Cityscape

I'm back in real life. It's warmer and more sedate. I'm always surprised by how few travel days it takes to shred your usual perspective into tiny bits, then paste them back together, ad infinitum. Must be why we go.

New York is numbingly cold in winter, let's just say it once and move on. Hearty New England blood, not that you were ever good for much in my case, but you're gone.

Friday night found me at Canteen headquarters in Brooklyn. It's wide and easy there, a familiar blend of Oakland, SoMa, and any industrialized global sister city (Rome, Tel Aviv, Barcelona). Art galleries and cafés and clever graffiti tucked away in blocky brown and grey corners.

There was eating, and there was drinking, and there was morning. The second day.

* * *

Morning might be a stretch. Lunchtime, honestly. The meal came with a nomadic partner in crime, Amy, who traveled from Philly to spend the day with me because she's a rockstar.

On our way to MOMA, we had an eerie moment: Total silence. The usual crush of people, cabs, lights, Saturday in Manhattan—but for about 15 seconds, nothing made any noise. No sirens, no horns, no conversations (once we stopped ours). It might have been ominous, if it weren't so pleasant. Think how many factors must have been aligned.

The museum space itself left me flat, too white and too square, like they hadn't finished decorating yet. The art compensated.

Highlights include a display of Emigre covers in one of the graphic design rooms:


This tasty salad:

salad ingredients, irving penn

And the end table for the Guggenheim Bilbao, or so I'd like to think.

forgot to write this artist down . . . it might actually be gehry

The view from the third floor gets points also. Took this shot through a gridlike screen over the window, curious if it would show in the picture. If anyone can tell me why it doesn't (not a trick question—I have no idea), you'll win a prize.


Amy, who's moving to Buenos Aires this spring and has enough spirit and drive for a dozen people, is much more focused than this shot:


That night, we met up with two friends of mine from Paris who recently moved to New York via their native England. I'd give myself extra Euro snob points for the description, except that between them, they've been to 70 countries—at least 10 in the last year. So basically, I got no game.

There was eating, and there was drinking, and there was an accidental trip to Queens (as usual), and there was Pete's Candy Store, and there was morning. The third day.

* * *

Sunday found the Nomad and the BCB in Chelsea, around the corner from this venerable institution for your tired, your poor, your huddled writing implements:


And we brunched. Because a day isn't a day without mini muffins.


Then we went to the World Trade Center site, where I'd never been.


It looks like any other urban construction project—like the naked foundations for parking structures all over Oakland and San Francisco—except for its vastness, the crowd of tourists, and the 9/11 exhibit on quiet, powerful display.

photo within the photo by steve simon

On the way back to Brooklyn, I passed through a subway station decorated with mosaics. It made me happy, a gift for my eyes and brain after countless wallpapered ads. Can't remember which station, of course.


Sunday night was my official Canteen meeting with Stephen (publisher) and Sai (art director). The editor-in-chief, Sean, is a local friend out here. If we ever land a grant or two for the magazine, I'll ask them to earmark enough to buy me a name that starts with S.

A meeting? OK, yeah, a real meeting. But it included cocktails and goat cheese gnocchi. Business duly conducted, we retired to the bars of Williamsburg.

There are pictures somewhere, because Sai has a beautiful digital SLR camera and he graciously let me get my shutter-happy groove on. Don't quote me on this, but I'm pretty sure a lot of coasters and straws were immortalized that night.

And there was Woody Allen, and there were cookies, and there was morning. The fourth day.

* * *

Suburban Interlude

On Monday, I hopped a train to Rye Brook to see my old roommate, who recently married a sweet guy from Brooklyn and moved to a little town about an hour away. We looked at photos, watched wedding videos, caught up.

Commercial Interlude

Then I headed back to Chelsea for dinner with a college friend who's taking NYC by storm with his ring business, which I'll shamelessly plug—even without being asked—because I think it's a great idea. May my enormous readership all be in the market for a custom piece of jewelry soon. You know who to call.

And there was night, and there was morning. The fifth day.

* * *

On Tuesday, it dawned lukewarm and slushy. There was chocolate shopping, cheese tasting, tea drinking.

Then I flew home.