One thousand eight hundred New York minutes

Yes, I’m still alive. Sleepy, but conscious. So, yeah, you keep coming back to Rebel Prince, wondering, pleading with the internet gods, where is that boy? (Don’t deny it.) Well, here I am finally to give you the rundown on last weekend’s quick jaunt to New York. As I write this, I’m rediscovering an inadvertently neglected CD in my collection, called Wild Cool & Swingin, from Capitol’s “Ultra-Lounge” series. I’ve cued up Bobby Darin’s rendition of “Sunday in New York.” Very swank.

New York was grand. Cold and rainy, but grand. On Sunday I took the train up to Manhattan, about three hours from Washington, and once in town headed for the Chelsea Hotel to meet up with Stephen, a good bloke indeed (which of course we’d already known to be true). For the next two days–more like thirty hours, to be exact–I tagged along with him and his dad on what turned out to be a fun little trip.

Day one. First we had lunch at John’s Pizzeria (opposite the Majestic, current home of Phantom), and then we saw the darkly funny A Day in the Death of Joe Egg (running at the restored American Airlines Theatre through June 1). Despite the weighty themes, it managed for the most part to be light on its feet, taking unexpected, but not unwelcome turns. Good acting overall. (Leading man Eddie Izzard is touring this summer and fall; I’ll have to catch him when he comes to town.)

In the early evening Stephen and I wandered about the Village, stopping into music stores, and at one point taking a break at the Starbucks on Grove Street, where whose voice should be wafting from the loudspeaker but that of our favorite man-about-town Rufus Wainwright? The I Am Sam soundtrack was playing, right at “Across the Universe.” Our timing was impeccable.

That night we all regrouped and had dinner at a small, midtown Vietnamese restaurant–mmm, shrimp spring rolls–and navigating the expected Times-Square crowds, we made our way back to 42nd Street to watch Down with Love, which is still as much fun the second time. (I have to hand it to the supporting cast; they definitely hold their own against the leads, if not steal scenes entirely.) When I first saw it, the reel had stopped during the end-credit musical number, so it was a treat to finally see the entire thing.

Shortly after, tired, but content, we called it a night. The Chelsea Hotel, full of characters, is quite a character itself. The place is grand and brash and bohemian–check out all the art–and rough around the edges. (View a Quicktime VR panorama of the lobby, found at Axis Images.) Knowing a bit about its past, and especially after having recently seen that first episode of An American Family, where Lance Loud’s mother visits him at the Chelsea, I came away with a kind of comfortable reverence about the place. The hotel has been home to some artistic luminaries, both famous and notorious, but once inside you feel like you are one (or could be one) too.

Day two. The agenda: holiday shopping (it was Memorial Day, after all) in SoHo and the East Village. A trip to New York is not complete without some serious shopping. (Also, the opportunity to respond to compliments on one’s clothing with a casual “Oh, this? I got it in New York” is rather delicious.) And despite the pouring rain, nothing was going to stop Stephen. He was on a mission, and I, for my part, was glad to go along, since my usual Manhattan shopping route ends up somewhere midtown up Fifth Avenue, and until last weekend I’d never really done SoHo, despite my avowed intent to visit a different neighborhood each time I go to New York.

After a hearty brunch and much coffee, we stopped at boutiques, thrift stores, and everywhere in between. I got two sweaters at Armani Exchange–on sale, thank you very much. I exercised some fiscal restraint, but looking over so many clothes confirmed that my wardrobe could use an overhaul. (I keep talking the talk, but at some point, I need to walk the walk… say, to the new H&M in Georgetown. Another D.C. location is due this fall at 11th and F Streets NW, by the way.) At the MoMa Design Store, I bought a few posters: Picasso’s Girl Before a Mirror from the “Matisse Picasso” exhibit; a movie poster of La Dolce Vita; and a small Keith Haring print, which I’ll probably put up in my office.

Pretty soon, we were all walked out–I thought I knew my Manhattan geography fairly well, but little mishaps, like unknowingly walking east on East 23rd Street when you want West, take a toll on one’s feet. (Many years ago my sea-faring uncle gave me a nice compass as a present; I should start carrying it with me.) It was time for me to head back reluctantly to Washington, so thanking Stephen and his dad, I took my leave of them and the Chelsea, and rode the C train back to Penn Station, where I had pulled in less than a day and a half earlier.

Deep below 34th Street, in the station’s waiting area I looked up at the big, letter-flipping departures board displaying upcoming destinations–not quite as exciting as an airport flight board, but still a glorious sight to an irrepressible wanderluster like me–and with a sneaking anticipation, I smiled in knowing I’d be back one day.