(Wherein the theme of rapidly altered plans begins its slide towards regularity)
Trips to the theatre, followed by generous quantities of wine
(Wherein our intrepid hero discovers New York is a city of plans changed on the fly)
Slightly fatigued from the aforementioned late night boozing and crooning session with the stand-up comics of Times Square, The day began slightly later than might be considered ideal, but rest assured, gentle reader, that I continue to do my best to exhaust my frail, mortal flesh in pursuit of anecdotes and adventures for your amusement. (I am, naturally, entirely unamused by this entire enterprise.) Wanderings around the west side, and consultations of Time Out eventually yielded the decision to attend a screening of Fritz Lang’s Metropolis, at Film Forum in Greenwich Village. Arriving in the ‘lage with time to spare, I spent a while in Washington Square Park, performing the act of people watching, which is apparently de rigueur for said venue. Then I went in search of 75 ½ Bedford St, purely for your amusement, Eoin, as it is apparently the narrowest house in New York, at just 9 ½ feet wide. Thence to the theatre, where, upon reflection on the fact that Woodsy Allen’s fillum Manhattan was ending its run on Thursday, a decision to alter one’s plans was made. Who wants to watch two hours of early twentieth century black and white silent German science-fiction cum social commentary anyway? This, along with the consumption of an egg cream, (which Time Out knowingly informed me that said combination “may be the most New York thing you could possibly do“) thus provided a delightful afternoon’s diversion. Following this, I made my way to Chumley’s, a Greenwich Village speakeasy that hasn’t seen fit to advertise its presence since the end of prohibition, only to discover that sadly, it was closed for restoration. (A double check of the secret side entrance confirmed that the scaffolding and boards were not, in fact, a cunning ruse.) Thus I headed to the nearby Cornelia Street Café, where, in the downstairs nook, I enjoyed some cool blues, and met another of the consistently prevalent Australians of New York City. It was here that I was struck by the observation that New York is a vast collection of confined spaces, a collection of niches and bolthole, where not an inch is wasted. It is a place where players of bass must beware the drummer’s face with their guitar. One cannot help but feel that its denizens find every cubic foot as precious as air. There seems an almost utilitarian pride in the snaking pipes and conduits in plain sight, no space wasted to hide them. It never feels confined though – a more “romantic” (and decidedly poorer) writer than I might attribute this to the unconstrained possibility of the unblinking, restless city. Not I, though. To me, it seems as though every space is a secret nook, like a hideaway of carefully stacked boxes on the balcony off your room, accessible only through a window and a series of increasingly acrobatic manoeuvres, which you constructed as a child. (Some kind of brambles-and-discarded-wood fort in a rarely visited park nearby your childhood home would also suffice in this particular slimily.) Following a delicious burger, and the closure of the venue, I made a trip to Bongo, a bohemian bar that was nowhere at all nearby. Finally arriving at the bar to discover it deserted and upon the cusp of closure, I shared a solitary drink with the owner before beginning the lonely voyage back to the apartment for another night of requisite retirement to one’s comfortably cushioned chambers.