My New York Minute: Day 2

In no particular order, this is how my second day went…

Do you know about the country of Ossetia? I didn’t before tonight’s bicycle taxi ride from Times Square!

I’ve never had such pleasant conversation with someone while they pedaled and maneuvered their way around traffic on a bicycle. Alan the rider was from the small Eastern European country called Ossetia. 

He expressed his gratitude for the Southern kindness I showed him by not accepting my tip. I wish him well in life and love. 

Coming to a new country, learning a new language, and creating a new life from scratch is one helluva risk to take on yourself. Where would America be without all the immigrants, all the risk-takers? 

I was walking through the East Village, which I loved, and felt my body wanting to shut down on me. My hotel bed was calling me for a midday nap, but I decided a hot stone massage would bring me back to life.

What do walnuts and my body have in common? I was told I had a walnut-sized knot in my right shoulder when the young Chinese man massaging me pinched it and held it in place with both fingers, saying “You see that?” 

My head was facing down, and at the moment, I would’ve appreciated a pillow to bite down on, because I could definitely feel it! 

Whoa…the Chinese don’t play around! This was one painful massage. I’m talking gripping the bedside, squirming, extreme exhaling, almost worse than birthing my kids painful! I endured it, though, and I “think” I’m better for it.

Grabbed a slice of pizza, almost bought a shirt that said, “Fuck You You Fucking Fuck” ’cause I thought that represented a better flavor of New York souvenir t-shirts vs. the typical I LOVE NY one.  I passed, because I’m just not that angry at the world. 

I walked and walked

from the East Village to Union Square to the Empire State Building and made it back to my hotel eventually.

Sat in a quaint cafe off of Madison Avenue and ordered some coffee and a smooth slice of New York Cheesecake. I devoured that beauty while the girls next to me discussed husbands passing the bar exam, trips to Africa and Argentina, and spending Christmas in their relative’s huge homes compared to New York non-space.

I took a night tour of the city from Times Square all the way to Brooklyn. Somewhat of a good thing, but mostly a yawn for me. I’ve got tickets to go to Rockefeller Center and up to the Empire State Building and I feel resistance just as I did when it was time to catch both tour buses. I forced myself to go. I know I won’t regret any of it, but what’s up with that feeling of resistance? 

Ladies Mile and History of The Doorman

While on the night tour, my favorite moment was driving down the Ladies Mile and learning the story of how it got it’s name…
Way back when, women were considered less than virtuous if seen walking the street alone, (Hmm…starting to see why the story resonated with me), so to go shopping, the ladies had to take their husband’s with them. Poor hubby.

Retailers saw that women didn’t spend as much when their husband’s were present (giggles) so some genius came up with the idea of “the door man”. Lady would be escorted by the carriage man, the doorman would escort her from the coach on into the store and voilà! Chastity in tact. Skyrocketing sales. Problem solved. God, I love business stories.

The best moment of the day was chugging down an entire pitcher of ice cold Chicha Morada at the East Village Peruvian restaurant Mancora. I could live off of that drink I love it so much! 

If you’re not familiar, Peruvians throw some purple corn, the skin of a pineapple, cloves, oranges and sugar into a pot and boil it to make Chicha Morada. It’s such a natural tasting drink that makes the body seriously go “Ahhh…” I’m all about that!

For food, I ordered the Lomo Saltado after sending a text to my Peruvian girlfriend in Dallas asking for suggestions and it turns out I ordered the best possible dish. 

My intuition kicks ass! 

Night night New York and elsewhere.


Leave Your Own Comment.

Off-topic or inappropriate comments will be edited or deleted. Email addresses will never be published. Thanks.