NYC on Business: 50 Shades of Cray

The Misadventures of a Blogger in NYC

Warning: This entry is NOT about how I met some strange, mercurial, billionare who took me down a kinky rabbit hole of whips and chains. And how we all listened to Rihanna's "S&M" song for the whole ideal. This trip to NYC was for business, not reenactments of 50 Shades of Grey. Ha! The closest I got to Christian Grey this week was meeting a young lawyer at a bar who has no idea J and I have created an entirely twisted backstory for him involving a sad childhood, deviant predilections, and yes, a red playroom. Poor Fiddy Esq

NYC P1: There's No Walk Of Shame on Madison Ave.

As I sit in West Harlem reflecting over the past couple days, I cannot bring myself to regret the past 48 hours, or decisions that led me to sitting here, rendered an invalid for all intents and purposes, and salving the pain of my now crippled feet by stuffing my face with $50 Parisian cookies from Maison Laduree. Last night I dined like a queen in Union Square with Wall Street investors, analysts, and the like. Today I'm eating like Marie Antoinete. I ask myself, "Who funds these exquisite overtures?" Do I have some Park Ave. residing patroness of my Blog who sprinkles fairy dust into my wallet for the sole purpose of amusing herself with my later recantings? Or will the vikings of Chase bank be at my door at any moment. Because I sure don't have any explanation for how these trips/excursions keep popping up.

Last night I dined at Casa Mono, a tapas restaurant. Tapas is the Spaniard's version of an expensive practical joke in which waiters serve one single pea on a plate to a large table given heaps of champagne and red wine, and proceed to watch their patrons fight with knives and forks to the death over the last morsel. It's kinda like Hunger Games, only I didnt read that book and have no idea if that reference is even close. The only way to keep from killing your friends is to order 3-4 plates per person and pretend to be civilized as your date goes for the last bite of fried bunny.

As for the food, no expense is spared. Every wild game imaginable is on the menu: rabbit, ox, fox--whatever. My entirely middle class self tried things like rabbit, quale egg with truffles, and something called 'sweet breads' for the first time and I loved it so much, my next boyfriend will probably have to be some ax weilding huntsman able to supply me with an endless supply of wild game.

"You Girls Watch Too Much TV"

A Day in Harlem

Manhattan in Mourning

NYC, what can I say that hasn’t already been written about, sung about? I could hyperbole myself to death just attempting to convey just one grain of this wily pastiche of grit, dirt, glass, and brick, rich and poor. So I’ll just break into song: “NYC, what is it about you? You’re big. You’re tough. You’re rough!”

Last weekend I discovered that my aunt, who I’ve never actually met but if I had, would have loved inexplicably, had died of cancer. There I was, feet still died with grapes from the vineyard, learning that I was to fly to New York, post haste.

I’ve been over it and around it, but I’ve never actually been to Manhattan. But now was my chance to finally go! I was in mourning but… really how long can someone stay in mourning when they’re surrounded by the city lights, sipping coffee at Bryant Park, and eating Pizza on Broadway?