Unique New York (the tongue-twister says it all)

This is a very peculiar town.

Never in my life have I seen men dress better than women, a glass of wine for $2 on one street and $20 on the next and people dress up as mermaids to frolic in the streets.

Nonetheless, I fell in love. At the boat basin, overlooking the Hudson at sunset, staring across to the Jersey skyline, I fell in love with this atypical city. Then again when gazing up at the Empire State building lit by green lights. And then again standing in the middle of Time Square. I guess you can’t help when it hits you….but I am just crazy in love with this city.

So who better to share my new love with than Rachel – my best friend from home, who came to visit this past weekend.

And so begin The Escapades of Katie and Rachel: The Not-So-Abridged Version – because you know between the two of us there’s gonna be a whole lot of laughing, eating and singing…loudly – especially when the subway pulls into Harold Square (“Send my regard to Broadway…”), which makes Jess laugh every time.


Quick detour.

So it’s official. I am becoming a professional extra. I thought after TRL that my TV days were over, but I was wrong. Saturday morning, before the roosters even rose (or at least at the same time the rats were scuttling in the subway stations), I made my way to 59th Street to be in a short segment about camping on the CBS Early Show. My Us Weekly editor sent me, and I must say, it was a great experience. Plus, I got to add some two minutes to my previous five minutes of fame.

OK, now back to the escapades.

After returning home from the taping to take a quick nap (from 8 a.m. to 9 a.m.), Rach, Jess and I met up with the Friedman clan for breakfast. But not just any breakfast. Norma’s breakfast – which specializes in packing at least 10 pounds to your thighs, hips and ass before 11 a.m. Now normally I would complain about these unwanted calories, but Norma’s had a “sweet” way of enticing us. It’s one of those, you know, dessert-for breakfast, you’re-never-gonna-eat-anything-this-good-ever-again kinda places. Yeah. That was this. But this was WAY better. So I splurged on the PB&C Waffle. That’s peanut butter and chocolate in and on a waffle for those of you not in-the-know. And it was sinful. The best sin I have ever tasted. The only thing that I am disappointed about, now that I have come to the realization, is that I will never eat anything as good ever again. What a shame. Not even through a quarter of my life and I have already had my best meal.

From there, we took an hour subway ride to Coney Island. The land where freaks and folks seem to coexist peacefully – to put it gently. Because Saturday was summer solstice (supposedly the longest day of the year, sunlight-wise), the town held its annual Mermaid Parade, where anyone and everyone gets dressed up like underwater creatures and parades through the streets. From looking at one homemade costume to the next, you get the same sensation that you do from walking around Loehmann’s (or Wal-Mart during Christmas time) – there’s just so much to see that you end up nauseous and with a headache. And some people didn’t even wear costumes. No, no. They painted or tattooed their naked bodies and cartwheeled in the streets. Fantasy Fest meet Mermaid Mayhem. In any other city, I would hope (and pray!) that these people were either completely intoxicated or on some intense drugs, but here, I am all for free spirits, so I enjoyed watching the crazies dance to beat of their own drums. (Exhibit A below).

After pushing our way through the crowds of spectators, we rode The Cyclone – the famous wooden rollercoaster that began operating in 1926. And I must say, don’t let its age fool you. After the first plunge of something like 85 feet, you don’t even have time to catch your stomach before plummeting again. The whole ride just keeps dropping and dropping and dropping until you feel like you are going to drop dead. But don't get me wrong, it was great fun!
What was even more fun was the fact that Jess didn’t want to ride. I don’t mean that in a mean way; rather, I should say it was funny. She isn’t a rollercoaster fan so she waited for us on the rollercoaster entrance platform. By the time Rach and I were getting off of our 50-some-odd seconds of plunging, some guy was haggling Jess to ride/flirting with her in some creepy way. I got frustrated and blurted out, “She can’t. She’s pregnant” (because everyone knows you can’t go on a rollercoaster if you are pregnant) and then grabbed Jess and bailed. He was totally caught off guard and we laughed and laughed while exiting the ride.

We wandered along the boardwalk and went to the original Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs. But since we were so full from our breakfast, we didn’t get anything.

Sunday morning I was up at the crack of dawn again. Rach, Jess and I went to participate in a 5-mile marathon around Central Park in an Achilles Track Club community service project hosted by the Central Park Jogger, who was raped in the park years ago. Though we were exhausted from staying out until 3:30 a.m. the night before, it felt great to get some exercise (so long PB&C!) and to walk for a good cause. And did I mention that we got medals. Gold medals. And we wore them proudly for the rest of the day.

We window-shopped in the Upper West Side and made our way to Levain Bakery - isn’t it awful that more often than not the highlight of my day includes fattening food? But this wasn’t your average bakery. This little joint was featured on the Food Network – specifically on “Throwdown with Bobby Flay”. Each cookie was half a pound. And it gave Norma’s a run for its money, which is an awfully difficult task. The three of us shared the signature four cookies – chocolate chip walnut, dark chocolate chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin and dark chocolate peanut butter chip. So while the bakers were rolling out the dough, we practically rolled ourselves out the door.

Skip to Tuesday evening…Monday was just details anyway.

Jess and I went to Central Park at dusk to see the New York Philharmonic play for free. We brought towels and laid in the grass, listening to them play Purple Haze and Stars And Stripes Forever. The only thing missing was a picnic basket. But all the people around us had that covered. Jess and I “ooooed” and “ahhhhed” at all the happy couples kissing and cuddling on their blankets in the grass, eating their homemade sandwiches. So we learned that there are some hopeless romantic guys out there. Only problem is they are like 30 or 40 or 50 years old…and already taken.

Which reminds me actually of Matt (sushi bar Matt). When I asked him what one place in the city I shouldn’t miss eating at, he told me about a place in Brooklyn called “Sea.” And that is where Jess and I went Thursday night. Though Brooklyn isn’t our favorite place to be, the restaurant was on a great street and had the most amazing atmosphere – low tables, wooden benches hanging from medal chains attached to the ceiling and Plexiglas bubble chairs also hanging from the ceiling (just like the one I wanted in my bedroom that my mom said “No way” to). The Thai food was cheap and delicious – just the way I like.
And best of all, the people there were just cool. Artsy and cool. So cool, in fact, that you would think they were un-cool, but they were not. They, in their high-waisted pants, vests, scarves, vintage and the like, were ahead of the trend. So ahead that they all looked almost out of place and quirky.

But this is what I decided.... I think it’s the quirkiness of everyone here that gives this city its distinct character. And I’d have it no other way.

And there go my five minutes of fame...

Drum roll please. Lay out the red carpet. Start the overture. I just made my big debut on the small screen….as an audience member.

Though I had to be my own stylist, I, KP, got to be front row, center at a live taping of TRL (that’s Total Request Live, for those of you totally out of the MTV loop).

Let me give you the cue-to-cue.

Guest host of the show (literally): Taylor Swift. Stage Right: Mike Myers. Stage Left: Megan Good. Followed-by: Mini Me. Upstage: Perez Hilton. Downstage: Sway. Center-center: Rihanna. And, oh yeah, get Anne Hathaway into makeup (also literally).

Wham bam thank you ma’am. Whew. I could barely come up for air with all the celebrities surrounding me, each one better or more famous than the next. Talk about a paparazzo’s dream. But I was not complaining. No sir. Not even a little. It was sheer bliss. And I soaked it all in because I hit the jackpot, compliments of my boss - the Senior Vice President of Promotions for Universal Republic – who sent me and Jess to the MTV Studios as VIPs (apparently, our hard work as interns paid off).

Before hosting the show, Taylor Swift came into our office (she’s on our label) and, of course, I had to meet her and take a picture. I am relieved to report that she was genuine, modest, and above all, sweet. The 18-year-old country-esque singer seemed to not even realize that she is a star, so it was amazing to be able to follow her to the MTV building for the climax of my day. Let’s see – Mike Myers proved to be way shorter than expected; so did Mini Me (but that was expected); Megan Good was prettier in person than she is in her films; Rihanna has insanely fabulous style (or just a great stylist); Perez Hilton seems to have lost a lot of weight; and Anne Hathaway is really pale without makeup (it made me feel a little better about my ghostly hue).

Not only did we get to see all the celebs at MTV, but I got to be one too…as an audience member at the live taping of TRL. Unreal anyway, right?

Sitting in the audience, though, Jess and I felt totally out of the loop. I never realized that somewhere between sorority life and classes, I escaped MTV’s target demographic. But despite the fact that I was surrounded by 15- and 16-year-olds, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. I revisited my teeny-bopper roots and screeched like a mad-woman with Jess every time a new guest star made an appearance (list above).

I would say I probably got a good hot minute of air time on TV – sometimes clapping, sometimes smiling, sometimes cheering. Yep, just as I suspected….there go my five minutes of fame. But if that was the highlight of my summer, I would say those were the most satisfying five minutes of my life.


(Jess and I backstage at MTV carrying a Taylor guitar, which she signed for our boss...then the production staff made us lock up our camera until we left because apparently you can't take pictures of the studio...lame!)

Love is in the air

Forget about air pollution…I am now fairly certain that love is the only thing “polluting” the air in this city.

Everywhere I go, it seems, someone is reaching in or across the table to steal a kiss from his or her loved one. Smack in the middle of a crosswalk, a long, passionate “hello.” A quick peck good-bye at a metro stop. Or a snuggle on the spongy grass in the park while staring aimlessly into the sky. I have single-handedly decided that the people in this little-big city just can’t get enough of each other.

And it’s not only the people. Love is oozing out of the street vendors’ artwork, the gardens, the food and the museums. Even the sculptures are in love.

See what I mean...even he has his stony arm on her stony shoulder?

Soft focus on The Met – the King Kong of all museums, where Jess and I spent the greater portion of today.

I decided that I am going to meet my future husband in a museum. In the Temple of Dendur surrounded by water, to be more specific. Then we will be married there. And then we will move into our condo made of marble on 5th and 87th – the Upper East Side.
(Tell me this isn't the most beautiful room you have ever seen!)

Earth to KP. Snap back to reality.

Sorry, I don’t know what it is about museums, but they inspire me. You can’t help but feel romantic as you make your way through the surreal galleries

Jess and I were amongst the great. Van Gogh, Monet, Picasso and my personal favorites, Degas and Renoir. In another lifetime, I am going to be Degas’ 14-year-old ballerina clad only in crinoline and spandex. “Do me,” I’ll say to him. “Do me in bronze and gold.”

We ogled visiting exhibits, including Jeff’s Koons’ life-sized, balloon-like art on the roof, modern photography collections and a Pop Art display featuring Andy Warhol’s work, while venturing through renowned museum, which is a piece of art in-and-of itself.





My favorite corridor, though, was the Superheroes: Fashion and Fantasy. Who would have ever thought that comic book characters’ superficiality and nubility are the very things that make them American icons? According to the exhibit, the larger-than-life characters embody perfection. I find it funny how Greeks view the woman body as delicate and covered in flowy materials, yet Americas feel the need to morph it with animal-like characteristics and dress it in dominatrix, form-fitting bodysuits.

Despite all the different types of talent showcased at the museum, it was intriguing to learn how different mediums can be used in art, whether it’s paint or stone or metal or feathers or fabric.

Right about now, I’d say my medium is a cross between magazines and music. But no matter what I seem to do with it, work is still work. At Universal, I am still running lots of errands and doing many mailings. At Us, I am transcribing interviews and photocopying. Luckily, I have met lots of great new people and am learning even more than I expected about both industries. This upcoming week, though, things at the office should be spicing up a bit because on Tuesday, Jess and I are VIP on MTV’s TRL with Taylor Swift, and one of my bosses at Us said I could cover an event…stay posted. Now if only our love lives would spice up too….

Funny thing is, in this city, which is all about love and couples, people seem perfectly content being alone.

Follow spot on my petite French Bistro, Le Pain Quotidien – which serves the most outstanding organic wheat bread at communal tables.

Jess and I opted to sit side-by-side at a long, wooden communal table in the center of the restaurant. After walking for 3 hours through the museum, tartines, or open-faced sandwiches, were just what we were looking for. When we looked around, we realized that most people were eating alone – an undertaking (more like a chore) that Jess and I would never regularly fathom.

Across from us: A European man who cut his sandwich with a knife and fork and then proceeded to eat it with a fork; a totally distraught woman blabbing to the waitress a-mile-a-minute about her life; a beautiful, blonde hopeful (talk about a Rembrandt) eating a muffin and tartine while finishing today’s crossword. And then there’s Matt (no last name) - the first truly decent guy I think I have met out here.

Well, I told a little white lie. Matt wasn’t at the French place. But he was eating alone at the dirt-cheap sushi bar in the East Village that Jess and I ate at last night. His pick up line: “Do you ladies want this magazine ‘cause if not, I am going to throw it away.” Except... it turned out to not be a pick-up line.

We got to talking with him about life and his job and our internships for a good hour. He told us some local joints not to miss in the city. And then when it came time to leave, he didn’t even ask for our numbers or ask to hang out with us for the rest of the night. It was a genuine conversation with a person whom I will probably never meet again in my life, without the hassle of being hit on - like all the guys do here, as if it’s their right, contaminating the city with their “Hey babys” and “Can I get your numbers?”

Maybe that’s the air pollution that people talk about. Though love is in the air here, sleazy men and boys pollute it daily with their unnecessary commentary and sound-effects. But if all the guys were more like Matt, well then let me tell you, I wouldn’t mind the contamination at all.

There's something about the subways

What is it about the metro?

Day in and day out thousands of people hop on these people-mover, half-bus, half-train rocket things to get them from point A to point B. I love them. Jess hates them. Cristina gets a pit in her stomach when she waits for them. And the rest of the world seems impartial.

The subways seem like the world’s greatest secret of all time. They are home to an entire underground world that no one above ground seems to know anything about. All the above-grounders know that it’s there of course, but they never seem to wonder what exactly is going on directly under them at any given time. It’s quite a concept.

And I am convinced the subways and their stations have this black magic, voodoo thing going for them. Sunday, on our way back from dinner, Cris, Jess and I entered the station heading uptown from Prince Street, and by the time we emerged two stops away, we were practically in a new climate zone. It was pouring. From a warm twilight to rainy sort of chilly. It’s not just the weather either. Every time you surface from the underworld, you are in a totally new town with new people. One stop really does make a world of difference.

Weirder still, time completely stops when you are in the underground world. Unless you check your watch (or now-a-days your cell phone), you would have no idea if it were 5 a.m. or 10 p.m. Or hot or cold. Or rainy or sunny. It is easy to understand how a person could be going nowhere fast on the stoic, silver metal bullets that enter into a station for no more than two minutes to discard passengers and pick other ones up. The doors open and shut without hesitating to see whom they are shutting out to leave behind, and sometimes, more importantly, whom they are imprisoning momentarily.

Never in my life have I seen people so willing to give up their free will. Once you are behind the sliding doors, you are sort of trapped. You have no control over where you are going or how fast you will get there. If you miss your stop, you are out of luck. If the train is held back because of problems ahead, you will be late. And you certainly can’t stop the musicians from bursting through the “Emergency Exit” doors to serenade your train car.

So Jess hates it. She can’t stand being forced to listen to the singers or violin players who sing out of nowhere and shove paper bags in her face begging her for spare change. I can tell her heart skips a beat every time they enter the car. As for me….I love it. There’s something about a male quintet that brings a small smile to my face. Nothing wrong with a bit of free, live music to make my travel time seem shorter. I must admit though, I tap my toes only slightly so that the performers don’t haggle me for money. If I were to stop and give money to every single beggar on the subways and the streets, I would be right there with them, not even a week later. But one of these days, I really do think I am going to join in singing.

What boggles my mind the most is all the people who take the metro. Blacks, Whites, Asians, Indians, Hispanics, Gays, religious fanatics, poor people, rich people, ladies, gents, oldies, youngins’…you name it. For the sole purpose of transport, they all kinda converge. But that seems to be a common thread here in this city.

First stop: Melting Pot Avenue – and remember, avenues run north-to-south and are far to walk, so put on your sneakers for this detour.

Who needs to travel the world when you can just go to New York City? If America is the melting pot of the world, the city is center of the pot closest to the burner – and I mean that in the nicest sense of the term, honestly. Because the various people here are so proud of their heritage, they all seem to have the same idea - create a restaurant to make their home away from home a bit homier.

Saturday night I somehow managed to drag Cris and Jess to an Ethiopian restaurant in The Village. In traditional Ethiopian style, we dipped the spongy, sourdough-like crepes into pureed veggies and meat on a platter that the three of us shared. No personal plates and no utensils. We went back to our basic instincts of eating with our hands and reaching over one another to gobble up the lentils, chic peas and cabbage that all looked like different types of hummus. The three of us agreed it was delicious, and the vegetables had enough flavor to make us contemplate becoming vegetarian. That inkling quickly faded Sunday night when we headed into Little Italy for some authentic Italian.

It smelled like home cooking. Like the familiar smell of walking into a friend or relative’s house for a dinner they have been preparing for hours. With more than 20 different homemade pasta dishes on the menu (al dante style, I may add) and enough sauce choices to make you gain 15lbs. just from reading them, the trattoria was any pasta lover’s dream. And I couldn’t help but make a fuss over the best sweet, aged balsamic vinegar I’ve ever had.

I guess you could say two days ago, I was in Ethiopia, and yesterday, I was in Italy…without a visa and without the immunization. I am pretty much eating my way through the Big Apple…and the rest of the world. Not too shabby.

So when Jess and I were window-shopping in SoHo on Saturday and we found a truffle bar and tea salon, we couldn’t help but stop in. What is a truffle bar? Better yet, what the hell is a tea salon? Only in New York City, I tell ya. And the chocolate truffles were just as diverse as the people in the city.

Our particular truffle bar specialized in infusing its chocolate with exotic spices from around the world. Confused? We were too…so let me give you a taste. The first chocolate truffle is blended with curry powder and Indian spices. The second one is mixed with macadamia nuts to remind its consumers of Australia. The third, with a hint of green absinthe, is reminiscent of China. The fourth mixes Taleggio cheese and walnuts into the chocolate to suggest Italy. The fifth is infused with purple orchids (my favorite flower) and caramelized bananas to round out the bunch (and my tummy).

So I have decided that NYC is perhaps the only place in the world where people make chocolate not taste like chocolate. I’ve heard it said that people in the city are all artists in some form or venue, whether they are performing or writing or painting on the street. I just never expected to see someone use chocolate as a medium to tell stories of worldly travels.

The tea salon provided cold treats. Mid-afternoon, I savored a light, guava iced tea, and Jess drank iced chocolate. No, I didn’t mean hot chocolate. I really did mean iced chocolate. Sheer bliss.

Next stop: Celebrity Street – no worries, these east-to-west streets are quickies.

Well, it happened. Finally. I saw a celeb at work. None other than Ashanti. And mid-photo shoot, at that. I was delivering some expense reports to the guys down in budget and walked passed an open door where I saw lots of lights and cameramen. After literally doing a double-take, I saw Ashanti and couldn’t help but girlishly run back upstairs to the intern office area to gossip with my co-workers.

Oh, and I am happy to announce that Mary-Kate Olsen has finally decided to grace the world with her presence on the cover of this month’s Elle. After months and months of no magazine covers, she has made a comeback at the most appropriate time…when I am in New York City – the magazine capital of the world – where I can walk out of my apartment and see her face in a magazine stand staring right at me on nearly every single street corner.

Final destination: Too Hot Too Handle Street – because who knew that in NY it can be 95 degrees?

Sunday, as I was lying out in Bryant Park, I found myself thinking about the thousands and thousands people out and about in the city, moving around so rapidly as I lay perfectly still in the grass, and I couldn’t help but wonder where they all go at the end of the day. How can a city so small house so many people?

And then it hit me. The subways. Just like people disappear into them, the New Yorkers disappear into their high-rises. No wonder they are so high, they have so many people to accommodate. They are almost like an allusion holding billions of people at once, a magic trick – those high-rises and those darn subways confuse the heck out me. You never see the same person twice. Doors open: Now you see them. Doors close: Now you don’t. It must be their wonderful black magic.

Go-go girl

I’m a go-go girl. I go. All that’s missing is the patent-leather boots…but that’s only ‘cause I left ‘em at home.

Every second of every day I feel like I am going. Well, I don’t really feel like I am going….I am going. Non-stop. Like the energizer bunny. Only not fuzzy. And without a drum, though some may argue my phone is my drum because it’s always going and it’s always with me.

In the city, my life is always on green and it’s not just my life, everyone around me is always going too, so between them going and me going, I feel like I am double going, Go-Go-ing. Woah. Breathe. Use a period.

OK. I’m good again.

But can’t somebody just throw me a red? Heck, I’d even be satisfied as a yellow. I suppose this is life in the fast lane.

What? What’s that? You don’t understand why? Let me try to explain

Go to work –
Every day I wake up to go to work. I set my alarm for about 7 a.m. (8 a.m. if it’s a “go-in-at-10 day") and throw myself out of bed and into the shower. By the time I am out, I am refreshed and totally awake. I make a quick breakfast, pack my bag for work and go.

Go-for -
Whether I am at Us Weekly or Universal Republic Records, it seems as though I am always “going for” somebody else. As a lowly intern, my job is to be a gofer. I must keep my batteries fully charged so that I can go to the store, or go to pick up my boss’s coffee and food, or go to the mailroom, or go to make copies. Only thing I don’t have to do is build a wooden dam…though I wouldn’t be surprised if someone asked me to because it doesn’t even matter to them that beavers are supposed to make dams - not gophers. And let me tell you, I would build one gladly with a smile on my face because that is what an intern who wants to be noticed does.

It’s not all bad though. Don’t get me wrong. Take, for instance, last Friday.

Fly in backdrop of Time Square - where the flashes from tourists’ cameras and the lights on the billboards are always going too.

Sarah, my supervisor at Us Weekly, sends me out with a cameraman and tells me to interview “men on the street” coming out of the movie theatre in Times Square. My task: ask questions about the Sex and the City movie to get an average Joe’s feedback on the film on opening day. The mag wants to post a minute-long segment on our Web site. We are looking to see if anyone has traveled far to see the Sex and the City in the city. We are additionally looking to see if people have dressed up, if they’ve been dragged by loved ones to see the film and if they bought their tickets in advance in anticipation of the movie.

All I can say is it’s a good thing I have no shame. I run back and forth between each entrance, dragging the poor cameraman behind me, screaming, “Excuse me! Are you coming out of Sex and the City? Do you mind if I ask for your feedback? I work for Us Weekly!!!” After about eight interviews, a policeman comes up to me and the cameraman and tells us we need to leave because we are trespassing and we aren’t allowed to be filming. Though the experienced cameraman explains to him that we are allowed to be there, he tells us we can’t, so we go really fast back to the office. I must admit, though, it was an awesome assignment, especially for my second day on the job. Nothing beats a little bit of adventure (running from the police) with a little bit of fame (having people wonder which celeb you are because a camera guy is following you).

Then I go back to my humdrum life doing my usual tasks of transcribing celebrity interviews, writing summaries of entertainment blogs, going for copies, going to the mailroom and going to get coffee for the bigwigs.

Go home -
By the time I am done going for everyone else, I go for myself. I go home.

One yellow subway and 15 minutes later, I am home. I kick off my shoes faster than the brownies that Cristina (one of my roommates) made disappeared. Then, I change into sweatpants.

Go to eat -
Maybe I should rephrase. I have been cooking, so I haven’t been going out to eat. I cook with Jess. Last night we made cranberry- and apple-stuffed chicken breasts with some pine nut couscous and a salad; tonight, we prepared chicken stuffed with feta, mozzarella and olives and a side of brown rice with cranberries. It was filling, inexpensive and absolutely fabulous - wonderfully flavored with only the freshest ingredients and herbs. Even better than eating out, if you care to hear my and Jess’s opinion.

By the way, did I mention that we bought the stuffed chickens at Trader Joe’s?

Go out –
By the time the day is done, I am usually sleepy until I remind myself that I’m in New York and I can’t miss out. Come on KP, don’t be lame.

Well it’s about time I really introduce you to my marvelous roommates. Because we are all so busy during the day, the only real time we get to play is in the evenings. Cristina, Jessica, Jess and I enjoy hitting up some of the nightlife, but because the clubs stay open until ridiculously late hours here (unlike in Gainesville where “last call” is at 2 a.m.), we are learning that sometimes it’s best to save the wild nights for the weekends….when we don’t have to go anywhere super early the next morning.

That’s why last night, Jess, Cristina and I went out for a little late night sweet.

Zoom in on The Bald Man.

Max Brenner Chocolate by the Bald Man. A chic chocolate bar inspired by the one and only Willy Wonka (you know this place is right up my alley!). Its menu features chocolate martinis, chocolate pizza, chocolate truffles, chocolate ice cream, hot chocolate, s’mores and its famous chocolate fondue. Can you say paradise or what? My mouth salivated the moment I walked in the door.

We three musketeer-ettes shared the fondue and gossiped like Carrie, Samantha and Charlotte until the bistro turned up the dimmed lights and started locking the doors. It was a fun – and fattening – way for us to get up and go out of the apartment.

Go to the gy…well, go to bed –
Don’t even ask about going to the gym. I would probably end up going to hospital if I attempted to add that to my go-go list because by the end of it all (usually around midnight or 1 a.m.), I am exhausted, and I pass out. Until the next day, when I have to get up and go….

My life is one giant cliche

It’s a small world after all.

New York City. Population: about 1.2 million. Essentially, that makes me 1 in a million. And I’m running around this madhouse of a town like a chicken without a head. So how is it possible that I keep running into people I know? It’s become the norm that I bump into someone I know at least once a day. I actually find myself thinking that it is strange if I don’t. In the subway, right as the doors open to the yellow R line headed downtown- a friend from college. On the street during my dinner break - a friend from high school. And in the park – a woman Jess and I became friendly with when we were shopping on Saturday.

Apparently one in a million isn’t such a big deal. What a let down. Good thing I am still a firm believer in clichés. Take for instance: don’t judge a book by its cover.

Quick scene change from the city to the small suburb within the city – Central Park.

It’s unbelievable how one minute you can be in the slums, the next, walking past high-end brownstones and the next, in a garden you’d swear is prettier than Eve’s. I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that 30- and 40-story high-rises attempted to preclude me from the sequestered gem that is Central Park. As if the bars and clubs don’t have it covered, the city is now trying to make the park exclusive by hiding it. It’s almost reminds me of Aladdin. The cityscape emits the hustle and bustle of Manhattan while the little piece of paradise, the diamond in the rough, remains smack in the center. Nonetheless, the skyscrapers do their job. City craziness out. Tranquility and nirvana in.

I find it baffling how the same people who make such a commotion in the city, whether hailing taxis or cat-calling pedestrians, can lie down in the grass and stare at the sky for hours. Sometimes, I guess, you just gotta stop and smell the roses.

Or enjoy the Strawberry Fields forever. Well, for the day at least.

Oh my. I forgot to inform you about my new significant other. Jess and I have accepted the fact that we are essentially dating each other this summer. We go grocery shopping together. We eat our meals together. We fill each other in on every last detail of our day. We even went on my dream date – a picnic in Central Park on a sunny Sunday, equipped with towels, background music and a little light reading. Lord knows all we needed to do was hold hands, frolic over the bridges, paddle in a gondola for two, sing “How do you know that you love her…” and have the birds join in song.

We plopped down in an area of Central Park called Strawberry Fields, where the grass is truly greener, to sunbathe, read and catch up on phone calls with friends and family. We made our rounds visiting Belvedere Castle (which looks like it belongs in Scotland, not NYC, if you ask me) and the Delacorte Theatre before eventually making our way to Zabar’s for some iced coffee that was as good as gold to our parched bodies.

Bang the gong. And get the translator into wardrobe….fast.

Jess and I are looking for a simple dinner. All we want to do is avoid Asian food because it seems that’s all we’ve eat in this town. Not too much to ask for right? Wrong.

“Too expensive,” “I’m not in the mood,” “It looks bad,” “Eh, look who’s eating inside,” and “It’s closed,” all keep us from chowing down. We’re looking for champagne taste at a beer’s budget. Between all of our squabbling back and forth, somehow we end up blocks away from our flat and hungry. Jess, being a good sport, agrees to check out some hole-in-the-wall eatery that, of course, I believe sounds wonderful – “a real cultural experience.” Turns out that all our negative Nancy-isms, except for “it’s closed,” accumulate in this restaurant… after we are seated.

The food isn’t cheap. And what do you know - it’s Asian; actually, it’s Japanese. But not just Japanese (oh no do not say that or else the waiter will laugh in your face) it’s a noodle bar. The menu is totally in Japanese and, when we look around us, we realize we are the only Americans in the entire restaurant. If I didn’t know any better, I would have bet that Jess and I had hopped on a flight to Japan and were preparing to eat our first meal there. Feeling ignorant, we asked the waiter to order for us. He brought out bowls as big as our heads filled with soup, noodles, veggies and some sort of meat (probably chicken gizzard, I kid you not). Well, I am happy to report that the food was actually pretty tasty, lasted me two meals and didn’t make me sick. But I still don’t really know what I ate.

So let me clear this up: Danipete (one of my best friends from college) is adventurous by getting a piercing; I am adventurous by steering Jess and myself to a random, local place that serves fish eyeballs as a delicacy. Nice one KP.

All I do know is that I am still going to have to try ridiculously hard to not eat Asian in this city. Oh, excuse me, Japanese, which is what I attempted to avoid in the first place. Back to square one.

On our way back home, we stop in a tiny ice-cream shop because we both agree we deserve a treat for putting up with dinner. Because some higher being is truly having fun with us, it turns out the sundae shop we enter is a Japanese ice-cream shop (what can I say - when it rains, it pours!) that sells sesame, red bean, ginger and wasabi ice-cream. We are done being adventurous. We settle for reasonably normal flavors (I get the Mocha Chip, and Jess gets the Maple Walnut) in the smallest size they sell. We are nearly sick after the gargantuan bowls of Ramen and a little sweet treat is enough to curb the craving just in the nick of time.

I should always just follow my gut and my clichés. Clichés are cliché for a reason. After all, between looking at myself, the world and the Big Apple, it doesn’t take much to learn that good things come in small packages.