Walking in my shoes
One week ago today, Thursday’s plan was to be at an IFB conference all day at the classy Hudson Hotel. However, after taking two underground trains to said hotel, being told when I arrived that I had to take an elevator down to the sub-basement, and then confirming once on the correct floor that I would have to forego all the daylight hours to sit in lighting that was much too dark and sexy for anything earlier than 6PM (especially as only juice was being served), I felt that it was rather urgent to change the day’s schedule. And so, after getting my registration fee money’s worth from meeting the sweetest designer ever (whom we’ll be getting to know a bit better very soon here) and seeing the infamous Susie Bubble, I escaped every type of basement and walked outside until I couldn’t walk anymore. This 5-hour walk was full of such wildly unconnected things, that I think I shall award it The Walk of the Week award: first, after walking through the Chelsea area at street level and briefly wishing I was a gay man, I walked along an old railroad made into a park, from which I had a bird’s eye view of the vastly different types of architecture mashed together in the area.
Then, when I exited the park, my windblown self was somehow allowed into the Alexander McQueen boutique/museum, which has his pre-fall collection for sale/on display. I freely admit that my heart was beating rather erratically while perusing these spectacular pieces.
After I finally admitted that I didn’t belong there and let myself be buzzed out, I wandered up and down some residential streets, somehow walking past the stoop used as the entrance used for Carrie Bradshaw’s apartment in SATC. Then, I found the greatest little European café (The Path Café), where I had the best latte I have ever had in my life. With a massive brownie to go in hand, I then meandered on down to the water, where I breathed my fill (almost) of sea air, and viewed the route that many immigrants long ago took into North America.
After tearing myself away from my favorite smell in the world (which I can thankfully recall whenever I wish), I walked back inland and pondered the flatness (and iron-ness) of the Flatiron Building, before heading on back underground to my temporary Brooklyn home. Is it any wonder that I wore through four pairs of shoes on my week away?