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Mark and Melanie go to New York. So Melanie can study with SITI Company and write her next one-woman show. So Mark can take kick-ass photos and train for Ironman Canada. And so they can live in a 350-square-foot studio without killing each other. Hopefully...
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Melanie "Calamity" Jones
Mark
Best. Night. Ever.
The thing about this city is that there is always something amazing to do, eat, drink or see. Always. As in 24/7. Sometimes this is completely overwhelming and you stop, a deer in the headlights, paralyzed by awesomeness. Other times you feel a little chased by it all. Like no matter how hard you try, you will never, in a million years, see everything you want to see. And you run around in a mad panic trying not to waste a New York minute.
But sometimes, if the stars and your cosmic vibration line up, you achieve the holy grail of New York experiences: the perfect night.
For us, it started with a late afternoon browse through Chelsea Market, a delightful collection of delis, coffee shops, vegan juice bars and more bakeries than I've ever seen in one place. (How many cupcakes does this city need?!) We got a coffee from our favourite spot, ogled the pornographic pastries and generally wandered hand-in-hand.
It felt too early to eat, so we left and walked along the banks of the Hudson River. The water, and sludge, glittered in the early evening sun. It reminded me of Barcelona – there's a certain reverie that comes over me when I stroll along a boardwalk for any length of time. We walked all the way south to the Village and picked our way east, photographing brownstones and storefronts and speculating about the people who live here.
We returned to our neck of the woods, the East Village, and made our way to a wine bar on St. Mark's called Ten Degrees. Mark's dreamy Portuguese red went so well with the aged gouda we ordered that we were literally giggling with delight. But a piece of cheese does not a dinner make, so we hit the road again to find Crif Dog – a suggestion from our hipster barista at Stumptown.
He had said something about a phone booth and how we'd have to call our order in...or something. So we were disappointed when we got there and saw no such phone booth. We ordered from the counter and sat down. As we sat, Mark noticed people disappearing through a folding door in the far wall. "Go check it out," he said. And I did.
I opened the door and found myself in a phone booth. There were a set of instructions pasted on the wall that seemed to have nothing to do with hot dogs, so I picked up the phone and pressed a button labeled Call. Seconds later, the entire left wall of the phone booth opened to reveal a dark, brick-walled room lit with candles. A woman stood there, staring at me expectantly. "Can I help you?" she asked.
"What is this?" I asked, incredulous.
"It's a bar," she said.
"And what's that?"
"That's a hot dog place."
"What's happening?"
"I have a table for two right now if you want it."
I went back to Mark. "Follow me. Now." We slipped back through the phone booth portal and found ourselves in one of the coolest cocktail lounges ever – all dark corners and taxidermied animals. Called PDT (which stands for Please Don't Tell), this place is New York to the max. We'd heard about PDT the week before ("Call this number and they'll tell you where to go."), but we'd ended up there in a completely different way. Destiny? Accident? Who cares.
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by Melanie "Calamity" Jones
