My Trip to New York Part II

Just kidding, it was the first stop in Brooklyn, the Williamsburg/Greenpoint area, so we felt pretty unfazed. I tried, in vain, to find another vintage place I’d heard about, and then we found a teeny shop with cool hats. I bought one that looks like a squished fedora. Katie thinks it gives me a Carmen Sandeigo vibe.

We picked a bar completely by its proximity. Stepping off the street, which was crowded with people our age in varying skinniness of jean, we walked into a kitschy little den of a bar. And every person was 50+ and speaking Polish or slurred English.

Katie and I thought it was hysterical that we’d found the only bar on Bedford Ave-- and in Williamsburg-- that didn’t have hordes of ironically-coiffed kids sitting around. So we did the most logical thing: grabbed a booth and got some beers.

I accidentally ordered two 32-oz Bud Lights in styrafoam cups. Hoo boy! I was supposed to take a 7:30PM bus back to Boston, but about halfway through the cup, Katie talked me into ditching and staying to see The Postelles play in the West Village.

We went around the block to find another bar and came upon a French place with a (faux?) zinc bar and waiters dropping ‘Hs, if you know what I mean. As in:

Me: Two Hoegartens, please.
Waiter: Two ‘Ogartens comeeng right op!”

French people! Love them!

We made it back to Manhatten after an epic giggle fit on the train. Some guy offered his friend a seat next to him, proclaiming in a stage whisper, “It’s good for your hemrhoids!”

I couldn’t stop laughing and managed to piss off about half the train car by the time we got off.

The club was right around a few other bars so we staked out a chair in a pub next door and drank to pass the time. Shenanigans! The best part was when a group of accountants showed up, one bought Katie and me a drink, and then his girlfriend returned. Oh noes silly accountant.

The Postelles were pretty good (as usual), but every girl in the place except for Katie and me and her friends was underage. I was in jeans and sneakers from walking around all day, but these little titchy girls were in slutty dresses (not venue- or musical genre-appropriate) and milling around in front of the stage. I had an amusing exchange with a guy who reminisced about how he got drunk as a teenager. The bottom line? Not in a downtown club in Manhattan during a concert.

The band finished at 11:30 so after dancing with Katie to a couple of reallly good and hard-to-tear-yourself-away-from songs, I ran outside to try and get the 12:30 bus back to Boston.

I had to keep turning away gypsy cabs and then kept getting frustrated when cabs with their lights on and no passengers wouldn’t stop. One driver told me he “wasn’t going that way”, even though his car was heading uptown and Penn Station was like 5 minutes away if he stepped on it. He drove a couple of inches away from me then shouted back, “Well, how much do you think it would cost?” Fuck you, buddy.

I eventually gave in, though, and just took an off-duty hired car for $25. I ran around Penn Station and then realized I had to get to the bus depot 10 blocks away. Eeeeek! I found another cab immediately, thank all that is good and holy, and then bought a ticket. By some miracle, I got on that damn bus and then back to Boston at 4:30AM.

When I got back to my apartment, I had something to eat and then set my alarm. I very deliberately checked it several times before I went to bed, because it has a habit of not going off when I need it to. 8:00. Check. AM, not PM. Check. Sound on. Check. Alarm on. Check.

Then I woke up at 10:30AM. FUCK FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUFUFK! My plane was scheduled to leave at 10:30.