when I step out of the building with my ten year old and we walk to his camp which takes place on Washington Square park. It isn't warm yet, the air has the quality of a spring morning. It's a 30 minute brisk walk and we take a different set of streets and avenues each time. Oh I shudder to show you such mediocre images of such a glorious city, but what am I going to do? Send you to better photographers flikr pages? maybe I should.
Walking under the arch at Washington Square park means I have dropped off my kid and I'm free to roam. The building to the right is One Fifth Avenue where I stayed once in a lavish apartment 15 years ago.
Our apartment this time is cool but nothing fancy. I met two on my neighbors doing laundry in the basement; Roaches the size of cocktail franks. The laundry has ben piling up ever since.
Yesterday, there was a casting call for models on the second floor of our building. There were models buzzing about the buildings, models at the reception, models in the elevators. The concierge who spends his days staring mournfully at his Match.com page sure perked up. So did my boys judging from the gratuitous elevator rides all day long.
This is the famous Magnolia bakery on Bleeker street. The cupcakes taste exactly like the recipe on their book, so if you can't travel, you can still have the cupcakes. There is a long line most of the time and they limit your purchase to ten cupcakes per person I'm told. Ten only, what an outrage. I have a minimum 20 cupcake intake so for me baking them is the way to go. I love the vibe of that place. The smell of sugar alone is enough to give you diabetes. It's cramped and messy, and not all that hygienic looking, but it feels real and so New York.
This--whatever it is--also on Bleeker street.
I look up a lot in NYC.
I can because New Yorkers adore their dog but not as much as they love to gather their poops in professional looking blue plastic baggies. It's a particular ballet in the morning: glamorous pooches at the end of designer leashes crapping everywhere, and their owners; fancy people with a fifth Avenue or Park Avenue or Grammercy Park address, the rich, powerful kind that bows to no man fretting about the turd, careful not to leave a morsel behind.
It reminded me that nothing puts a smile of French lips more than paparazzi photographs of stars (they call them pipole, as in 'people') holding their dog's poop bags. Note to self: when you arrive in Paris, remember to always look down.
Speaking of Grammercy Park. It looks so tantalizing in there, full of statues, and shade,and rare plants but it's a private park. Private! That's like limiting people to ten cupcakes, what's with THAT?
I wanted to take pictures so I pulled madly at every door. For the life of me I could not find the entrance, that's how clueless I am. So I took pictures of the surrounding buildings.
I better go, because you know what happens when I'm blogging: I'm not in the streets being a tourist.
By the way, I have not read your blogs in days --sorry-- due to the call of the wild.