The Everywhereist

Perhaps I’ve been to one-too-many museums, and that’s the reason why this next group of photos is a weensy bit artsy. Not artistic mind you, but artsy. The difference? One rhymes with fartsy.

1. Rockerfeller Center (I think. I sometimes don’t pay proper attention to these things).
   

   I was going to photoshop a tiny Spiderman into this pic, but that wouldn't be accurate. He wasn't there today.

2. Wardrobe malfunction, The Metropolitan Museum of Art.
   

   There was a statue of Justin Timberlake just out of view, looking mortified.

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There are people in your life who you never remember meeting. You’ve just always known them.

And yes, those outfits match.

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For Rand, that person is Kim. They’ve been friends pretty much since they’ve existed.

This hurts my heart a little.

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Some days in New York do not come together well. I may get lost. I’ll take the wrong subway, or I won’t be able to get a cab. I’ll arrive at my destination late, hungry, and angry.

And some days, things just fall into place. Not perfectly, mind you. I might end up slightly late to lunch (sorry, Jorie and Rand) and I might not get special admission in to the exhibit I wanted to see (you’re on notice, Met), but other than that? Everything turns out wonderfully.

Days like that one very seldom make it into the blog. It seems that they escape from memory, because there was no Dick Move! or ridiculous catastrophe to make the day stand out. I often share the bad and the miserable, the days that don’t come together. Rarely do I tell you about days like this one I had in October.

Rand had a meeting, so I wandered to Rockefeller Center, and wandered around. I do this every single time I am in New York, because I am firm in the belief that one day I will bump into Tina Fey and we will instantly become besties. Also, there is an Anthropologie there (the clearance rack there is sadly pricier than the one at home. But that’s New York for you).

I like it here. I don't care if it's touristy.

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Plus there are ice skaters! I love watching people do the things I cannot (also in this category: throwing footballs, being maternal, and making custard-based pies).

Curiously, no one is on their ass.

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Yes, I am finally writing about something other than the TSA.

<THUMP>

Wait, was that the sound of you passing out from shock? I thought so. But yes, it’s true: I’m way, way, waaaaay overdue in blogging about our trip to New York last month. (Not to mention our subsequent trips to London and Bulgaria. But a girl has to start somewhere, and I’m starting with Chelsea).

So why don’t you grab some ice for that bump you just sustained to the noggin, and read on (don’t worry: my blog reads better with a little bit of light head trauma).

Last month was our bazillionth trip to New York, and it was the very first time we stayed somewhere other than Midtown. Rand booked us a room at the Maritime Hotel in Chelsea. We were both a little hesitant to not only be staying in a different area than we were used to, but also at a boutique hotel. I was a little concerned that we wouldn’t get the whole New York experience unless we were a block off of Times Square, surrounded by crowds and flashing neon lights.

As usual, I was miserably wrong. Staying in Chelsea provided us with far more of a Manhattan experience than we’ve ever had. Even before we checked in, Rand ended up holding the door for Christina Ricci (in true Rand form, he had no idea who she was and was just doing it to be nice. “When I saw she had one of those little dogs with her, I almost let the door close. But that would be mean.”) The number of gorgeous folks who gravitated around the hotel was staggering. On one morning, I found a gaggle of models in the lobby.

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