concrete jungle that dreams are made of…
And a couple of decent nights’ sleep later I am bright eyed, bushy tailed and very much refreshed following a wonderful few days!
I began last week with the nostalgic pleasure of a night at an airport budget-chain hotel (keycarded lifts as a legitimate security measure rather than a headache being something of a novelty) and the following morning the excitement of visiting Heathrow’s Terminal 4 for the first time. Having always been a Terminal 3 person (even so far managing to avoid the mighty Terminal 5) this was a delight nonetheless, particularly the early and unexpected discoveries of briskly pleasant check-in and security staff, a wholly inoffensive Starbucks (admittedly I was tired) and best of all, ACTUAL OPEN PRODUCT TESTERS on the La Prairie skincare counter, into which I hurriedly immersed myself as fully as I could before they changed their minds, finally walking away coated in at least enough luxury product to cover the cost of a short break somewhere a bit D-list.
Several hours later and having survived the completely uneventful yet terrifying prospect of being turned around at the famously ruthless JFK immigration desk (the usual inhabitants of which I can only assume were having a day off), I was through and heading suitcase-in-hand for the Airtrain within half an hour of disembarking the 767. A scant few minutes and a Metrocard after that I was heading through subway stations with exciting names that I happily recognised from TV; Forest Hills and Jackson Heights in Queens, and Manhattan itself with Fifth and Lexington Avenues and Broadway – I did eventually manage to visit four of the five boroughs with the only exception being the Bronx, having abandoned my semi-planned excursion to the zoo when it started to become clear just how far away it was (aka much further than it looked on the map).
As described in the previous entry, the first twenty-four hours or so may not have caught me at my best, although a good lunch with a charming gentleman lifted my spirits somewhat and marked my first chance to actually leave the hotel since checking in. Sheer tiredness on my arrival led me to resignedly hit the online food ordering sites, eventually deciding on a ‘one person’ prix fixe Turkish dinner selection which was cheerfully delivered to my door shortly afterwards, could comfortably have fed a family of four (and see upper left picture) and provided me with dinner, breakfast and hummus-based snacks for the next two days. This almost made up for the abject horror arising from the discovery (following a room search that would have done CSI proud and in the end, a confused call to Guest Services) that my accommodation did not supply a kettle, and as a result, my trip has also taught me the useful skill of sort-of-successfully making tea in a microwave.
My remaining days passed with delightful company, fascinating and unmissable sightseeing – the giant beehive that is the Guggenheim was worth the trip all on it’s own and I count myself extremely lucky to have arrived early on Sunday as I did, since the Great Upheaval exhibition I had been looking forward to for months was proving popular enough to have crowds queuing down Fifth Avenue by the time I left – Franz Marc’s lovely Yellow Cow (1911) being a favourite of mine, for anyone who might be interested. Add on some seriously fabulous (VAT-free) shopping, although nowhere near enough as it turned out; having made the trip into Scarborough town centre yesterday to exchange my hard-earned $ for £, I soon realised that far from castigating myself for buying two pairs of earrings in Chanel, I may as well have spent the lot given that the measly amount of sterling on offer was nothing short of insulting, and I returned home with my moderate pile of bills exactly as I set off. Next time (and there will certainly be a next time) I’ll just blow what’s left on a handbag like everybody else.
Looking bored and dismissive in expensive shops is one of the unparalleled joys of visiting the world’s major cities (Dior, Vuitton and Gucci being particular favourites of mine, boasting as they normally do exceptionally pretentious and po-faced assistants) alongside travelling on public transport and talking to shop assistants and waitresses, and I have enjoyed doing lots of all three! As far as honourable mentions go: the award for shop assistants would go to the lovely ladies of Sephora, a perennial favourite of mine since I discovered the 24 hour girly-fest on the Champs Élysées some years ago (their couldn’t-do-enough NY counterparts were incredulous that we don’t have branches in the UK, and considering some of their chosen store locations, so am I).
A very close second to be handed to my ‘helper’ in the Macy’s shoe department, where the tail end of the winter boot sale (and resulting final reductions) had spawned feral packs of narrow-eyed, predatory women moving stealthily between the chaotic display tables, discreetly registering the latest additions and descending without mercy on any glimpse of a 75% off label like jackals, whilst the accompanying menfolk skulked nervously around the periphery laden with many bags of previous hard-won trophies. The scene could have been intimidating to say the least, but thanks to the lovely Patrice, I walked away virtually unscathed and with a pair of camel coloured Italian suede knee boots for a little under forty five quid – original RRP $298. Yay!
More New York stories to follow as and when. It would seem that Spring has most definitely sprung, and I returned home half-crazed from sleep deprivation to a non-stop-ringing phone and a not-inconsiderable pile of emails, and as a result have no available appointments now before Monday at least (or Sunday at a push). The ads are up and I am officially back for more hijinks in That London from the 30th until the 3rd of April, when I plan to come home and collapse for a couple of weeks prior to my flying visit to Coventry! It’s glamour all the way, right enough…