Villages and cocktails
I had done some bargaining, and so all three of us took the subway to Christopher St. to follow the Lonely Planet guide's Greenwich Village walking tour, with the understanding that it would be relaxed, involve plenty of stops for snacks and drinks, and that it would lead to the East Village for its vintage clothing shops.
We started at Washington Square, looking quite different in the snow from when when I last came here. Since I'd dashed across a road as the light changed, and Debbie and Phoenix were catching up, I stood below the arch, looking at the map and deciding where to go next. A passer by asked me if I was lost. I suppose I could have been, but the arch gave it away a bit.
We were struck by a man who had seated himself alone in a large expanse of snow, to read his paper, and by the abandoned public chess boards.
Our stomachs wouldn't let us walk far without pausing for breakfast. We arbitrarily choose Cafe Esperanto, where I had a cherry danish and coffee, Phoenix delighted in the novelty of granola and yoghurt (pronouncing herself the only British person who would enjoy it), and Debbie had a bagel.
We wove our way through the narrow old streets, as directed by the guidebook. It was all very historic and architecturally interesting, yet uneventful. We reverted briefly into corporate America when we crossed 7th Avenue at Bleeker St., and Phoenix went into Banana Republic to try and track down a jumper for Pete — other branches not having had his size. Phoenix is keen that I should document how helpful the staff were. They did not have the right size, but they located another shop which put it aside for her.
We did exactly what Lonely Planet advised, and paused at the White Horse Tavern on 7th Avenue for lunch. Initially it reminded me of many wood-furnished pubs at home (The Jug and Jester; the Star and Garter). We even had proper beer: their own White Horse Ale. The main thing that set it apart from a British pub was the complete absence of smoke. It's the law. Deeper into the pub I found a number of Dylan Thomas portraits and plaques. I don't know his specific connection to the pub, and I briefly considered regaling the staff with my distant relation to Thomas (up the family tree about 5 generations, across, up a bit, down a bit, across a bit more, down some more… Dylan Thomas). I thought better of it.
Phoenix then led us to the Magnolia Bakery for cupcakes. She insists that it's famous. It did appear to be doing a roaring trade. The cupcakes were cold, but sold as if they were hot. To be frank I was underwhelmed by mine: a vanilla cupcake such as anyone could make by following a recipe, topped with more oversweet icing than a sane person could want.
We completed the walking tour, seeing some buildings and some skylines, and ended up back at Washington Park.
We caught a bus to the East Village.
There, we scoured three blocks for vintage clothes shops. None of us bought anything, but we had a lot of fun looking. Many of the vintage shops are really quite funky.
While looking for these shops, we stumbled on Giant Robot. I know Giant Robot as an American magazine about Japanese pop culture: Japanese cultural exports filtered through the sensibilities of hyperactive New Yorkers who have no time for delicate "grown up" Japanese culture, because they want giant robots, manga and big eyed kawaii stuff. Cool!
This was Giant Robot's shop, and I would have got my shopping revenge here, if it weren't for the fact that the girls seemed as keen to browse as I was. We left with two t-shirts and a book. Reluctantly, we left behind a Tonari No Totoro soft toy, because frankly our house needs no more clutter.
Now our cupcake icing sugar highs had crashed, so we revived ourselves with another coffee at the first cafe we found. We consulted the guidebook and found one last vintage shop, where I'm not sure the proprietor appreciated us — it was all a bit less fun and funky and more serious than the previous ones.
Leaving here, I noticed my Giant Robot bag was missing. We split up to try and retreive it, and the ladies got it back from the cafe: nice people.
There are a number of fetching murals in the East Village, among other generally arty touches people have made to their surroundings.
Phoenix led us to a shop hilariously named "Fabulous Fannie's". It sells new and second hand sunglasses and spectacle frames, and was most entertaining for about 15 minutes. We stayed for an hour, but Phoenix bought two pairs of sunglasses, which makes it worthwhile.
We left Phoenix to find that Banana Republic that was holding her jumper, and Debbie and I took the bus and the train back to the hotel.
We didn't get much relaxation before it was time to go back out. The plan was to go to the Upper West Side, where Debbie and I had observed plenty of restaurants and bars the other day, have cocktails then dinner. We took the bus up 8th Avenue and made a beeline for The Evelyn with its "martini list with more options than the dinner menu". I thought this place was lovely, with its roaring fires and cosy sofas (which we chose not to use because of mine and Debbie's theory of how out of background music, chatting and reclining, you can pick two).
By the end of the second martini, the lovely surroundings had begun to wobble and blur. Hunger was forgotten. Phoenix and Debbie bitched gently about the cocktail waitress ("I think it's great that in this country you can wear a dress like that with thighs like those. If this was home people would talk." — for the record, I thought she had perfectly lovely thighs.)
I launched into my underdeveloped theory of the qualities that make a sport or game interesting, while Phoenix attempted to defend baseball against phantom implications that it may not pass these criteria.
I moved on to an Old Fashioned. I'm not sure what happened after that. I seem to recall Phoenix falling off her chair, and trying her damnedest to fall off the floor. I don't remember paying, but Debbie assures me that she did, and that she came out of the lounge to find us literally dancing on the street because we had managed to hail a taxi.
Debbie shepherded us to the hotel, then went off in search of takeaway food. She returned to find neither of us capable of emoting (I was snoring), let alone eating, so she ate alone.
The Evelyn Lounge: highly recommended, but leave after two cocktails at most, and don't mention me if you want to be let in.