Day after trekking the city in heels…feet are hung over. Unfortunately, I had made the poor decision of rocking around the mean streets in 4 inch wedges. Very cute and sexy, right? Epic fail. Blister=pain=never again wearing heels in this town. Ended up buying a pair of Chucks on an emergency shoe shopping outing with bcn friend 20 minutes before Filene’s closed. Managed to score.
Sooo tired. Too old to party this hard anymore.
Observations About NYC.
Weekdays are for recovering from the weekend.
Dirty old men will call out crude comments to attractive women walking by on the streets.
Fashion in nyc is its own art of people-watching.
You can get food at any hour of the day. Big Plus.
The Big Apple also houses Big Rats.
Random droplets splashing on your body=air conditioner unit condensation falling from the sky.
Public groping happens everywhere in the world, nyc included. (As well as in Italian churches on Christmas Day.)
Hotel bars are livelier than previously imagined. Also, am carving out a new appreciation for these joints since they seem to be classier and, the dealbreaker diamond: no groping happened here. Clubs will see me no longer. I’ll be at the hotel bar, staking claim on the couch, having a drink.
Bright lights, big city. Maybe I should move here. I’m sure that’s what many women of grandma-disposition do.
My feet are still recovering from 48 hours of weekend life in nyc. Late nights. Multiple destination nightlife crawl. More like ambitious gallivanting, all spontaneously decided. Basically awesome.
I want to go to Egypt.
And waited in a painfully long line to see this stuff:
Was agonizing in wedge heels that I’d been donning all day while hitting the streets. Mistakenly chose fashion over function, during cringed, anguished walk through alexander mcqueen’s threads.