One Night in New York via iPhone

I am the green bubbles.
Nick is the grey.
9pm to 1:45am.
Enjoy.

*NFT = Not For Tourists guidebook

*undertake = understand

*New York = Empire State of Mind

Feed Me with Lights

At the age of 25 I left the city in which I'd grown up, knowing that I would never return. In the years that have passed from then to now, I have never once ached for it so intensely and completely as I do for New York.

It is an all-consuming, palpable yearning not dissimilar from the pain of a broken heart.
It buzzes in my chest and knocks the breath out of me.

What kind of magic does this city command that it has so utterly taken over my soul?

You know what is wonderful?

... not knowing how much I weigh and not caring because noone else does. You know what is exhilarating? Riding my bike through the East Village in cut-off 501's with my hair blowing in my face and no helmet. You know what is delightful? Getting a text message that says "You are the coolest girl ever to breathe the mix of gases that enables a human to live on this planet." You know what is astonishing? Dancing at a dive bar to cheesy 80s music and poking a munchkin in the back who turns out to be Mary Kate Olsen. You know what is magic? Sitting in Doma Cafe in the absurdly beautiful West Village eating breakfast at 9 o'clock at night and listening to Bjork's All is Full of Love. You know what is breathtaking? Walking through Central Park on a sticky July night and watching fire flies light up the hillside. You know what is unexpected? Meeting amazing, inspiring people who completely change the way I look at life. You know what is gut-wrenching? Knowing that in less than a week it'll all be a memory.

Pee is Not Fertilizer

Down the road from Beacon's Closet.

Not after money, just having a good time

On Bedford ave in Williamsburg, very obviously high and very disturbingly entertaining.

How to Tell a Girl You're Interested

Today, hungover and tired I took my first walk through Central Park and stopped at the Ballplayer's House Cafe for a combined breakfast/lunch at 3pm. I hassled my Californian Jack Black-lookalike-only-younger-and-thinner waiter about what I should order in my listless state and then set about ingesting my Vegie Burger goodness along with the accompanying packet of crisps while reading Joseph Campbell and eavesdropping on uninspiring nearby conversations. After wiling away a good part of the day in this lazy, indulgent fashion, I packed up my stuff and put a $20 bill in the bill folder and waited for my change.
I waited.
I waited.
I waited.
I worried that perhaps they assumed I wanted to leave a big tip.
After making subtle googly eyes at random staff members, my waiter finally returned with the folder before quickly disappearing.

Inside the folder, along with my change, was this:



I should be honest with you and admit that I don't intend on calling him. But man, did he sure make my day.

New York - 6 Weeks In

So my six weeks at The Esper Studio is almost over and what an experience it’s been. Study aside, my New York experience has been the most relentlessly stimulating and exciting period of my life. I’ve run myself broke, broken up with my boyfriend of 6 years, been solicited for sex, asked for directions several times a day, applied for more jobs in 2 weeks than I have in my entire life, been yelled at, praised, adored and ignored. I’ve changed my hair colour and finally reached a healthy weight (I’ve been underweight for years). I’ve partied with famous actors and seen others in the streets. I’ve watched a Bouffon clown noir performance and a subway rendition of Do Ron Ron.

I’ve questioned my religious beliefs and I’ve rediscovered my love for acting. And, most excitingly, I’ve enjoyed hanging out with myself, and reassessing what that means.

And I still have a month left…

Small Sentences from My Pocket Notebook

On Monday night I was at a Salsa party watching the people, full of joy, dancing together as men and women should dance and a man nearby was wearing my father's cologne and I felt safe and content.

The other day an old man rode by me on a squeaky bicycle and for a moment I thought the squeaking was coming from him.

Yesterday on the subway a lady wearing a cap sneezed and her hat flew forward and landed on the open page of the magazine she was reading. I tried, unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh but thankfully she was so busy trying to make it look intentional that she didn't notice.

More Musings of a New York Experience

All the cars are Armoured. And when I say all, I mean there seems to be a national concern that someone is not only going to gun down their bank and mail trucks, but also their pet supply trucks, their bagel trucks, and worst of all, their cheap polyester Asian ball gown trucks.

American men not only make nice comments about you as you walk down the street, such as "Hey baby", "Look at them beautiful eyes" and "Yo honey wassup?", but can also be relied upon to open doors for you and allow you ahead of them in the Starbucks queue. And I don't mean men you are acquainted with, but complete strangers. This trait could well be the single most endearing quality of the American male.

Good coffee does not exist. You can either have regular coffee (filtered) or the more fancy eXpresso (note, not espresso but eXpresso) which tastes pretty much like filtered coffee but weaker, due to the enormous bowls they serve them in, and with overheated milk.

Despite the fact that I no longer automatically walk to the left side of every walkway, I have found it impossible to let go of my deeply ingrained survival instinct to Look Right, then Left, then Right Again. To avoid certain death I've adopted a method I call Continual Head Swivelling whereby I swing my head from side to side continuously while crossing the street because I just cannot train my brain to remember that they come from the left side first and then the right side.

One of the great delights of catching the subway is the walk you make up the exit stairs before emerging onto the street. It's an ascent full of anticipation and speculation, particularly if you're in a heretofore unexplored area. Will it be bustling or deserted? Will there be bodegas or boutiques? Will it smell like sewerage or halal meat? I can't help but get excited every time I make this climb.

Brooklyn Flea Market Dogs

Now I love dogs as much as the next person. In fact, I'd go so far as to say I love dogs more than the next person, being something of a dog lover. But spending any substantial amount of time in New York could do some serious damage to my canine affections. And to be fair it's not really the dogs who are to blame, but my God people, get your tiny, rat-faced, harness wearing mutts out of my way. I can't walk 10 metres without stepping in your little pal's puddles of poodle juice and just because you can tug your practically weightless dog around behind you like a kite doesn't mean it should be allowed to wander all over the footpath impersonating a living land mine. Not to mention the fact that I have to step over it in the grocery aisle and make room for its carry-bag on the subway. But please, oh please, if you must have a carry-on sized pet then at least do me the courtesy of having a cute one, and being a little inventive with its mode of transport. Like these guys...






Look at the way they're just hanging out, cool as cucumbers. Couldn't you just eat them?

I take it all back. Have your little dogs, and while you're at it, spread some of their fluffy cuteness my way.

My Thousand Dollar Night

After a night of traipsing through the LES trying to find a bar that wasn't seedy or with a queue around the block, my fellow Australian Gene and I were treated to a VIP night of pure indulgence.

It turns out that my new housemate not only has a gorgeous apartment and a lovely disposition, but also some pretty important compadres. An influential friend of hers took us out to Home, a club with a guest list which includes such luminaries as Rachel Hunter, Tara Reid, Jeremy Piven, Rosario Dawson, Cynthia Nixon and P Diddy/Puff Daddy/Poop Diddly amongst others. Whilst no celebrities made an appearance during our visit, you could be forgiven for thinking that we were the celebrities. Our high-flying man, having used his pull to help open the club, ensured that we were ushered through the velvet rope ahead of 200 waiting clubbers before being escorted to a VIP table worth $1000 a night. We were then brought $250 bottles of champagne by eager-to-please hostesses. We also got private tours through to the connected club, Guesthouse, as well as VIP entry to most of the other bars on the street.
It was quite a night.

My only quibble would be with the unavoidable spectacle of drunk Americans dancing. Sweet God in heaven, where is the class? It would seem that the general modus operandi for dancefloor courtship involves a girl being dry-humped from behind, whilst being pressed against the front of another gyrating girl with a man similarly attached to her backside. And bonus points to the man who lifts a girl up so that her legs are wrapped around his head and her crotch is mashed against his face. I mean really, this sort of behaviour would guarantee instant removal from (almost) any club in Australia. Does this make us prudish?
Or do we perhaps have more refinement than we give ourselves credit for?

Manhattan Meditations

My early observations, on a Saturday morning after 4 hours' sleep:

1. Shop assistants are unbelievably and inconceivably rude. No smiles, no eye contact, and God forbid you'd like your clothes put in a change room. It's not uncommon to be in the middle of being served by a sales girl and then watch her walk away while you wait, thinking that she's doing something important for you, only to find out 5 patient minutes later (when you ever-so-politely ask what she's doing) that she's "doing something else".

2. Which leads me to Observation #2... Tipping sucks. I mean, fair enough if you like the service. But why do I have to tip a cab driver? For doing his job? I mean, it's not like he reached back and gave me a foot rub on the way to my destination, or that he even spoke to me, or turned down his hideously loud music, or showed much of an interest in keeping me alive. Or how about the sullen bar girl who won't look me in the eye and then slams my drink down on the bar with obvious disdain? Does she think her service warrants her telling me that "you know, in this country, it's customary to tip 20% in a bar". Which it isn't. It's $1 a drink unless the service is exceptional. But you can't say that if you want to be served again later in the night. And I know you're going to tell me that "they don't earn much" and "they live off tips", because it's what I used to say. But being treated like the dog poo that's just caught a ride in on someone's shoe quickly kills off any high philanthropic ideals.

3. But on a more positive note, the weather here is truly sublime. Warm and moistly breezy and like a perfect Spring day in Perth. It makes you happy to be alive and everything looks a little hopeful. Except the people, because...

4. Manhattanites don't actually dress as well as we've been led to believe. Across the bridge in Williamsburg is a different story, but in Manhattan, the vast majority look like they've just rolled out of bed (or an outer suburbs charity shop) to buy some milk across the street. People do dress well, but they are such a tiny minority in this borough of 1.5 million people that you could make it a full time job just trying to spot them (and some do).

5. Walking around Manhattan and Brooklyn for 8 hours in a pair of Oxfords will necessitate the buying of a new pair of ergonomically correct and cushioned slingbacks with laces up the front and an open toe.

Start Spreading the News

Only 3 and a half weeks until I leave for New York and the William Esper Studio and I'm still tracking down accommodation. At the moment it looks like it may be Polish Greenpoint, where I'll be able to stuff myself with Pierogi and Zywiec for a reasonable US$900 a month.
From there I plan to go to Chicago before heading to LA to sell my soul for a few weeks. I'm hoping to throw Las Vegas and Mexico into the mix too if all goes well; I don't have any internal flights booked yet so my itinerary is still open.
So that means that in a month I'll be Street Styling from some new locations, in between running to acting classes and learning lines.

If anyone in the States has a spare couch, or a couple hours free to get coffee, I'm open to suggestions...