On the plane ride back, before take off, I overhead one of the women next to me discussing the other one's first trip to L.A. Where she was warned that people out there walk "a LOT slower. And "most of the time don't even seem to know where it is they're going." A fact I would silently agree with. In all fairness, it's true. As a self proclaimed "fast walker" myself I always find the brisk rhythm of a New York street quite refreshing to fall into. But as far as undermined destinations are concerned is it so bad that West Coast folks like to wander? We may not always know where we're going, but one might argue that that's part of the beauty inherent in California dwelling.
I also wanted to inform them - one Zanax and half a glass of champagne (pre flight) deep - in slight defense of my sun drenched slow paced coast, that there are also a couple things they could stand to learn from us. The art of a proper Michelada, for one. I don't care where in the world you reside through the summer months, beer, with ice, spices and a splash of Clamato, doused with lime is always a fantastic idea. Unless of course heartburn is your hurdle.
Based on my experience though (and plenty of conversational inquiries dedicated to the matter) New York is getting it all wrong when it comes to bloody beers at brunch.
But I digress. As this is not a post about cocktails. More a snapshot of love. Specifically in regards to the wedding reception I was there for, in honor of my best friend and her new wife, held in a quaint Brooklyn loft cleared out and transformed into a chic, customized venue to host the after party. On a Saturday where all walks of life poured in to drink, dance and celebrate their union.
Wherein the four days before the event we swept through the Met - greeting the sparse brilliance that is Sara Berman's closet in person. And later visiting the sheer genius of Georgia O'Keefe's art and wardrobe on display over in Brooklyn. The shot of her flirting coyly with Ansel Adams giving my heart a quick jump. As well as the obvious determination as a young handsome girl wishing to stand out amidst of sea of slick haired beauties in a graduating photo from her year book that mentioned her being "one of her own." Everything new I learned about her exploded the trending notion of what measely information I gleaned prior, based on the reposting of her image basically becoming the new "Jane Birken" in the hip cycle of social media "shares." I walked away sure that she was far cooler, and more cutting edge than any of us actually might ever realize. And it's no wonder all the great talents of her generation flocked to be around her. It also struck a new obsession in me wanting to learn more. And yet somehow in that frame of mind I managed to escape the sweet lure of the gift shop stocked with books and art prints, where one's new intrigues might find plenty of reason to empty their pockets. But then again, it's a practicality I'm kind of regretting now that I'm home . . .
And then of course there were all the beautiful bars we stopped into in between. Too many for me to dutifully note here in spite of my better intentions being to unroll a point of reference of sorts after the trip. My time was too hectic to take notes. But there was one in particular on the Thursday after I arrived we found at a fancy hotel down the street from the Met. Just as a mid day rainstorm was brewing overheard and we were getting wet without umbrellas. Where we sat snacking on plates filled with nuts and popcorn. Before an oddly handsome man who looked as if he had just walked off a David Lynch film in the 90s to serve us. Leaving with an impressive bill earned in the three hours we were there watching the rain fall. Drinking tequila and laughing the bulk of an afternoon away.
Other highlights, randomly out of order and likely out of context too, being:
Late night tacos with the girls in Brooklyn,
a stunning dinner after a notably stress filled day atop the rooftop eatery at the William Veil (where every single thing delivered to our table was more delicious than the last)
room service in bathrobes,
a dive bar with a really great selections of hot dogs,
a dance party in the green glow of Jess's self titled "Liberace Room" where brass dishware competes with ornately framed floor to ceiling art,
and one glorious cheese platter display built by their good friend Billy and his husband. Who more or less explained to us that only gay men in sharp looking suits should be in charge of such feats. Which we all surrounding witnesses agreed.
And naturally all the bagels and flagels and pizza, and beer I could possibly stomach. A proper, five day New York indulgence that I was sad to leave, as much as I was starting to miss my wild household of boys by the end.
I headed back full of gratitude for the time shared with these incredible ladies. For my friend finding solid love and companionship in a city I tried so hard to talk her out of some years ago with all my selfish reasons rooted in convenience. Like a best friend is prone to. For the new memories made. And all the fun we had. In spite of a couple of illy concocted attempts at that signature California Michelada which I know now might forever serve as rightful temptation to those who know better. Just another perk to pine for while planning their visits back. Where the tomato tinged drinks and slow stroll on the boardwalks they grew up with will forever be waiting on their return. As brief as their stays always feel.