If you've seen or spoken to me in the past few weeks, you may have noticed that I'm in the midst of a Gossip Girl re-watch. The headbands are back, I'm making a concerted effort to wear heels on non-occasion days, and fantasising regularly about drinks at the bar of a Manhattan hotel late at night. I just bloody love that show, not only 'cause the girls are aspirational and the boys are beautiful, but as a love letter to my favourite city.
I spent most of my 20s saying I would live there one day. I thought that moment had passed, but in the past month or so it's creeping back in ever so slightly; why wouldn't I want to spend a bit of extended time in my favourite place in the world? I've been thinking about it a lot. What I've mostly been thinking is how different a place can be for everyone; how we all have our spots that you won't find in a guidebook; the places where we've made memories, or watched great shows, or even just drank a brilliant Margarita. My New York is completely different to Blair and Serena's, and that's part of the magic. You can never experience it all.
People ask for my New York recommendations a lot, and I edit the list completely based on who wants to know. Some people I know would be like a fish out of water in Brooklyn, some completely unimpressed by the menu at Cafeteria. Here's the definitive version, though. The truest things-I-love-in-new-york list I can muster. As if I was telling myself what to check out in this centre-of-the-universe kinda town.
The Gansevoort Park Hotel
I only ever seem to tell this story actually in the Gansevoort Park hotel, because I'm reminded every time I arrive. The first time I stayed, on my first work trip with no idea what to expect, I got my key, opened the door, and said aloud to the most beautiful hotel room that had ever been mine "Are you being serious?". Within about 20 minutes it was my favourite hotel in the world, and it has stayed that way for the 5 years since.
No matter how long it's been, you're welcomed back like family. It has a smell that is so uniquely Gansevoort; so synonymous with happiness and feeling like I can actually breathe for a weekend (New York does that). When I was in town with The 8th Fold and staying in an apartment 'cause a month in a hotel was out of the question, they let me use their rooftop pool (yeah) anyway. The selfie lighting in the pool bathrooms, by the way? Best I've ever found.
I would never have said I was a 5* hotel kind of girl; I would have expected to like the luxury, sure, but prefer to spend the money on theatre tickets or Sephora lipsticks. The Gansevoort Park grabbed my heart hard, and made me change my mind. It's worth it.
The first time I stayed, somewhere in those first 20 minutes, I danced in the shower to a song with the repeated line "It just makes me so happy" and I remember thinking yeah. It does. Still. Every time.
Cafeteria
I was taken to Cafeteria for the first time with the promise of a nice vibe and good, unpretentious food. The words Mac and Cheese Spring Rolls weren't even mentioned until we reached the table. (Let me say it again. Mac and Cheese Spring Rolls). That's really all you need to know. Last time I was there, we had the spring rolls, all three kinds of actual Mac and Cheese, and about 4 other sides. It was an uncomfortable amount of food, but we couldn't decide 'cause it was all so great. They're open 24 hours, too. It's like the New York Balans, but somewhere you'd choose even if everything else was open. It's high on my list of places to take people. I wish they had a cookbook. In one of the toilets, there's a gorgeous neon that reads You Are Here. It's a reminder, always, of how glad I am to be. (I have a photo of it on my writing desk. To keep me present, but also just as affirmation that I have been. That I will be again).
Soho Strolls
One of my favourite ever New York City days was the slightly hungover Sunday I spent completely alone. I walked from our midtown apartment down to Soho, and spent three hours with my headphones on and no destination. I stopped by BookMarc (it's a Marc Jacobs bookshop which is lol) and bought a notebook to celebrate being in town as a writer. I listened to a playlist called I have a crush on you, which is how I felt about the city and briefly a boy who lived there. I had nowhere to be except wherever I was, and it felt gorgeous. The thing about Soho is it has the kind of buzz that is somehow mellowing. It's busy in a comfortable way. That particular lazy Sunday, it was like the eye of a storm, where so much is happening around you but it feels somehow... quiet. Like an uncurling of sorts; one of those head-clearing days where nothing much and everything happens all at once.
(I also spent an afternoon cycling pretty much the same route with the 8th Fold dream team, in a massive floppy hat and completely inappropriate dress. You know those things you only realise afterwards were actually kind of scary? One of those. I loved it).
Sleep No More, 11pm.
I'm not about to get wordy about the show again. I've done it before. You all know. Go at 11pm, though. Go when you think you're too tired to keep your eyes open, heavy with jet-lag and happy hour cocktails. Go when leaving the hotel feels hard. Go when it's sort of cold, even in Summer. Queue in the street as people leave restaurants and hail cabs and wind down towards sleep. Go inside. I promise you won't be tired when you leave. New York at 2am carrying that particular buzz is something that has to be experienced.
Times Square, 3am.
Walking home from our wrap party, very late at night, my friend Glen decided that I had to see Times Square at 3am, and have all the magic be just mine for a moment. We stood at the bottom of the red steps, three of us post-show tipsy and happy and tired, and talked about New York City. I laughed a lot that night. It was all lit up despite the middle-of-the-night hour, and there were people and taxis around but nothing like during the day. I could have put my arms out and spun around and not touched anyone else. Broadway still glittered around us. It was Summer, and still warm. We had a slice of dollar pizza, and they showed me how to eat it like a real New Yorker. I walked home to 9th Avenue, and the streetlights made it feel like it was almost morning, despite the fact it wasn't at all. Sometimes, when I wonder why I still do it, I think about that night, and the magic that they said would be all for me; for a moment it felt like it really was.
This city, though, is a palimpsest. It changes all the time, and you return and things aren't where they used to be, but you can still feel their ghosts. My favourite middle of the night dinner spot was Les Halles. Open late, down on Park Avenue South, it was the kind of place where you could pop back in to the hotel, kick off your heels and replace them with trainers, quickly wipe off your eyeliner and head straight back out. I drank beer there after Broadway shows, and deconstructed what I'd just seen, and laughed and laughed. The last time I walked past, it was gone. I miss it. I wouldn't know where to go, now, for an impromptu midnight steak date. (The night I saw Hedwig, I went to Les Halles after and drank 8 glasses of water 'cause my mouth was dry, I guess from my jaw being on the floor for the entirety of Darren Criss' performance. Another time our waiter comped us an expensive bottle of wine 'cause we promised to check out his Youtube channel. I feel genuinely bad that I never did).
A few weeks ago, I was telling the story of the time I went to New York twice in the space of three weeks (I was lucky at 22. These things happened sometimes). "For a boy?", the person I was telling texted back.
No. For a city that has never once failed me, even when I didn't know what I needed, but knew I needed something. That in the space of a weekend gave me a party where Idina Menzel sang to a living room and Josh Groban was a guest (tell you another time), and shabby-chic East Village brunches. $8 martinis downtown and 5* hotel bars, all in the space of a night. Broadway and 54 Below, just blocks apart. It's the only city where even on my own I don't feel alone at all. There is always someone in New York you can call.
It would take a hell of a boy to beat that.
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