A New York doctor was diagnosed with Ebola and had just visited the High Line. So in a moment of perversity, that is exactly where we decided to go. With another playdate set with Janet and Steve, our plan was to see the newly completed High Line in it's entirety. It begins at Gansevoort Street in Manhattan's Meatpacking District, and now ends at 34th Street.
The High Line, if you've haven't been, is one of the most exceptional and unconventional places ever conceived. It was inspired by a similar project in Paris, the Promenade Plantée. A high rise park along the Hudson River, derived from dilapidated elevated train tracks....the ambition and communal effort is something to behold. There is no better urban theater than this.
Turning onto West 14th Street, Hubby slammed the breaks at the sound of Janet and I shrieking like Carrie Bradshaw. We were in front of the coolest store in NYC, Jeffrey NY. Two broads with Extra Sensory Shopping Perception, we merrily jumped out of the car with hopes and dreams of finding the perfect purchase. So much for culture.
Jeffrey NY is a luxury store that you shouldn't enter unless you've got some extra Benjamins. Everything is so hip and gorgeous, it takes mastery over one's self control to not froth at the mouth in public. I revealed my Bridge and Tunnel DNA by stupidly asking the price of a pair of Celine trousers. From that moment I was dead to the sales staff.
Somebody smack me.
No sale at Jeffrey NY. Sad Face.
The way we were hitting up the stores you'd think we had just come from Jupiter. What is it, I wonder, that makes us go into shopping frenzies? Are we thinking, THIS WILL BE THE DAY, when the beam of a thousand lights will shine... today we will find the perfect thing and our lives will be forever altered? Doubt it. Not even my yellow patent leather Louboutin's rocked my world. Yellow! I was absolutely sure they would, but they just gave me toe cramps.
My closet is suffocating. The hangers are caught in headlocks. My clothes need 1-800-Stanley Steemer.
And still I shop.
Five hours after we arrived, we finally got up to the High Line. We ran into fascinating people. We took pictures. By now the sun was setting and the Standard Hotel, in all its glory, was staring us vertically in the face. Someone yelled out COCKTAILS! (probably me) and that's all she wrote, folks. It was time to participate in our moral obligation: Happy Hour. Maybe next time we should start at 34th Street. I'm sure they did a wonderful job.
Gabriel, Shirtless Wonder of the High Line
Floyd Leon Fuller, Green Suited Singer of the High Line