bellmusker

Hey darlin’, I’ve walked all over New York looking for you. It’s true – just ask my feet!
Guy in Times Square

I could live here. Just letting you know that from the beginning, so you understand the total exuberant joy that will be threaded through this journal.

MsTrace, LittleHelen and I jetted in after a week of beaches and sunshine in Los Angeles, to the jarring and utterly addictive noise that is New York City. It never stops, and I mean that literally; the yellow cabs honk all night, you can buy divine thick pretzels from a street vendor at any hour, and the flashing neon of Times Square doesn’t dull for a moment. We know this, because thanks to some wrangling from Trace, our hotel room looked directly down onto this seminal part of New York, right in ‘the shit show’ as it was charmingly called.

And we absolutely loved it.

View from our hotel

I’ve been to NY twice before, and both times fell head over kitten heels in love with it. It’s brash and exhausting and utterly spellbinding, and I find myself in no time striding through crowds (“coming through, step aside”) and scowling at people on the subway, to the point where I got mistaken for a native New Yorker more than once. This time, it delighted me to lead my girls to places I remembered, from shops in SoHo to restaurants in the East Village, beginning with the best coffee in the US: Cafe Angelique on Bleecker Street. Absolute bliss. We walked to the Brooklyn Bridge, admired squirrels in Central Park, took the Staten Island ferry past the Statue of Liberty and sat people watching for hours in parks. I’ll leave it to Helen and Trace to do it photographic justice, but here are some I took.

Washington Square Park, where Dylan used to busk, with the Empire State Building in the background

View from the reservoir in Central Park

What would my journal be if I didn’t revolve it around food and drink? I munched on hot pretzels so salty my mouth ached, and bagels crammed with lox and cream cheese. I bought a hot dog from a vendor in Times Square and as I lifted the mustard smothered ‘dawg’ to my mouth, a horrified passerby actually stopped and admonished me with ‘hon, you’re not actually gonna eat that thing, are ya?” I did indeed, then had to go lie down with a cold washcloth on my forehead in a darkened room for a spell. But the three of us will never forget the China Grill, a lavish hotspot where the coconut martinis won Helen’s heart, the crispy spinach tasted like incredible potato chips, and the duck in chocolate orange sauce left me feeing as though I’d just been seduced, and damn well. But I’m still a Melbourne girl at heart, and when I visited the restrooms and found a woman whose sole job it was to pour soap into my embarrassed hands, I couldn’t meet her eyes, nor mine in the mirror.

The delectable food fuelled us for all the shopping we needed to do, and believe me, we shopped up a storm. But remember, on your birthday there is no budget, no diet, and absolutely no shame.

Yes, my 37th birthday led us all out to the streets of the Lower East Side with trembling credit cards and high expectations, and the city didn’t disappoint. We visited the old CBGB’s haunt, punk mecca that it was, ate vegan delights at Angelika’s Kitchen (my favourite restaurant in NY) and then headed into the trendy Bowery Hotel, where the rich and famous stay.

What is that?
I think it’s a jumpsuit.
And is she a midget?
I’m thinking yes.
What kind of place is this?!

We got merry. It’s difficult to get too merry on $28 martinis, but we managed it, and the little red book of quotes got serious action. We weren’t allowed in the back bar, which we dealt with…..until we saw a man bring in a dog on a leash. For a start, no dogs are allowed in bars in Australia, but the thought that this whippet was deemed more suitable than our fine group outraged the two Aussie wenches, and amused Trace no end.

You know what I don’t like about the martini? The glass. I mean, put it in a fucking schooner. Helen

I’d like to include more quotes, but the handwriting got a tad messy after a few cocktails, so we headed back to the hotel room for a game of scenarios, which amused us no end and saw my birthday to a joyous, indulgent and mirthful close.

Look, Johnny Depp just walked in! (His utter beauty is one of the few things Helen and I disagree on).

What do you mean, the whippet’s classier than us?

Could you handle another tub of Ben and Jerry’s half cooked cookie dough ice cream?

What’s the next one? Don’t go to sleep yet! Let’s go for a swim in the hotel pool….are you girls awake? I’m having another espresso martini!

And I will leave you with a story that will make me grin for some time. I bought myself a present of a trip to a day spa on the Upper East Side, and the moment I walked in I understood the ‘no refund’ policy completely. It was one of the most surreal experiences of my life, and I hope I can do it justice. The Iranian hairdresser took one look at my Medusa curls and handed me the brush with a curt ‘you get started’ as she walked into the back for a coffee. The Nepalese manicurist simply chopped my long nails off, and then swept the cuttings onto the floor before demanding to know why I had no wedding ring at my age. She then advised me not to marry an American because “I can’t stand them”. The masseuse, a brusque and rotund Russian woman called Tatiana, had sharp nails that literally left me bleeding after my massage, during which she demanded to know what I was writing and then give me curt advice on the direction my novel should be taking, literally talking over the top of me as she bruised my startled flesh. Why did I stay? Because it was so damn absurd that I wanted to see what could possibly come next. When they began discussing blonde foils for my fiery locks and I started seeing the face of Jesus in the cracked linoleum floor, I made my escape to Central Park and sat curled up on a rock, shaking my head and thinking…..damn, I love this city.

Don’t talk about stilts while I’m drinking martinis. me

I don’t want to watch your arse Helen
That’s really hurtful Trace

You don’t like polar bears? Trace
Well I don’t know them that fucking well Helen

Is that the AC/DC album where they did smack rap – is that a genre? Sammy, our hotel bartender

You should always end a sentence with ‘whippets shouldn’t be allowed here’. me

TV newsflash in the cab coming home: lavish jailhouse bar mitzvah not so kosher.

To Helen and Trace, my companions over the last two weeks and provider of some incredible, unforgettable memories…..thank you girls so damn much. I miss you both already. X