Reel

I fear I may be people-watching myself to death. My style-envy is breaking me down to a nervous wreck. Look how beautiful! Everyone is beautiful! Shiver, shiver, gnash.

That more or less summarizes my feelings in Manhattan, which is really out of this world. But last night I went on that date (I know, I’m crazy to go on a date in a city I’ll be leaving in 3 days) to Brooklyn. Ahhh, what a relief. Brooklyn is normal, at last, by Montreal standards. I was trying to get a cocktail (vs a mixed drink) and it was almost as hard as getting one on St. Laurent. Every bar we tried was really a pub. And when I decided we should find girls in heels and ask them, it was actually really hard to find any of those. It’s like the real-life version of everything unreal across the river. Anyway, we found two great places: one where we had dinner, I can’t remember the name, and the tiniest waitress took our order; and the bar we finally settled on. Loved it. I think it’s called Charleston and it’s only a couple of months old. The walls are covered in red pleather, with mismatched buttons. The bar stools are each covered in a different and exciting (yes) pattern. The barman is an Argentinean ex-pat who looks like a collision between Robert Smith (of the Cure, for you young ones who don’t know who that is) and Severin Snape (of Harry Potter, for you old ones). Luscious. The jukebox was all Depeche Mode, Pogues, The Slits, Pulp, Roxy Music, and I can’t remember what else I chose. I had a million Cosmos and Robert Snape gave us one on the house, I have no idea why.

Other things I’ve done lately: took the Staten Island Ferry; went to the free night at MoMA; took the M1 bus all the way from Battery Park to the Museum, crossing all neighbourhoods in between and thereby giving myself a little tour; skipped going to the Museum of Natural History to go shopping instead; got a DKNY cashmere scarf from my cousin’s roommate because she doesn’t like the colour on her; and saw a great exhibit at the Museum of Art & Design by the Droog group.