New York, Part 1, in which, yes, I talk to everyone

The driver is a minister
The adventure began last night on the drive to SeaTac. The airport shuttle driver mentioned that he's a minister (though I don't recall why) and, for some reason, started conversation by saying, "I get all kinds. One woman was one of these alternative lifestyle people. She told me she got everything on Craigslist. She said, 'I even got my girlfriend on Craigslist.' That was a shocker." I could only respond in one way: "Would it have been less shocking if she said she'd found a boyfriend instead?" The driver fumfered, and finally settled on saying, "I just wasn't expecting such personal information in a business relationship." And that may well have been true, but a little food for thought seemed in order there.

The copassenger is a professional adventurer
The woman sitting beside me on the shuttle turned out to be a naturalist for American Safari Cruises and was returning to Ann Arbor after a week of training. I mentioned that I had always had good experiences with naturalists, and talked a little about my time in Tsavo. We spent the whole drive talking. She's a cetacean specialist, and when I mentioned that I had once edited a book on dolphins (Dolphin Chronicles by Carol J. Howard), she told me some great stories about her adventures in Alaska, Australia, and New Zealand. It turned out that we were on the same flight, so we caught up with each other in the waiting area and traded more stories until we got on the plane. I took notes about her stories--great detail that I may be able to use at some point. She was delightful.

The ladies are a wake-up call
I missed most of both of my flights as a result of sleep slamming me at take-off. When I hit the ground in New York, what struck me almost immediately was how the women around me were dressed. Almost without exception, most of the women I saw getting off the flight and walking briskly in the terminal were impeccably made up and fashionably attired in black. After spending more time than any reasonable person would fretting about what clothes to bring on the trip, seeing them reminded me about a basic truth of dressing in Manhattan: black is always in style and make-up polishes everything. How quickly we forget!

There was something comforting in seeing them, though. When I first moved to Seattle, I was actually angry at how women in town seemed not to care at all about their appearance and presentation. Later I understood that style and approach were different because Seattle is so fundamentally different from New York--but it took me a while to get it. I felt comfortable seeing these women, though. It was familiar. Most interestingly, after all that fretting, and after settling on my usual Seattle style, covered up in my green Gore-Tex jacket, I felt right at home, mainly because what really spoke to me was the polish and economy of the presentation these women made. The way I was dressed was polished in its own manner: I was trim in my smart weather gear and economical in my travel gear: a back pack and a crew case--no extras.

I encountered one of these women in a newsstand, where she was gushing about finding the latest issues of Elle and Vanity Fair much earlier in the month than she expected. I don't remember the details of the exchange, but it was pleasant, funny, and personable.

Yes, I talk to everyone
I had brief, chatty encounters with people all the way from the airport to my hotel, each of which was a reason to smile in one way or another--asking about someone's dog, answering a question about which subway platform was for uptown. I have realized, upon reflection, that one reason I talk to perfect strangers is that it makes life in the city--any city--a little easier, a little more livable--at least for me. In Seattle, of course, this is harder; people are very reserved and sometimes surprised to have to interact with strangers. I am reveling in the ease I'm feeling in New York with this modus. It has bouyed me.

New York, Part 2, in which plans change and are remade

It was with regret that I learned that girasole had to cancel our lunch date. Life got in the way for her and I was sad our planned meal had to be postponed. (I say postponed because I hope that when next I'm in New York, we can try again.) At the same time, I was bound to take advantage of the time to have a slow, touristy day.

My first order of business was to check in to the hotel and get settled. I'm staying at The Jane in the West Village. The building, built in 1907, is situated on a cobblestone street. A doorman showed me to the desk, where a clock shows the hours backwards and the date is always April 35th. My room, bedecked like a boat cabin with wood paneling and burgundy upholstery, is a single with a shared bath, and offers free wifi, a flatscreen TV, marble shelving, and admirable climate controls.

I took some time to catch up on email and to study a map of the neighborhood. My choices for afternoon activity were to go to The Tenement Museum or to go to High Line Park. I decided against the former because though I had plenty of time and was very interested, its schedule of tours was too regimented for my taste. I was in the mood to meander. High Line Park won out.

I stopped for lunch in the hotel restaurant, Cafe Gitane, a civilized little spot with soft music and a menu that leaned heavily on French influence. Tasty meal.

I then headed out to the High Line. I owe oldmangrumpus thanks because before I left Seattle, he mentioned that National Geographic was running a story about the park in this month's issue. High Line Park was created out of an unused elevated train track, conceived by people in the neighborhood and realized through local and international support. It turned out that the park entrance is but two blocks from my hotel. I wandered there for about an hour in the light, breezy rain aong train tracks planted with trees, grasses and flowering shrubs, shooting pictures and enjoying the having the park mostly to myself. The place offers some lovely spaces, subtle art installations, and unique views. I'll make a separate post with links to my pictures on Flickr a little later.

I was driven back to my hotel room by exhaustion and unwellness, and spent about 90 minutes napping in the hopes of overcoming some pretty significant discomfort. The nap, as it happens, did the trick. I was bright-eyed by the time I met kradical and wrenn for coffee at 5 PM. What a wonderful, luscious reunion it was: fine conversation, tasty treats, and some longtime-coming revelations that were pretty soul-satisfying to me.

I met a former coworker of mine, the delightful Tom Dupree (whose blog, linked herewith, is well worth following), for dinner at The Spotted Pig just a few blocks from the hotel. I ate entirely too much and enjoyed the hell out of it. If you're in Manhattan in the West Village, definitely check this place out. It was crowded and a little cozy, but the food was well worth it. And Tom's company, as always, was excellent. We talked a bit about old times, caught up on what we're each doing, discussed the current state of publishing, talked technology and aging and other things of consequence. (nwhepcat, Tom says hi!) I thoroughly enjoyed myself.