We observe that sunrises, which come in gentle surges in the West, like a door slowly opened, explode like a nuclear bomb in the East. New York City forces us to wake up.
After three days NYC begins to get to me. My skin kinda hurts the way it used to during my days in Los Angeles.
“That is spot on. It doesn’t get any better.” — D, on Zhanara’s lemon curd ice cream.
“You’ll meet someone from home. Keep your eyes peeled.” — D.
Four days later. “Oh, Ken! We were just talking about you this morning!” — C.
“Hip hop wear here reminds me of Electric Boogaloo. Remember parachute pants? They’re like Gap Cargo Pants.” — C.
“Well, actually they were the original cargo pants, before Gap got a hold of them.” — D.
“Yeah, you don’t see women like that in the Bay Area.” — D.
Dinners: 1. roast chicken with panzanella. 2. wine and cheese and bread. 3. wine and cheese and bread. 4. Chicken, citrus salad, ice cream.
Lunches: 1. oysters and uni nigiri at the Lobster Place 2. A frisee salad and white bean soup at the Wythe. 3. Spicy pork ramen at Totto Ramen.
Wines: French. A white burgundy, Macon Village. Some other things I neglected to remember, all good.
Yellow tulips. Light green flowers on trees. Pink plummy flowers on trees. They softened the atmosphere. New York needs more. Grasses at the Highline, which is a giant, walkable container garden that will only get better with time.