ny, i love you

My existence in New York City seems to be a collection of random little vignettes or images that have managed to stay with me over time.

Heading to La Boqueria one evening and passing Lucy Liu on the sidewalk (that lady is teeny tiny; like a little porcelain doll! and wearing orange strappy shoes that probably cost $1235615)--I'll admit I was a little obvious as I stared at her as she hurried past trying to look completely engrossed in her text messaging--I also kind of said a little loudly (and very likely within her earshot) to my companion at the time, "That really looks like Lucy Liu..." to which he replied in a distinctly exasperated/embarrassed/haughty/fill-in-NY-native-pride-adjective-here tone, "That's because it is Lucy Liu, only you're not supposed to say anything."
I was definitely more blasé a few weeks later when I turned up at the same movie theatre as Paul Rudd.
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While working on my laptop at one of the open tables in the 23rd Street NY Public Library, I was approached by a slightly-disheveled man who looked to be in his 30s or 40s. He was carrying a medium-sized oil painting with an expensive-looking, classic bronze frame in his hands, and he asked me if I could possibly try to figure out which artist had painted the work, as he had a hunch it was a local painter, and there was a scrawled signature in one of the corners. I tried my best to solve the mystery and offered a couple of names after a few minutes of searching online, but in the end I found the address of an art appraisal place nearby and the man went off to continue his quest. I think he was hoping the painting might be worth something. I occasionally still wonder whether it was. If I recall correctly (which I very possibly don't), the painting had a pretty boring theme--flowers in a field or sailboats at sea or some other seemingly-mundane scene. Perhaps it turned out to be worth thousands?
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One morning, I was walking through Stuyvesant Town, and a whole group of toddlers under the care of a couple of supervisors were playing in a large, concrete rectangular fenced-in area. As I was passing along one end of the criss-crossed fence, I got to witness one of the most endearing sights--all the adorable little wobbly toddlers had been lined up in a row on the other end, and suddenly they were all racing towards me (although not literally towards me) in a haphazard and happy manner.
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After experiencing the exhibitions at the Whitney for the third time, I decided to hit up an LES bar for the first time early in the night. The place was basically empty, so I boldly (and uncharacteristically) decided to strike up a conversation with a funky-and-hip-looking gay couple who were the only other patrons at the time. It was the quiet before the insane onslaught an hour or two later. I was glad I met these guys; we had a long, easy conversation about music, venues and the city in general, and in truth, we weren't really going to become lifelong friends, but it was a genuinely good time nonetheless. When the place finally filled up, they left, and left me a pair of drink tickets to use however I pleased. What sweeties. I had my fill of dancing (and drinks) and left on a quest for Chinese food. I ended up striking up a strange (read: drunken) conversation with a Russian limo driver waiting to drive some clients to Atlantic City; he offered to take me to a great Russian restaurant the next day, but I never called him.
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Getting hit on in the streets by brave/crazy/philandering city guys who appear to have no qualms about asking complete strangers out on dates, totally out of the blue. Subsequently, occasional dates have resulted from these encounters, which have mostly led to failed romances, great and small. Fascinating people. Truly.
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But mostly, just walking, walking walking...
Wandering the streets; finding little seemingly hidden bits of the city one's never noticed before, or feeling like I've discovered something for the first time. I will never run out of possibilities to explore there, and I always feel like I can genuinely be myself--the city uncovers who I really am.

working, drinking, dancing, life

Have you ever taken a while to process an experience?

For the few months I was working at a laneway bar in Melbourne, I would often end up crawling into bed with the next day's sun already risen. Sometimes my fellow bartenders and I would just hang out after closing up the place at 4 a.m. and have our post-shift drinks while chainsmoking and pretentiously philosophizing about life. That, or we'd head to an after-hours place where one of the other bartenders knew everyone. We'd watch the hardcore revelers dance the last couple hours of darkness away and then head out to face the glaring brightness outside.

Other times, I'd get to chatting with some straggling patrons who would succeed in convincing me to follow them to the after-hours indie dance club around the corner, where I'd invariably shimmy up a frenzy to the now-standard Peter Bjorn & John, Hot Chip and Arcade Fire tunes mixed in with classic Joy Divison and/or Smiths hipster anthems that would get me yelling, "i LOVE this song!!" to the misfortune of anybody within my immediate 5-km radius.

There was one night where I wandered around the city in search of some sort of after-hours dance party with a group of bar-patron strangers that was particularly memorable. Post-party, as we were heading towards the trams on our separate ways home, the early-morning sky was suddenly filled with tiny flecks of hot-air balloon silhouettes! It was quite the surreal sight, seeing so many hot-air balloons in the distance, slowly taking over the sky amidst the backdrop of the city's high-rise buildings. I wish I'd had a camera with me. Occasionally, the memory of that image still appears in my mind.

Now, memories like these make me miss my life in Melbourne.

It kind of looked like this, except there were many more balloons. Image "stolen" from here.

retreat to move forward

This is how it goes--

Lately I've been caught in an exceptionally thick haze. It's imperative that I break out. So despite sounding like a melodramatic nutjob, this is that attempt. To write myself out of a self-destructive rut.