Thursday 3rd May – I woke up in the hotel room on my own, and stretched gratefully – it would be the last time for a long(ish) time! I took my time getting ready and packed up my stuff, then checked out with no hassles at all, and the staff at reception happily agreed to store my things until I came back (take that, Trip Advisor – another thing that I DIDN’T have trouble with at the Chelsea Savoy!). I couldn’t check in at the hostel until about 2pm, so I had a few hours to kill before heading uptown.
I stepped outside into another misty morning – I can only hope that the sunny mornings become more frequent than the grey ones! I went in search of food along 23rd Street, but before that I dropped into an overpriced vintage shop – all of their 60s clothes were astronomically expensive; a by-product, I assume, of the rising popularity of the fashion of Mad Men. I also stopped into Reminiscence, a kitschy little shop that sells stuff like dog pencil sharpeners, wind-up Jesus toys, strawberry-printed tissues, purple piggy banks and ‘ninjabread men’ cookie cutters. Oh, the fun I could have had! However, I thought of my overly light wallet and my overly heavy suitcase, and exercised what little self-control I have, and walked out! Yay me!
From there, I walked back out towards the Flatiron building in search of something that I thought I had spotted the day before, but wasn’t 100 percent sure. But lo and behold, there it was, on the corner of 23rd Street and Fifth Avenue. I had found it. Eataly. Oh holy grail of goodness! Where hast thou been all my life?!?
A dining area at Mario Batali’s Eataly,
New York, May 2012
Mario Batali is a prominent chef who specialises in Italian food and has a bunch of restaurants around the world. He’s not the prettiest of creatures (any man who wears orange Crocs immediately loses 50 bazillion points on the attraction scale), but in my opinion he’s got to be a bit of a genius. Why? Well, right opposite the Flatiron building on a landmark site, he opens an Italian food market called Eataly. Not just a marketplace, but a kickass, upmarket, shiny, tantalisingly-scented gastronomic wonderland serving up only the finest of Italian offerings. Inside the giant, warehouse-style room, there are a number of cafes/restaurants as well as places where you can buy fresh Italian food, fruit and vegetables. The cheese! The prosciutto! The olive oil! The bread! The pasta! Sigh. You remember that feeling you used to get as a kid, wandering into a giant toy store just before Christmas and staring around you with wonder and delight? Well, that’s how I felt when I walked into Eataly. I could barely figure out which direction to go in first, and I walked in circles for quite a while before figuring out what to do with myself. And I was starving by this point, so that made my decisions even more difficult! (Although sampling some of their fig rustica bread helped to ease the urgency a little!) There was a fish place, a pizza and pasta place, a stand-up snacking meat and cheese place (a bit like Italian tapas, if the cross-cultural Spanish reference doesn’t offend!), and the ‘Birreria’. The last on the list isn’t of much interest to me, being a non-drinker, but I know a lot of people who would give their right arm to try it out; the menu is dictated by the beer, some of which is brewed on site.
My delicious meal at Eataly – vegetable and grain soup and a toasted sandwich. YUM!
New York, May 2012
In the end, I decided that my nutritional intake needed a helping hand (especially after the waffle-with-fried-chicken extravaganza), and I decided to eat at Le Verdure, a place that deals only in vegetables and the good stuff that goes with them. Great choice, Tara! 😉 As I sat down, a waiter brought me a few slices of paper-wrapped crusty rustica bread (YUM) and a plate, into which he poured some of the sweetest, fruitiest, tastiest olive oil that I’ve EVER had the pleasure of consuming – and that includes my trips to Italy. I later asked him what it was and he said it was called ‘Boeri’; before I leave New York, I’m buying some. No ifs, ands or buts about it. I can still taste it… mmmmmmmmm. The bread and oil were gone before I even had a chance to order! Anyway, I ordered their special of the day, which turned out to be a mushroom, grain (fara? foro?) and vegetable soup with a small sandwich on the side. The sandwich consisted of more crusty bread filled with buffalo mozzarella slices, roasted tomato slices and fresh basil, all toasted into crispy goodness. So basically like a bruschetta revved up to 100mph, really. My eyes crinkled at the beauty of it. And the taste! My mouth waters just thinking about it. It’s true what they say – the simple things are often the best. I ate every damn bite of that meal – something that doesn’t happen very often. And the best part? It only set me back $16! Not bad for a fresh, gourmet Italian sit-down meal! I licked my chops as I paid the bill, and I was ready to face the day.
My next stop was to the ever-depressing post office to send a few cards. If there is a hell, it’s got to be just like waiting in an interminable queue at the damn post office, I swear. I joined the queue and watched my life tick away. I was even more pleased when a loon of a man joined the end of the queue, muttering something about New York women and red clay. The only thing I can say in his favour is that as he entered the store and saw the queue, he emitted a loud and throaty, “MOTHER… FUCKER!!!” in annoyance. I had thought the exact same thing upon entry but had decided to keep it to myself in case people thought I was nuts… this was obviously not a concern of his. In the end, after an eternity of counting the splotches on the carpet, I have to say that the woman behind the counter was really friendly and even wished me luck in my Canadian and US endeavours.
You know, on that note, people say that New Yorkers are abrupt and rude, but I’ve (so far) had nothing but the opposite experience. I’ve repeatedly found them to be open, friendly, funny, inquisitive, helpful and kind. Sure, there’s been the odd impatient bitch on the subway, and the drivers honk their horns like they’re going out of style, but you get that anywhere. And I’m not just talking about service staff (who are of course paid to be nice to you, whether they like you or not); I’m talking about the everyday people you see on the street. I’ve had people strike up conversations with me left, right and centre; people have offered me help when I least expected it; offered me compliments on my clothes or shoes and asked where they can find them; asked me questions about where I’m from, and wished me luck in all my future adventures. All with no ulterior motive other than just to make a connection or be kind to another human being. How is it, then, that New Yorkers have gained this reputation for having a whole lot of attitude? I don’t understand it. Don’t worry, New York: I love you. 🙂
Leaving the Post Office behind, I walked up 8th Avenue for the first time since getting back, and I found myself back in the Chelsea that I knew and remembered from my first trip. Let me tell you a story…
The first time I came to New York, I was 22 and emigrating from the UK to Australia. I therefore had a big suitcase full of stuff I would need for my life in Australia as well as my little backpack that I usually travel with, but I planned to leave my suitcase at left luggage at the airport so that I didn’t have to lug it all over the city with me. Not knowing what New York was really like, I was a little apprehensive about my safety. I was arriving at Newark (New Jersey) airport at 11:30 at night, so I had organised for a transfer in advance; someone was supposed to meet me as I exited customs with a name card, and whisk me to Manhattan on a shuttle. My flight was a little delayed, and then of course there was the customs and immigration process to go through, and when I came out my ride was nowhere to be seen. I waited around for a bit, but nobody came, and the airport started to empty. I approached the ground transportation counter, but they had closed for the night. I sought help, but nobody was around – not even security guards. The last public shuttles to Manhattan had left and the stands were unmanned. I looked for left luggage, but as it turned out they had been closed since September 11, and would not be reopening for the forseeable future. Where did this leave me? Well, up shit creek without a paddle in the middle of New Jersey in the middle of the night with a bunch of luggage, that’s where. How the hell did the airport empty out so quickly?
Luckily, I spotted a sign for trains and crossed my fingers that there would be some hope in that avenue. And that’s how I found myself alone on a dirty, rickety old train from New Jersey to Manhattan at 2:30 in the morning. I have to admit that I feared for my safety; the lights kept flickering on and off and I had visions of gangs of thugs wandering up the aisles with flick-knives. Lucky for me, none of that eventuated, and I arrived safely at Penn Station. There was an elderly police officer there, and I threw myself upon his mercy; he ushered me into a cab that took me straight to my hostel. You know, thinking about it, I never actually found out what happened with that shuttle. Rotten scoundrels took my money and left me in New Jersey! Anyway, I got to the hostel and checked in and realised that I had promised my mother that I would call her as soon as I arrived – she was probably having kittens by this point. Unbelievably enough, the hostel didn’t have a working pay phone, so at 3:30 in the morning, exhausted, on my first night and after all the cafuffle, I had to venture out into the streets of New York to make a phone call. My experience so far had been one of fear and uncertainty; I still had images of pre-Giuliani 1980s New York on my mind, so it took a lot of guts for me to head out by myself.
I was surprised to find the streets of Chelsea packed with people… no wait, packed with men. Lots of men. All men. I was thinking, “Bleeding heck, it’s 3:30 in the morning and the streets are packed and I’m surrounded by men! Am I safe?” It was only as I walked further and looked closer that I noticed the details: the muscle tone. The gym shirts. The epic attention to skin care. The occasional puppy with a diamante collar. I remember thinking, “Is that dog wearing a rainbow bandanna?” And then it dawned on me: Chelsea is, traditionally, a very gay-friendly area. I was under no threat of being randomly savaged any time soon; all these men were too busy admiring each other to even give me a second thought. A palpable relief flooded over me, and it was then that I initially fell in love with Chelsea. I realised that all of my fear had just been paranoia. This neighbourhood was safe, and friendly, and completely non-threatening. I made my phone call to my mother, and then basically skipped home with the glee of being in New York. Every time I’ve been to this city, I’ve elected to stay in Chelsea – it’s within walking distance of most of the places you’d want to see in the lower half of Manhattan, it’s clean, I feel safe there, and the people are friendly. The restaurant scene is booming, cool kids fill the cafes, and the food stores are legendary. Transport is a breeze, and at all hours of the day or night there’s something to do. And now, of course, there’s the High Line too.
My only concern over the last few visits has been the fact that the gay community seems to be slowly disappearing from Chelsea. I used to eat at a little cafe called Eros, which hung rainbow flags from its awnings, and there were lots of ‘men-only’ video shops and so on. Over time, the rainbow flags and the little dogs with shiny collars seem to have disappeared. BUT… (back to the 3rd of May 2012!) as I turned the corner onto 8th Avenue, I stumbled upon a bar with no windows that advertised ‘Go-Go Men Every Night!’ I then saw a giant neon rainbow in the window of a store a little bit down the road, and my heart felt a little better. I guess it’s like I’ve said before – you go from one street to the next in New York, and the whole community changes; I guess I’ve been spending too much time on 7th Avenue and not enough on 8th! The only thing that I wonder about Chelsea’s gay community is: where are all the women? There’s a famous episode in my family which involves me and my mum in a Ben & Jerry’s ice cream parlour on 23rd Street. Mum and I are choosing our flavours and a lesbian couple come in; they are all over each other like a rash, kissing and grabbing each other’s bums. They too are choosing their flavours. Mum and I sit down with our purchases, and the women stop for a smooch. Mum leans over to me, and quietly whispers in a conspiratorial manner, “They’re… gay.” I laugh so hard that the woman behind the counter must think she’s got a loon on her hands. It’s like she told me some massive secret that I hadn’t already figured out for myself; like pointing at a cloud and whispering, “It’s… white.” Poor Mum! I think she was shocked by my reaction, as if she was surprised that I knew what a lesbian was! Sigh. Bless her. I have to remember that her generation grew up in a different world to mine. Homosexuality is not big news to me, you know? Ah, dear. Anyway, the reason I recount that story here is because its the only time I actually remember seeing gay women in Chelsea. Where are the rest of them? I guess it doesn’t really matter… I just find it interesting.
Anyway, I toddled up 8th Avenue and had a quick look in Gap (meh) and Ricky’s, a New York chain store that sells all kind of toiletries and accessories (and has a curtained-off ‘naughty’ section at the back), and then I stopped at the Crumbcake Bakery for a rest. I was delighted to spot flan (a dessert that I got hooked on in Cuba) amongst their selection, so I ordered it and took a seat, but I have to say that it wasn’t much cop compared to others I’ve tried. Then I had to give in and finally admit that it was time to move to the hostel; the prospect of dragging my baggage on the subway up to 103rd Street was not an attractive one, but it had to be done.
I picked up my bags from the hotel and hopped on the 1 train, which conveniently goes from 23rd Street straight to 103rd, not far from the hostel. As I was dragging my suitcase behind me up the stairs (subway stations do not generally have lifts), I suddenly felt my load lighten, and looked behind me to see a guy with long hair and a leather jacket lifting my bag for me. I was gobsmacked, but this was not the last time that somebody gave me assistance without me even asking for it. Love this city.
The neighbourhood around the hostel seemed pretty sweet; kids were sitting on their stoops chatting, and a large guy greeted me as I passed him by on the street. There were lots of little delis and restaurants; it seemed like a family-oriented area, but I might be wrong. I passed a Ben & Jerry’s on the corner down from the hostel and knew everything was going to be okay! I checked in with only one problem – I had booked a female-only dormitory room, but was told that they were booked out and that I would have to go into a mixed dorm. And I was thinking, ‘yes, the all-female dorm is all booked… BECAUSE I BOOKED IT!’ How the hell does that work?!? I booked it, and then they don’t have it? What sort of computer system are they using? Really, I have no problem sharing with guys in a dorm, except for one thing: the snoring. I had a really bad experience in Boston once, where there were 2 older men who snored orchestrally all night, one inhaling while the other exhaled, and it drove me barmy. Absolutely batty. Bonkers. Since then I’ve made it a policy to stay in female-only dorms because usually it’s less of a problem – and if they do snore, they’re usually quieter. As it turned out, I barely slept a wink all night for about a week thanks to the nightly honkings of all of my male room-mates (3 of them in unison, at one point) in New York, so I was right in my caution, but sadly there was nothing I could do about it. Grrrr.
I found my bed and went about the totally unsexy business of washing my clothes. Doing laundry while travelling just feels like such a total waste of fun time, but I think I was at the point where my jeans were about to get up and walk away by themselves, so it had to be done. I put in two loads and did some hand-washing too; it was a real marathon! I then checked my emails on the hostel WiFi, and went down to the reception area to sign up for their various walks and activities. While signing up, a sweet little Japanese guy called Masao started chatting to me, and somehow the two of us were press-ganged into the hostel’s twice-weekly ‘welcome party’ where you get a free boozy drink (lost on me) and get to meet your fellow travellers. I actually met some interesting people though; Masao turned out to be a shiatsu masseur (“Shiatsu Warrior!”), and I met people from Trinidad and Tobago, Israel, Germany, Mauritius, Brazil, you name it, they were there. I also met a bunch of Australians (we’re everywhere) – one in particular stood out. Her name was Torey, and she looked like she’d been dragged backwards through the back door of a brothel; her makeup was thick and smudged, and her clothes were hanging off her at odd angles. She slouched when she stood, and had a voice like an 85-year-old who’s been smoking since they were 12. Her opening gambit was, “Free beer, pretty fuckin’ sweet, eh?” followed by, “Aw shit, I’d better go and put my face on, you never know what kind of party this might turn into!” She came back about 15 minutes later with even more makeup on and talked about how trashed she was going to get, and for some reason she chose me as the confidante, letting me know that there were “a bunch of fuckin’ hotties in this room, shame I don’t understand any of ’em when they talk”. In my head, she became Torey the Whorey, which isn’t very nice of me, but I couldn’t help it. Good God. I just prayed that she wasn’t from Brisbane so we wouldn’t have to figure out who our mutual friends were. (Thankfully, she was from Adelaide.) She didn’t seem like the mean type, but all the ‘F’ words that peppered her speech… ugh. What a bogan.
I made my excuses and left the little shindig, and made my way to the nearby Malaysian Grill for dinner with a copy of Time magazine to keep me company. I ate lemongrass pork chops – not very Malaysian, but delish – with brown rice. I went up to my dormitory and was pleased to find that most of my room mates (for that night, anyway) were girls – a local New Yorker who was in the process of moving house, a lovely woman called Yuko, from Japan, and a young Spanish couple (the husband snored, but fairly quietly!). A late addition was a stupidly rude Chinese girl. One could say that maybe I just thought she was rude because of the language barrier, but let me tell you this as an English teacher – she could speak English, but she just didn’t care. All of us greeted her as she entered the room, and her response was a grunt, eyes to the floor, and a slamming of her bags to the ground. The others widened their eyes and left one by one for their evening activities of choice. I was reading on my bed and without an ‘excuse me’ or whatever, I just heard a bark from across the room. “What time is it?” So I sit up, get out of bed, get my phone out of my bag, and tell her the time. And then she resets her clock and she goes back to what she’s doing. Without so much as a thank you or an acknowledgement that I even answered. I resist the urge to scream, “YOU’RE WELCOME!” in her face (which I usually do to people in the street who ignore me when I hold the door open for them), as I figure that we’ll be sleeping in the same room and I don’t really want to wake up with my eyebrows missing or my hair on fire. But I have already written her off as a bitch. As it turns out, she also ends up driving the others in the room nuts, too; she has the annoying habit of not actually closing the dorm room door, and just leaving it ajar, even after Yuko asked her to be careful as leaving the door open gives anyone in the hostel access to our belongings. Yuko was ignored, and so everybody else in the dorm huffs and puffs about having to lock up all of their stuff, all of the time, on account of one stupid troll who can’t be bothered to pull a door closed properly. Sigh. The joys of sharing with strangers.
Anyway, the rude bitch aside, my room is quite comfortable and the facilities are great, so I can’t really complain. I sleep fairly well with the background noise of the Spanish man, and settle in to my first night (of nine) in the hostel.
Thanks for stopping by,
Tara.
Born in Hong Kong and raised all over the world, I've been tootling around for 33 years now. A Spanish friend of mine once said that "the smallest pot has the finest marmalade"... I have to agree with her! I'm small but I can still make 6-foot Brazilian bodybuilders cry if the need arises. And I never need to whinge about legroom on a plane!
little tara 
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