Welcome to the rabbit's hole. A blog on pulp.
I thought the jet lag should have vanished by today. It didn’t. Only my proudly earned experience in dealing with less-to-no-sleep environments could attribute to me being still up and running despite the fact that I still miss about half a day of solid sleep. Which isn’t completely my fault, of course. But apparently my adamant discipline is everything but ubiquitous, so my mum and aunt decided that walking around a sleeping head would certainly not wake my sleeping beauty.
It took us nearly four hours to leave the flat.
Ellis Island, though only seen from afar was quite nice. So was the ride on the amazingly free ferry to Staten Island, which, however proved to be a ride to, guess what, Staten Island, which in turn made us taking the ferry back to Manhattan more or less immediately. Fortunately I had really nice view on my way back. Manhattan bridge is quite long and marvellous, but there were two legs with the same attributes which easily outshone her. Since they were attached to a quite intelligent looking and classically beautiful top (and head) I didn’t mind the detour.
However, MOMA was what really made my day. Don’t get me wrong, me luvs me pair of legs, but even those don’t stand a chance against 10 square metres of water lilies. At first, I tried to rightfully uphold my long lasting principle of not caring about hyped originals. But Monet’s lilies gave the final push to my over-confndent self-conciousness. I’m not good at describing art. The two elder ladies who asked my about my grinning face when I faced a version of Braque’s violin probably are the only thing I could reiterate in a coherent manner. They might have been a bit surprised about the fact that I suddenly started rambling about Braque’s way of seeing things and the general idea of cubism, but I think they quite enjoyed the talk.
The one thing that really put me off where the visitors. First there were shit-loads of them, which isn’t that problematic in it self, there’s always a way to shuh people from the piece you just want to enjoy for yourself. Still, who in for Christ’s fuckin’ sake shoots a photo of a piece of art instead of just quietly marveling it? At the end I was seriously grumpy and considered setting them on fire for their obvious idiocy.
I might just have been craving a fag though.
After that I was fairly exhausted. But somehow I had to do something. News York has a certain pull to it. Sitting on the ledge of my the window and watching the passers-by is all nice and fine, but I wanted to mingle. So I packed my stuff and set off for a jazz bar I read about.
To be honest: it was a bit underwhelming. The live music wasn’t that bad and considering the free entry I had a really nice evening but: to be listed as a jazz bar I’d expect a little bit more than just some easy listening jazz which is barely audible over the chatter of a room full of wanna-be intellectuals. Still, I enjoyed the food and the waitress, which made up for the presumptuous who fancied himself the owner of the establishment. Rarely have I had the unpleasant occasion to meet such an excellent embodiment of the stereotypical French waiter. With a front all nice and easy and a back revealing more than just a long stick up his ass.
If you wanna experience it for your self: http://www.julesbistro.com