a girl's day

The wind was icy today. I could feel it through the glass of the windows in the apartment. It called for cashmere and fleece and wool.

I bundled myself from neck to toe because I couldn't find my knitted hat and was blown to Tribeca where I took a meeting with a well-known female producer and one of her directors. The woman power was great. I volunteered to help with a film festival and the opening of a hotel. I'm a Jill of all trades.

When I left the warmth of the office, I walked in triangles trying to find a place to eat. I wasn't satisfied with my most immediate options so I referenced an email from one of my food mentors and went out of my way to find Bouley Bakery. There, I stood on the tiled battleground between macarons, lemon tarts and chiffon cakes versus croissants, breads and rolls. I sided with a plain croissant, a spiced squash soup and orange juice. I carried my wooden tray to the second floor where the sun filled the room with a welcome heat. I ate my lunch and wanted to curl up on the windowsill but I know better than to lay down in public. That's for protesters.

I wanted to picket against the brisk air that made my lips hurt with cold. As I walked to the train station, I stopped to buy a hat from a Chinese man with a street stand. I chose a cream colored one that he said matched nicely with my sweater, a Ralph Lauren which I bought in the summer of 2000 at Bloomingdale's in Century City because I gasped when I walked past the mannequin that displayed it. I didn't feel as passionate about my new hat but it kept my head wicked warm.

At 3:00pm, I had an appointment with Ivan, a friend from Hawaii whom I had never really chatted with at length. Currently an apprentice at Bumble, Ivan invited me to be his model for his one day a week classroom training. He knew I desperately needed a haircut and was grateful to have him go at this raven mane.

I surprised him a package of macarons tied with a red ribbon for Valentine's Day. He surprised me with a pair of fingerless grey gloves with a cap that goes over the fingertips when necessary. I had just noticed them for the first time on a man in the subway and as serendipity and thoughtfulness would have it, they were now on my hands.

Ivan giggled and spoke while he washed and then cut my hair as his instructor periodically checked his work. He was great fun and so silly. We laughed and updated each other on our mutual friends. My haircut was gorgeous and were it not for the angry cold outside, I would have flounced up and down Madison Avenue. I put one boot onto the sidewalk outside and immediately had to cover Ivan's brilliance with my new hat. It was a perfect afternoon followed by a trip to Chelsea for dinner and dessert with Johnny, a fellow Bumble apprentice.

At Nooch, I started with agedashi tofu and a spicy tuna roll. The tofu was fantastic, fried with a coat of mochi in a briny broth with a hint of ponzu. The spicy tuna roll was perfunctory. The nori was thick and chewy and the tuna was bland. For my entree I had pad see oui gai which is a sweet flat rice noodle dish with chicken, egg and broccoli. Nooch's version also included red pepper and cilantro which were pleasant novelties for me. The dish itself was acceptable but a bit too wet.

After dinner, Ivan and I split from our group and walked to a bakery that a man recommended when he couldn't tell us where Billy's was. I'd heard of Billy's bakery before when it was written up in some magazine. I was told recently that Billy sold the bakery and became a lady. I was interested in seeing if he was still on hand to dish out the sweets and as we reached this alternate bakery destination, it turned out that it was indeed Billy's afterall.

Banana cake baking in the oven yields a smell that I would imagine to be like heaven and inhaling it is like watching angels hug. The cream cheese frosting, the small chunks of firm banana, the way your belly glows like E.T.'s finger afterwards...all elements of a perfect dessert. I also had ice box cake which is chocolate wafers layered with whipped cream. When left to lay long enough, the moisture from the whipped cream sneaks into the wafers making them soft and cakey. The effect of properly assembled wafers and whipped cream looks quite fetching. Eating a lot of this makes one look the opposite.

Before returning home, we stopped into a grocery store on 8th where Ivan danced in the aisle as I looked for bread and cheese. I taught him how to choose oranges by the look of the peel and their weight relative to the other oranges in the bin. I miss the oranges in California. The ones here have thick hard rinds and less juice. The ones here are New Yorkers.

snow and the city

People who grow up in cold climates can tell when snow is coming. I can tell. The air becomes kind and warm relative to the chill and then without any herald, the snow silently swoops down and makes Manhattan clean.

I missed my first snowfall here because I was indoors on Broadway. I had unsuccessfully tried to find the Bella Muse card stand on Spring Street so I had gone to the Muji store to get some knick knacks for La Crevette and stumbled upon a newly opened samples shop. The longer it snowed, the more clothes I tried on. The more clothes I tried on, the more clothes I tried not to buy. Two dresses, three tanktops, one missed snowfall.

In search of a pretty Valentine to send to my friend Dale in Honolulu, I went to Pearl River Mart to find something delicate and colorful. The Chinese are deft with paper. I saw lanterns and streamers and found the perfect card for my adopted Hawaiian Daddy.

When it's cold, people who spend their afternoons shopping on an empty stomach look for comfort in noisy French brasseries. At Balthazar I encountered the opportunity to speak French, a great dinner and one of the most fascinating conversations I've ever had the fortune of overhearing.

It was still early when the dining room began to fill with an erudite older crowd. Tall, greying men. Women with frosty blonde bobs. As I waited for a spot at the crowded bar, I stood next to a seated couple, Cranky Man and Emphatic Lady. They were in their late 30s, touching each other as they cupped their slowly draining wine glasses. They were both dark haired, Emphatic Lady's long and laying against her back. Cranky Man wore a grey scarf and a perturbed expression. She gushed.

"I love being with you. I only want to be with you, baby. I love when you make love to me. Our love is amazing." She grabbed his arm. I think I may have hiccuped. I was startled by the frank and forward love arrows she shot at this man. I reached for my Blackberry and took notes. Did love like this truly exist? How rare and exceptional. I almost began smiling to myself at the folly of the infatuated. She had the effervescent fervor of a hormone-ravaged teenager. Cranky Man had surely lucked out to find a disproportionately more attractive woman who was so indefatigably enamored with...

"I can't believe you fucked that guy! Did you just need to get laid or something?!?!"

The typing stopped. Emphatic Lady laughed it off. She seemed to enjoy making her man jealous. But I soon found out that he was not her man when her retort came in the form of "I can't believe you brought your WIFE to my house!"

The typing resumed. People are insane when it comes to adulterous sex. I was waved to my seat by a French waiter with an angular face and a small tight ponytail of dark blond hair. It was two chairs away from the cheating Bickersons and I could no longer discern their inappropriate sentences.

For my dinner, I ordered a Balthazar Bar Steak cooked rare which was served with perfect french fries. The steak was a piece of flank which was quite chewy. The Steak Frites is a different cut which I will try another time. The beurre maitre was delicious, a melting pat of herbed butter that slithered along the sinews of the meat. Emphatic Lady would have enjoyed watching it.

For dessert, I had what will be a dessert I shall always remember. Apple and Frangipane tart. The crust was a crisp, buttery phyllo dough shell with a layer of mild frangipane. The apples were just sour enough and bruleed dark and caramel. On deck, a simple but pure vanilla ice cream. Below deck, a Calvados foam. Crunchy, soft, sweet, acidic, warm, cold, creamy, apple. It was incredible and exemplary.

A stylish girl sitting to my left asked me how it was. I was effusive like a mistress. We started talking and I got my first email address from a stranger in New York City. She's a former Donna Karan designer starting her own clothing label. I told her I had two hands that needed to be put to work doing anything not involving answering a phone or scheduling a meeting. Or compromising a married man. Ick.

the life of my night

You know you're a rock star when you wake up in time for dinner (Doritos and hummus followed by an orange) and take a disco nap immediately afterwards before leaving your house at 10pm to go meet friends at a bar. What's become of me? I am not this cool.

No one sleeps here! At 10:30pm, I was coming out of the subway and walking along Houston. The rain found its way from sky to sidewalk on this sparkling Saturday night but it didn't deter me or the hundreds of other people rushing to find their good time. In fact, the rain only drove people into places more unfamiliar than usual. I met Miss Molly at The Edge on 3rd Street and First Avenue on the Lower East Side. I was covered in raindrops and chatted excitedly as I removed every damp article I could leave on a bar stool to dry. When you spend most of your day asleep or not speaking to anyone because you're alone, drunken boys on a Saturday night make for a game audience. Molly's brother Pete was out with his friends Will and Brendan. There was more explaining of "why New York?" but they were easier to convince than most of the people I've encountered so far. They all love it here as much as I do. They love Crif Dogs where we almost all had the "Chihuahua" which is a bacon wrapped hot dog served with avocado and cream cheese. I threw in some chili cheese fries and a root beer for good measure. Everyone else drinks hip people beer. I drink the drink of teenagers which I've only started to crave since being here. It's quite odd.

After an unsuccessful attempt at ACE Bar, I said goodbye to the stock analyst, the attorney, the musician and my Molly. I was a few blocks away from Katz's Deli so I stopped by for a slice of cheesecake and a black and white. The ability of these people to eat at all hours humbles me. An hour after midnight and there is a line at Katz's for pastrami sandwiches. On the train home, the platforms were crowded. Fellow soggy revelers in their black coats and hats. At home, the cheesecake disappointed with its leaden crust and it's tight cheese. The black and white was perfunctory with no real spark. They bored me and contrary to the rest of the citizens here, I did sleep. But not before having a heated discussion about the kindness and inutility of bidding my roommate to have a good day and to "see you later."

"It's a given, I WILL see you later," the curmudgeon asserted, "What's the point?"

"Because it's nice!" I screeched. Sweetly. The discussion went on for fifteen minutes with the cop growing ever more practical.

The next morning, before heading out to Soho I swung open the bathroom door that doesn't lock while Ed showered. Facing his naked ass diffused by the holographic pebble pattern shower curtain I wished him a FANTASTIC day. I assured him that I would see him later. He agreed and returned to his lather.

movin' on up

My room is about 9 feet by 7 feet. To call it a room is fair but the irony lies in the fact that I don't have a lot of it. Fortunately, the ceiling is 10 feet high so there is space to grow. This room is the smallest space I've ever slept in since wedging myself between my parents in their bed when I was 2.

My bed was delivered today by 3 sweaty gentlemen who didn't see that there is an elevator in our building and who dragged my mattress and boxspring up 4 flights of stairs. As they set up my bed, I gave them the risers on which to place the bed frame. The risers allow me to store things under the bed which now occupies more than half my room. But I've used the vertical as best as I can and although it's no loft, I did buy a step stool to make getting into bed a little easier. Like the rest of Manhattan, I'm movin' on up.

I'm also movin'. As the streets calmed after the initial rush of morning commuters, I put on my running gear and took on the NW corner of Central Park as my new training ground. I hadn't run in at least a month so my soft muscles combined with the cold air made climbing the most conservatively sloped hill feel like running straight up a wall made of oil. My legs seized as if I had asked them to wade through a chest-high bowl of pudding. The run, not so successful. It devolved into a walk mixed with spurts of running past people who looked like I might feel embarrassed for walking in front of. While strolling (and panting) however, I did notice that many of the trees and bushes and flowers in the park are labeled with their common names. It was an educational 10 minutes.

By the time I crawled back to my apartment dragging my offended limbs, I was starving and wolfed down a bowl of leftovers concocted with noodles, char siu pork, shrimp, greens, fish, crab... I ate like I was being paid. The cop lay asleep on the couch while I masticated. When he woke, he dropped me off at Bed Bath and Beyond for yet another trip to procure handy items to make my space more efficient. My doors look like candles, clothing on over-the-door hooks dripping down all surfaces.

I had never strolled through the Upper West side much before and I was quite enamored with the big name stores alongside small boutiques. The pedestrians were mainly middle-aged women with very young children and Columbia students. Not being sweaty or terribly kinetic but very slovenly, I hadn't changed out of my running clothes so I looked pleasantly faux-sporty. A necklace caught my eye in the window of a shop called A Tempo at 290 Columbus Avenue. A necklace I don't need but which I ordered anyway as my first gift to myself here. It's got the silhouette of a small bird on it. I'd also bought a jewelry dish with a bird handle. I've left the nest to build another.

The Magnolia on Columbus beckoned but instead of dense cupcakes with painfully sweet buttercream, I splurged on dark darling Bing cherries from a small grocer. They're not in season but they were passable for dessert following my final meal of Chinese New Year leftovers. Roasted duck and fried rice. The duck was still rich and the rice heated beautifully. I considered returning to the UWS to catch a movie but the comfort of home was so enticing that I stayed in on my Friday night to write and stay in touch with friends online. At the end of my evening, I literally climbed into bed and slept like a princess on a pedestal.

you better watch where i point this thing

Note to aspiring spies: When trying to be inconspicuous while taking candid photos of strangers in the subway, it is best NOT to wear a yellow rabbit fur coat with an enormous sheepskin collar OR use a pink camera.

Hm. I think that was pretty self-explanatory.

I finished the rest of my prime rib from Tavern on the Green this morning with another soft sandwich of beef and cheese. It smelled like the faux Santa Will Ferrell's character suspiciously sniffs out in the movie Elf. Breakfast was again served at around 3pm before I braved the world to head to the Focus Features office to pay another visit to the boys of film: Mr. Kansas and Felipe.

On the B train, I saw this boy who very much so would not take his mind away from his cookie. You can't really see it clearly in the photo but he bore an expression of wry curiosity with a bit of aloofness.

I arrived late enough that the boys could leave for the night and we walked along Bleecker to the Village. Felipe commented on my hurried gait. It's happening. I'm becoming one of them. The fast-walking, no-bullshit New Yorkers who spit and swear at the slightest provocation. But I did neither because we were headed to Pinkberry where Felipe and I plucked Mr. Kansas' Pinkberry flower.

The shop looked the same as the others in L.A., the green striped windows and the pebbled floor. But the yogurt was different. It was fluffy and full instead of cool and clean. I ordered a medium original with strawberries, blueberries and raspberries but got mango instead of the latter. When I mentioned it, they gave me a small cup of raspberries on the side which we all enjoyed. Mr. Kansas liked his first taste of controversial frozen yogurt. Red Mango was across the street. The competition in this city is thick.

Mr. Kansas took his leave early and Felipe and I got a moment to ourselves to speak and wander. He is lovely. Tall. Beautiful. Kind. An ex-lover made a bad choice when he decided to let Felipe go. No one should let someone of his sweetness walk the earth alone. If only I were a boy. Sadly, my burping and farting without apology does not a boy me make.

We parted ways at the West 4th train station and I made my way to Golden Unicorn for Chinese New Year dinner with a friend and her NY entourage. The F train was bare except for what I named "The Snob and the Sleepy Trio of Grey Knitted Cap Wearers". The station at East Broadway was vacant. I walked behind this woman through the tunnel to the street I needed.

Above ground, I consulted my Streetwise map many times to figure out the way to Chinatown. The shops were all closed for the celebration. I walked cautiously as men passed. There were photo opportunities here but somehow I felt unsure of my surroundings enough that my vigilance stifled my inner journalist.

Dinner with strangers is always interesting for me. It is a challenge to connect over a meal. I met four new people this evening and the conversation was never awkward or still. We spoke of coincidences and similarities and bonded over our collective inability to read the Chinese menu. But this was only a minor obstacle as we did order a grand list of foods my parents would deem excessively decadent for a regular dinner. But it's a new year, baby.

We started with roast duck wrapped in rice flour buns with scallions and plum sauce. The duck skin was oily and crisp. Fantastic. We also ordered sweet and sour pork chops, a mixture of duck, pickled vegetables, sprouts and mushrooms, e-fu noodles with crabmeat and chive blossoms, Yang Chow fried rice, steamed fish with ginger, scallions and soy sauce, sauteed pea shoots and salt and pepper shrimp. Everyone was ravenous. We spoke and ate until movement became laughable. For me, the highlight was the women's restroom where the door was decorated with a glass plate that displayed an inlaid rose with a pair of lips at the stem. It was the most romantic restroom door I'd ever seen.

Stuffed and sleepy, we were a caravan of Chinese kids who can't read Chinese headed for the trains. On the D (which I thought was the B) I saw this woman sitting across the aisle from me. She seemed worried and I couldn't stop looking at her. I thought she needed consolation. I wondered what troubled her. At moments I thought she might cry. I wanted to wish her well but I refrained. Something kept me silent. Eventually, she closed her eyes and looked to be dozing. This brought me some relief as if she were truly distressed, sleep would not come so easy on the express train that didn't stop at 110th St.

I didn't realize I was on the wrong one until we breezed through my station and I had to switch to a downtown train. There, at 125th Street, I saw these kids with their father and his friend. The boy in the brown jacket splayed himself on the platform bench with a preternatural swagger. The girls, possible siblings, were haughty and stoic. I tried to take their photo without any to do but their father noticed and seemed to be upset. I couldn't hear him through my iPod shuffle but I could feel his displeasure and caught what sounded like muffled unkind words about me. He was a father who kept his children out until midnight on a school night but nonetheless they were his children and I was the girl in the fur coat who so brazenly and obviously was taking pictures of them. It made me regretful. I am not impervious to the annoyance I may cause. I skipped the train that came in order to avoid a confrontation with the father and also with two drunken Korean boys who asked me if the A train stopped at 86th St. It seemed rhetorical. I sensed their mischief. All these factors made me feel nervous so I called the cop and he met me at the station near our apartment.

Seeing him at the top of the stairs was a moment of relief. We walked in the cold night to our home and I felt safe and protected. He'd had a bad day so I tried to dote on him a bit. Boys are funny that way. They want you to know that they're down but they can easily refuse your care. How bold.

The chefs returned late and our nightly ritual of jokes and anecdotes began at 2am. We come together from the corners of the city and we eat. We laugh. We commiserate. We are a family. I asked the cop if he could smuggle his uniform home so that we might each wear a piece of it and take a portrait. A portrait of my safety in a city that grows increasingly more fascinating and frightening each day. I love to come home and as for our portrait, I'm sort of a big deal when it comes to taking photos with a pink camera, you know.

a taste of balmy

Not one delectable thing that I've eaten here can compare to the magic of a warm New York day. Today was delicious.

Some mornings I can't discern the weather from inside my apartment. This morning was standard in that I woke up after noon and leisurely showered and dressed for a day out. I enjoyed a yoga session to Britney's greatest hits. I don't like the calm, chanting, chakra-soothing crap they force on you at yoga studios. I like hip hop and pop music that pulsates and writhes out of the speakers as I stretch and strengthen. I think the juxtaposition calms me.

Cereal in the belly and wool scarf and coat on the body and I was on the move only to step out of my building into a curious and wonderful New York. A New York of a springtime softness. I removed my coat and beamed with delight. It was a beautiful, balmy day and I had missed the morning rain in the safety of my flannel sheets.

At 5pm, I arrived at Bullfrog and Baum for a meeting about a possible internship. The company represents a lot of chefs and restaurants and also has a burgeoning lifestyle division which is where I would land. In all honesty, not an admonishment of their hiring practices but who would say no to me for an UNPAID internship? I enjoyed meeting the women with whom I would work. They were welcoming and encouraging. It felt strange going from one who would order interns around and who had to conduct interviews to be the one sitting on the scrutinized side of the table. I smiled and did my best. I have nothing to lose except two days a week of furious strolling through the streets of Manhattan.

I asked the ladies of Bullfrog for a restaurant recommendation. I was sent to Cafe Grumpy where I sat in the corner with a green tea latte begrudgingly brewed by an obstinate barista. The tea was roasted and clashed with the cream I'd added to it so I finished it as quickly as I could. I attempted to read "The Memory Keeper's Daughter," a novel I stole from a friend but I was too distracted by the city outside.

The sky had dimmed when I began my stroll up 7th Avenue. I surveyed the shops in the fashion district. Fabric stores and notions stores and stylish future designers everywhere. I was hungry and decided to stop at Ginger House which before I looked at the posted menu I had mistaken for an English pub due to its dark wood paneled walls. It felt like I was in Boston or Washington DC. But better...because I craved roast duck and they had it. My parents were 3000 miles away and it was Chinese New Year's Eve. I connected with them gastronomically.

I sat alone along a wall outside a wait station. Most of the patrons were not Chinese but I don't usually judge Chinese restaurants by the racial barometer reading. The waiters were stern but swift and soon I had BBQ pork, roast duck, sauteed string beans and white rice before me. Starved, I set about my dinner and watched a table of loud, boisterous fashionistas. They were dressed with spunk and loving their conversation. As I finished, I cracked open my fortune cookie which read: "Be calm and collected. Peace is a virtue." And then on the reverse, "haircut" with the Chinese characters in translation. I suppose fate finds me harried and hairy. I am not.

I walked. I walked for blocks. Forty. I carefully crossed forty streets along 7th Avenue and then Broadway. I wove through the tourists in Times Square. The lights, the signs, the bustle, the taxis, the life vibrating in the warm air of this glorious night. The last night of the Lunar New Year and I was standing in the middle of the city that continues to entrance me. I looked up to the top of the skyscrapers, the cliffs of industry and we the meandering river of bodies and strollers and packages that course through the divide. I swelled with peace and joy and light. My heart was brighter than the marquees on Broadway.

At Columbus Circle, I boarded the M10 bus headed north on Central Park West. A homeless man also got on and threw his fare with disdain into the till. There was a bit of tension between the driver and this man. A kind woman swiped her Metrocard for him to avoid a delay in service. The driver was edgy. I sat with my leftovers in my lap, the scent of my people wafting out of the smiling plastic bag. When I returned home, my roommate Ed rang and we met to explore our neighborhood and find his dinner.

It was 9:30pm in Harlem with my roommate as we stopped along the restaurant row of Frederick Douglass Parkway. We will try them all in due time. The air began to change. It was growing cold. I decided to take Ed back to Miss Mamie's where I would have my first repeat restaurant experience here. Where without warning, suddenly I became a frantic cornbread glutton. I had just eaten dinner but I consumed two plates of cornbread. I just walked forty blocks, I justified to Ed, so I had to eat four orders of cornbread so that I wouldn't die. Butter became a game of "How much can Katie use?" I made a small city with the emptied, tiny white plastic containers with their foil lids peeled away. Ed ordered us the "Sampler Platter" with Southern fried chicken, North Carolina BBQ rib, short rib and fried shrimp. We had potato salad and beans and rice on the side. Everything was delicious, especially the short rib. The meat was tender and soaked with a rich glaze.

We barely spoke. The comfort between us like that of people who hate yet tolerate each other. As we strolled home, I shivered in my sweatshirt and Ed repeatedly offered me his jacket. Perhaps we don't hate each other. Or perhaps one beautiful day had thawed a hardened cop turning him into the chivalrous gentleman I glimpse now and again. A man doesn't always have to be a meal of perfection. Sometimes a taste is good enough to tide you over. Much like the day that will resound in my memory. A day that was everything I loved about New York from all my vacations here.

At home, more eating. Nate had made hummus and babaganouj today which we inhaled on soft torn slices of pita bread in front of the ALT (Absurdly Large Television.) We watched Project Runway and retired to our rooms in the wee hours of the morning. Our midnight snacks a new favorite pastime.

wither i wandered

He was late. I stood outside the appointed Starbucks at Hudson and King, thick and perfect Jacques Torres dark hot chocolate in my hand. It was the earliest I'd woken up since moving here. And he was late.

Months ago, a gentleman excused himself from my boss' office during an unexpected phone call my boss had to take that interrupted their meeting. As he sat politely in the chair across from my cubicle, he asked me about my plan at the company. I told him I was moving to New York to be a writer (in theory.) He offered to introduce me to his friend who was a fairly accomplished writer living in the city. The writer who would be late for our meeting.

On the train downtown, I saw a handful of Giants fans wearing the mass produced jerseys of their idols. An Eli Manning stood over me as he examined the MTA map. I asked him if they were going somewhere, like the Pro Bowl perhaps. For those of you who are football deficient, the Pro Bowl is an assembly of the best players in the National Football League who get together after the season just to play for fun. This Sunday LIVE FROM HONOLULU, HAWAII!!! RAWRRRRR!!! BEER BEER BEER MANLY MANLY MANLY. Just when you thought there would be no more football, the money grubbing NFL brings you MORE football!!

The Eli Manning pointed out his father on the train with us. It was sweet. Filial fanaticism. I thought they were merely extra exhuberant but apparently they were headed to a parade! I've only attended gay pride parades and I was fairly certain that this particular one would be decidedly "un-gay."

The writer. I watched him walk past me and survey the Starbucks for the self-described "tall Chinese girl." He looked dodgy. He wore a blue Dodgers hat with a moustache and a beard.

"Kathleen?" he asked as he walked out of the caffeine fray. His expressionless face would later appear bored.

We walked to a diner a few blocks away and had eggs with bacon so dark it looked like strips of tar. He asked me what I wanted to write. I asked him his process. Had he been more interested, I think he might be incredulous at my lack of focus but mostly he sat across from me, clearing his sinuses and telling me about how he never reads what he writes and that he gets paid a lot of money for it. I wasn't sure what I needed to get from him but what I got was the technique of writing the perfect sentence and then leaving it behind to move onto the next. Without fail. He told me not to self edit. He also told me to, well, write. The fundamental key to writing is writing. He said that it didn't seem like I wanted to write badly enough to belly up to the bar alongside writers who can't fathom doing anything else. So here I am.

He paid for my breakfast and we said goodbye on the corner. He told me to email him and let him know how it's going. It was generous of him to meet with me, a complete stranger. I appreciated that. I don't think he appreciated my never having read a single thing he'd written. Presumptuous of him to think that I would have. But then again, he writes without fear and with the assumption that all those who are literate will rush to find his words on the printed page.

After our meeting, I walked through Soho looking for a shop selling Valentines. I stopped at a Daffys and spontaneously tried on a pinstriped Elie Tahari pant suit. It itched. I felt fraudulent. The suit represented the opposite of what I was about to do on a Tuesday afternoon. I had no destination. I had no plan. I had the day to myself.

I wandered in and out of stores. I marveled at the simple yet entirely fantastic items at Muji. I walked on Canal Street. I saw fakes on display. Watches, scarves, small electronics all copied from quality originals. Other fraudulent items. When I reached the Village, it started to rain.

Sans umbrella, I randomly took shelter at Pennyfeathers Cafe on 7th Avenue South and Barrow Street. The enclosed patio in the front was fairly empty and I sat in a corner with windows around me. I opened my Time magazine and ordered lemonade from a lovely and cheerful waiter named Issac. The chill of the rain came through the glass protecting me from its moisture. I asked Issac which soup he liked and he produced a mild black bean with sour cream and onions on the side. He spoke with an Israeli accent and had the manner of a loving auntie. The starchy dark soup comforted me a little but there was something about the day that left me searching for true warmth. When the rain dissipated, I dressed for my departure but I stood next to my table for a moment as Issac came to retrieve my credit card slip. I needed a favor.

"Issac? Would it be weird if I asked you for a hug?"

"NO! Oh, you make me feel so good!" he replied. We hugged near the door of the restaurant. He was delighted and held his hand over his heart. He asked me if I lived in the neighborhood. When I told him I lived in Harlem, a woman at a nearby table asked me where specifically and then told me that her mother lived at 125th and Lenox. Issac told me to come back whenever I felt like talking or having a cup of coffee. He smiled so kindly on me that it was the bit of sunshine I was looking for on this overcast day.

I strolled to Kate's Paperie to look for Valentines (paper not people.) There, I picked up a job application. Imagine me! Amidst the paperpress notecards and ribbons by the yard. Crafty heaven. From Kate's, I stopped at the grocery store for fruit and laundry detergent.

On the C train home, I realized that I had left my Time magazine at Pennyfeathers. I put my laundry in the wash and called my new friend Issac. He told me that he was taking the magazine home so that it didn't get lost in the shuffle at the restaurant and that he would be working Saturday through Tuesday. I told him I'd be back to see him and pick up the rag over the weekend. I look forward to hugging him again.

My evening at home was peaceful and domestic. I sent thank you notes to friends in LA. Belated with more coming but still, gratitude delayed. I walked to the bodega at the corner of our building and traded 5 nickels for the lone quarter I still needed to dry my whites. I made myself a sandwich with the leftover prime rib. Cheddar, beef and a little bit of Gulden's mustard. I liked meeting the man at the bodega. I liked pretty much everyone and everything about my day. It's probably a little odd for New York.

When my roommates came home, we stayed up late recounting the day. We snacked and laughed. They made grilled cheese sandwiches with the bread and sharp cheddar I'd bought at the grocery store. I've deemed Nate's impersonation of Frenchmen to be a new anti-depressant. His intonation is simply, like my day out was, "hah-may-zang-ghah." And for a good belly laugh, it's never too late.