Writing London

Oh, how I love the maps from East London company Herb Lester Associates.  Their map of Spitalfields life found its way into the box I put together for the Curiosity Project just before Christmas, and I visit the website regularly to ooh and ahh over the beautifully illustrated guides to major cities.

The release of a new map of literary London may be just what I need to put in another order.  Look at how lovely it is!  Maps, books, travel and illustration all in one?  I'm in heaven.  And while I'm at it, I might pop the Austin, Chicago and Brooklyn maps into my shopping basket, ready for a few trips from Colorado next year.  The maps cost between £3 and £5 apiece: beautiful and a bargain!

Record Store Day

Sorry for the paucity of posts recently.  Things are pretty crazy at the moment, between the usual work stuff, starting to sort my house out for the move, preparing endless reams of documents for my work visa...  Even this post is, strictly speaking, a day late.  Record Store Day was of course yesterday. 

On Friday I enjoyed reading this article on The Guardian music blog about readers' memories of record shops.  My own memories of record stores are of there being a suprising bounty of stores in the West Yorkshire area.  Wall of Sound in Huddersfield, Crash and Jumbo in Leeds, and a particularly rich seam of shops in Halifax, of all places.  During our A-Levels, my two best friends and I had Tuesday afternoons free from lessons.  Every week, we would sign ourselves out (destination: 'library', yeah right) as soon as the bell went for lunch, and hightail it into the centre of Wyke to get the bus to Halifax, where we'd wander around the independent stores in the Piece Hall and visit the town's four record shops.  It's been a while since I was in Halifax, but last time I visited two of the four were still holding firm against the tide of internet shopping.

Here in Leicester, I've been visiting Rockaboom since I moved to the city in 1996.  New releases tend to be cheaper than HMV and, even if they're a bit more expensive than Amazon I always think it's a price worth paying for the continued existence of the store.  They always have a good selection of back catalogue stuff for a fiver, too, which is good for filling the gaps in your collection.

Nowhere, though, comes close to Amoeba Records in San Francisco.  A huge building at the top of Haight Street, not far from Golden Gate Park, it is well worth a pilgrimage.  With an enormous range of CDs, vinyl, t-shirts, posters and DVDs, it was only the knowledge that I'd have to carry everything home that stopped me from buying half the shop.  As it was, I came away 8 CDs heavier, including some great mid-90s finds (Liz Phair, Belly) for 99c each.

My news...

At the start of this academic year I applied to the extremely competitive and presitigous Fulbright programme; a scheme that enables teachers from the US and Britain to exchange jobs (and lives) for a year.  A rigourous selection process ensued, and I became increasingly baffled but excited as I progressed through each round.  Last Thursday, after weeks of anticipation (and telling anyone who asked that I was sure I wouldn't be chosen), I received an email.  Come July, all being well, I will be off to Colorado for a year. 

It would be fair to say that I am both excited and terrified by this prospect.  Anyone who knows me will know I often have wacky schemes on the boil, which very rarely (if ever) come to fruition.  I honestly didn't believe I would be successful, and the fact that I have to pack up my house and my life, say goodbye to family and friends, and make a new start, both professionally and personally, is overwhelming.  The mounds of paperwork, medical forms, visa requirements... it is sobering to realise that after a lot of hard work to get through selection, the real work is only just beginning.  And that is before I even consider the realities of teaching in a completely new country.

Durango, the small town in South-West Colorado where I've been placed, sounds idyllic.  Described by Lonely Planet as "nothing short of delightful," it's artsy, famous for it's microbreweries and mountain biking trails, and surrounded by mountains and forests and popular with skiers and snowboarders.  You have to pity the poor guy who has to give all that up and come and live in Leicester for a year!

I am trying very hard not to invest too much in this - aware that it could still all fall through - but just to have got this far is an amazing affirmation and achievement.  Wish me luck!

Music Monday

The actor Jason Schwartzman (of Rushmore, The Darjeeling Limited and I Heart Huckabees fame, amongst others) has a musical side project called Coconut Records.  Quite how I came across it, I can't recall - perhaps from last.fm? - but I spent a lot of time a few years ago trying to get a copy of the first album, Nighttiming, which hadn't been released in the UK.  Anyway, one of the tracks from that album, West Coast, became the unofficial anthem to the latter part of my trip.  Is there anything more perfect than sitting in a great bar on the west coast of America, drinking cider and having West Coast come on the stereo?  The answer is no, there really isn't.  I also heard the song in a shop in San Francisco, a couple of places in Portland and finally, on my last day, on the radio in Seattle.  Perhaps it's actually an official anthem of the west coast?  It really was a close-run thing as to what would be the sound of the summer - Fleet Foxes and Grizzly Bear were on constant rotation on my iPod and the former are of course a Pacific Northwest band - but ultimately it's all about the serendipitousness of hearing a great song out of nowhere.

Top ten of the trip

We fly home tomorrow and as sad as I'll be to see my trip end (mainly because it means it's less than a fortnight till school starts, boo) it will be good to be home and in my own bed, with my own closet of clothes and a washing machine close at hand.  So I thought this was a good time for a quick top ten.

1. Eugene, Oregon.  Partly because it was nice to be staying in a house rather than a hotel and to get a native's perspective on things, partly because Sarah and Seamus were such fantastic hosts and partly because I just really liked Eugene and environs, the two days spent there were definitely the best two days of the whole trip.  A HUGE thank you to Sarah for her hospitality.

2. The NYPL at 100 exhibition at the New York Public Library.  From Jack Kerouac's travel notebook to the Declaration of Independence; from anti-apartheid posters to a Klansman hood; from a draft of Eliot's The Wasteland with amendments by Ezra Pound to Virginia Woolf's diary.  This exhibition had it all and I walked from case to case with an increasing sense of breathlessness and awe.  To top it all, it was free and (so important in 42c heat) air-conditioned.

3. The train journeys, as much for the fascinating characters I met as for the incredible scenery.  Chuck and Denise, travelling with their seven year old Anthony for his brain surgery, stoic and warm in the face of the fact that they could potentially be taking their return journey without him.  Bunny who gave me pages of tips for New Orleans and has stayed in email contact with me since.  Chad with whom I talked about literature.  So many people and so many stories on those 4000 miles across the country.

4. My first walk through the French Quarter in New Orleans, gawping at the beauty and swimming through the thick, humid air.

5. Today's visit to the Nirvana exhibit in Seattle.

6. Shopping and hanging out in Portland: Powell's bookstore, great independent shops in the Hawthorne District, cool people everywhere.  I loved this city SO much.

7. The incredible natural beauty of Yosemite Valley, especially when Richard and I had the good luck to find an entirely empty trail to hike. 

8. Reading my way around America: Poppy Z Brite, A Confederacy Of Dunces and books about Hurrican Katrina in New Orleans, Strangers On A Train, a book about crossing America by Amtrak whilst on the train, Tales Of The City in San Francisco, a book about the riot grrrl scene in the Pacific Northwest whilst in Portland... reading books about the places I'm in has immeasurably enhanced my experiences. 

9. Biking along the waterfront, over the Golden Gate Bridge and into Sausalito whilst in San Francisco.  A lovely sunny day and an exhilirating ride coupled with stunning views.

10. My trusty black rubber flip flops and tatty denim skirt.  Pretty much all I've worn the whole trip (apart from days that the skirt was in the wash).  I now have black feet, aching calves from walking miles in crappy sandals and the first vestiges of a tan on my pale English legs.

Come as you are

This morning I donned my plaid flannel shirt and headed out to the new Nirvana exhibition (entitled Taking Punk To The Masses) at the Experience Music Project in Seattle.

Starting with the history of punk rock in America from the early 80s onwards and moving through the genesis of Nirvana in Aberdeen, Washington to their subsequent world renown, the exhibits include copious oral histories from major players at the time.  Ian MacKay of Minor Threat and Fugazi was an engaging and amusing guide to the ins and outs of alternative and punk culture in the States in the 80s and there was also significant input from the head of SubPop Records (Nirvana's first record label) and, endearingly, their receptionist (as she put it, who sees more of what goes on than the receptionist?!).  Krist Novoselic, Kurt's family and many other people who were on the periphery as Nirvana rose to fame have contributed a huge number of items, from the cardigan Kurt wore throughout 1992 to an In Utero angel stage prop.

I found the whole exhibition fascinating and it sparked many memories, but it was also bizarre seeing a subject so dear to my heart and so essential to my personal development being treated as a museum exhibit.  Wow, guess this means I really am old!  Odd, too, were the Japanese tourists taking photos of t-shirts I used to own and grey-haired old men looking askance at Butthole Surfers and Bikini Kill albums. 

Watching video footage of Nirvana performing In Bloom and Breed at the Reading Festival moved me almost to tears.  I haven't yet worked out what I was crying for: Kurt's lost potential or my lost youth.  This whole trip has reminded me of who I was and who I can be.  It has brought home to me what my priorities are in life.  As I wrote in my notebook whilst watching Kurt wail, "Rock and roll bitch!"

The centre of the world

I seem to have spent this trip seeking out the off-the-beaten track neighbourhoods; the places where you can find twenty kinds of organic hemp seeds but not a chain in sight.  I continued this trend today with a visit to Fremont, a neighbourhood to the north of Seattle whose slogan is 'Fremont: the centre of the world'.  The Sunday market there was a joy to behold, similar to Spitalfields but less frantic and much cheaper.

I rifled through old printing blocks...

I considered buying beautiful vintage handkerchiefs, but couldn't get past the vintage snot factor...

I spent a happy ten minutes searching through toy blocks, trying to decide what I wanted to spell.  Lack of some letters led me to plump for the simple...

I had fun making words from scrabble tiles, eventually deciding that the following would look good framed on a wall...

Meanwhile Richard has been at a baseball game, cheering on the Boston Red Sox against the Seattle Mariners.  I'm sure it comes as a surprise to no-one that I went shopping instead.

On the move again

I’m writing this on the last train of my journey: no more bizarre Amtrak rules (the trains are run along the lines of a communist state); no more being delayed for hours as we wait for a freight train to pass by; no more gazing out of the window at everything from awe-inspiring mountain ranges to downtrodden trailer parks.  I’ll miss the trains and would take another long-distance trip in a heartbeat.  If you enjoy time for quiet reflection and can cope with sitting still for 3 days stretches, this is definitely the method of travel for you.

We had beautiful weather in Portland (in fact, apart from the hideous 40c heatwave in New York and the daily thunder storms in New Orleans, the weather has been fantastic throughout my whole trip) but are now heading to rainy Seattle.  Richard will be happier without the sun but I’m going to be cross if, after 3 ½ weeks in flip flops, I have to wear proper shoes for the first time.

The last few days have included:

A visit to the famous Voodoo Donuts (slogan ‘The magic is in the hole’, and offering such delights as the cock & balls donut and the maple glazed topped with bacon).

A hike in Forest Park, the largest urban forest in the USA.  Measuring over 5000 acres and containing 70 miles of hiking trails, it was easily reached on foot from our hostel but feels like you are plunging into wilderness.  

A 15 mile bike ride along the waterfront loop whilst suffering from a cider-induced hangover.

Many conversations about the riots.  The bartender in our ‘local’ (the blame for the aforementioned hangover can be laid squarely at his door) was particularly interested in discussing the causes and implications of the shitstorm that hit the UK last week.  The guy at the smoothie shack, meanwhile, was scathing about David Cameron and so earned himself a nice tip.

Keep Portland weird

The unofficial city slogan, seen on graffitti and posters throughout the area. 

We arrived in Portland, Oregon on Monday lunchtime and settled into our hostel in the Northwest district of the city.  Strolling around the neighbourhood made it very clear that Portland was my kind of city: beautiful Victorian houses on treelined streets filled with funky (but not pretentious) cafes and bars, bookstores and vintage clothing emporiums; the inhabitants all seeming to be in their 20s and 30s and wearing band t-shirts, intricate tattoos, sandals and beards (mostly just the men, but I'm sure one or two women also).  Portland isn't so much weird as simply awesome.  It's very bike-friendly (as Richard and I can attest to after a 14 mile ride this afternoon), left-wing and eco-conscious.  Book stores, vintage shops and clothing exchanges rule the highstreet (in fact, the only chainstore I've seen so far has been Macys).  In short, it's a kind of nirvana: a Hebden Bridge or Hay-On-Wye with 500,000 inhabitants.  When can I move here?

Yesterday I dumped Richard and went shopping on my own in the Hawthorne district, on the east bank of the river and a couple of miles from downtown.  Cool Cottons was my first  stop but I ended up leaving empty-handed, not because I didn't find anything I liked but because I liked everything.  There's just not enough room in my rucksack for endless yards of gorgeous fabric and as I couldn't narrow it down to just one, I moved on.  Presents of Mind further up Hawthorne Blvd was a treasure trove of interesting things: I love my new enamel bird necklace and this ace sticker and notebook.

Further down the street I really loved Murder By The Book, a store entirely devoted to crime & mystery novels.  My step-mum Andrea (who shares my taste for murder in fiction), would love it there.  Red Light Clothing Exchange relieved me of $10 for a great navy polka dot dress.  Naked City was stuffed with rockabilly dresses, studded belts, skull t-shirts and striped stockings; not exactly my style (although my rock chick friend Cara would adore it) but they also had this amazing 70s print dress hidden away on a rail.  $50 and it was mine.  Crappy photo I know, but this dress is so great that later that day a sales assistant in Macy's dragged it out of my bag, demanded to know where I'd bought it and disappeared with it to show a colleague.

I then headed back downtown and visited Beth Ditto's favourite vintage store, Fat Fancy Fashions.  As the name suggests, they specialise in plus size vintage clothing and it was quite a novelty to be too small for most of the items in the shop.  I did pick up a white & red striped top for $10 and only later realised it was from Sarah Jessica Parker's Bitten range.  I always was a Carrie fan.  Final stop of the day was the famous Powell's bookstore: a whole city block and nine rooms of books.  By the time I got there Richard had been browsing for two hours and it was another two till we left, weighed down with fifteen books between us.

A weekend in Eugene

Sorry Sarah, I know this photo kinda sucks.  Why didn't I take more?!

I met Sarah at my cousin’s wedding in Massachusetts four years ago and we clicked immediately (to be fair, it would be hard not to click with Sarah as she is just about the friendliest, loveliest person I know), so when I was planning a trip to the Pacific Northwest it was always a given that her hometown of Eugene, Oregon would need to be on the itinerary.  It was such a relief to get out of San Francisco and the wide smiles and handmade Union Jack sign with which Sarah and her son, Seamus, greeted us raised our moods a good few notches.

We packed a lot into 48 hours: a stroll around the Saturday market in downtown Eugene to look at the local crafts (including a good proportion of tie-dye, Oregon being where many of San Francisco’s hippies moved after the Summer of Love); a stop at a great bookstore, which we leave two books heavier; a visit to the beautiful new library for tea in the café; a picnic in the park whilst watching an unintentionally hilarious production of Cymbeline; a hike around the stunning Salt Creek Falls and Diamond Creek Falls; burgers and – joy of joys! – cider on tap at Northwest brewpub chain McMenamins. 

Diamond Creek

Most of all it was nice to kick back and relax for a weekend.  Hotels and hostels are all well and good but it was great to be in a home for a couple of days (especially as Sarah’s house is gorgeous and has left me full of ideas should I ever swap my Victorian terrace for a more modern place: her collection of vintage sixties & seventies furniture is incredible).  I loved Eugene too, which struck me as a very liveable town with a population heavily skewed to eco-conscious, left-leaning independent spirits.  Definitely my kind of place.

The best laid plans

Anyone who knows me will know that when it comes to planning trips, I make Owen Wilson’s character in The Darjeeling Limited (with his laminated itineraries and monogrammed luggage) look disorganised.  So when something goes wrong, as it did in San Francisco last Wednesday, I take it as a personal affront to my carefully typed schedule.

Things had been going pretty well in San Francisco but I’d definitely seen all I wanted or needed to.  The huge numbers of tourists made it hard to move around the downtown area without getting stabby and the equally large numbers of beggars, street corner ranters and itinerants did not make for a relaxing time.  I’d seen Golden Gate Park, the Haight and the Castro & Mission districts, rented a bike and cycled across the bridge to Sausalito… in short, all the things I had written on that schedule.  Ready to leave on Wednesday morning, Richard and I sat with our bags waiting to be picked up by the tour company with whom we were booked on a 3 day tour of Yosemite National Park.  We waited, and we waited…. and we waited some more.  The hostel receptionist eventually took pity on us and phoned the company to find out where our pick-up was.  In short, there would be no pick-up.  The tour company (Yosemite Bug Bus) had no record of my booking and the 3 day tour had been cancelled as not enough people had signed up.  Their attitude was a kind of "meh, what can you do?" despite the fact that I was clutching my confirmation email in my now-clenched fist.  So, with no way of getting to Yosemite and more importantly, with no place to stay for the next two nights, I had a mini-nervous breakdown in the lobby of the hostel. 

To cut a VERY long story short we did manage to find beds for both nights (the lovely staff at USA Hostels even gave us a discount for the Wednesday) and we signed up with a different company for a day tour to Yosemite.  All’s well that ends well?  Not quite.  Throw in a bus malfunction on the way back from the national park and the grottiest room in the grottiest hostel I’ve ever seen.  I wish I’d taken photos to capture the horror.  On the up side, Yosemite Valley is just about the most beautiful place I have ever seen.  Which made it even more of a shame that instead of three days there, we had three hours.

Further tales of the city

One place I did like very much in San Francisco was the GLBT museum in the Castro.  A small but perfectly formed space, the exhibits are wide ranging but all fascinating and I spent a happy couple of hours looking round.  My favourite things were a costume from the TV adaptation of Tales Of The City (which I enjoyed rereading whilst in San Francisco), and this fab poster from their archive of GLBT ephemera.

Tales of the city

A delayed train meant I arrived here in San Francisco at midnight on Friday night.  Collapsing into the hostel bed and enjoying the novelty of being on solid ground, I slept like a log and woke to find I'd slept through my alarm and therefore would miss the walking tour I was booked on.  Oops.  One quick call and I'd rebooked for Monday, so instead joined the hostel walking tour to acquaint myself with the local neighbourhood (or so I thought). 

A three mile march through Chinatown, North Beach, up to the Coit Tower and down to Embarcadero and the piers ensued, not quite the short stroll I had envisaged.  The tour was a good opportunity to get to know a few other travellers from the hostel, though, and after being left at Pier 39 we went to get some clam chowder for lunch.  Served in a huge sourdough bread roll (a bit like bunny chow, for my South African readers) the chowder was delicious: creamy and packed with seafood.  The sun was out, so we wandered along the pier and watched the sea lions basking in the sun and gazed across the bay to the Golden Gate Bridge, Marin headlands and to Alcatraz sitting in the middle of the water.

Yesterday took me to Golden Gate Park and on to the Haight district.  A quick visit to Amoeba records (quick because Richard arrives on Monday and will definitely want to shop there) threw up Wild Beasts' Two Dancers  for $1.99 and Resolver by Veruca Salt for $1!  The Haight reminded me a bit of Camden in London: tons of tourists, lots of drug casualties and homeless people, hippy shops and the smell of incense wafting around.  It was interesting to think about what it must have been like in 1967 but it's been thoroughly commercialised now.

Today I've been 'Cruising The Castro' on a walking tour which covered lots about LGBT history in San Francisco.  From the Castro, I walked to the Mission district down the hill and hit book gold at Dog-Eared Books (what a great name for a bookstore) where I found a Kristin Hersh autobiography I've been wanting for a while.  Community Thrifted is just up the road and if I'd realised everything was 50% off I could have come out at least 5 books heavier.  As it was, I limited myself to Out Of The Ordinary: Essays On Growing Up With Gay, Lesbian & Transgender Parents and a book about books.  Together, they set me back a whole $1.09. 

Now I'm waiting for lil' brother Richard to arrive later tonight.  I've been travelling on my own since leaving New York and really enjoyed it but it will be good to have someone to share all these sights and sounds with.

As seen from the train window

Empty highway in northern Virginia

Abandoned station building in Texas

River canyon in Texas

Mountains in New Mexico

4000 miles

I enter a kind of meditative Zen state, capable of gazing out of the window and watching the scenery roll by for hours at a time.  My books go unread, my films unwatched, my writing is not getting done.  The view doesn’t change: at the moment through Texas and New Mexico it's dusty rock, scrubby green and brown bushes, cacti, the occasional dry river bed, low hill or shallow canyon.  I could get a better view in the lounge car, which has larger windows and views of both sides of the train, but that would mean leaving the glorious, silent isolation of my room, this tiny space which contains everything I need and nothing I don’t.  For someone who loves solitude, this journey is blissful.  Just me, a room and 4000 miles of American landscape passing before me like a film reel.  And America is impossible to look at and not think of movies: the cactus-studded promontory looking like it belongs in a Western; the busy Manhattan street with yellow cabs straight out of a Woody Allen film; the small town in rural Georgia where Fried Green Tomatoes At The Whistlestop Café was filmed.

I have become an expert at typing whilst looking outside; not wanting to miss a second of the scene laid before me, empty and repetitive though it may be.  Two years as a secretary and I never mastered this skill: two days on the train and I have it down pat.

When I do venture out of my room, the train becomes a challenge for someone who is a)  full of English reserve, and b) shy.  The other passengers are all American, as far as I can tell, and insist on certain social protocols being followed. You must greet everyone with “Hi how are you?” and take your leave with “Have a nice day/journey”.  When sitting next to someone (for example, the dining car has community seating so as I’m travelling on my own, I always get put into a spare seat with a group of 2 or 3 others) there are 3 key questions: Where are you from? Where are you going? Where did you come from on this journey?  You rapidly find out more about people’s lives than you might know about your own family’s business in England.  From Denise & Chuck, I learn about their cross-country journey from Florida to Phoenix, where a brain surgeon is going to attempt radical and last-chance-at-life surgery on their 8 year old, who lies on Chuck’s lap holding his head.  With an elderly couple from LA, whose names I never learn, I discuss Nancy Drew books and what we ate in New Orleans.  A teacher working at an international school in Mexico gives me her email address in case I fancy a change of scene: Leicester to Latin America.  A meeting with a college professor from Berkeley and subsequent flirtation over the course of the two day journey leaves me imagining what life might be like in California, just as the previous day I was imagining life in Mexico.  I enjoy these interludes but always return with a sense of relief to my room where I can resume my staring in uninterrupted silence.

The big easy

I have wanted to visit New Orleans for so long that, like a long-anticipated party or Christmas as an excitable child, I felt sure it would be a disappointment, would not be what I expected.  But the crumbling plaster, the iron balconies, the oily heat that coats your skin, the lush foliage trailing from upper storeys… everything is exactly how I imagined it would be.  Bourbon and Decataur Streets are both reminiscent of Blackpool or the tackiest parts of Ibiza, but the rest of the French Quarter (and indeed the rest of the city that I see) is an essay in faded beauty.   

I think my two favourite things over the 3 days I am there are the bike tour I take with Confederacy of Cruisers and the Katrina exhibition at The Presbytere.  Jeff, the guide on the bike tour, is witty and knowledgeable and it’s nice to leave the French Quarter behind and see areas (mainly the Fabourg Marigny and Bywater districts) where residents live, work and go to school.  I haven’t been on a bike for a few years and was slightly concerned that I wouldn’t cope with cycling in decidedly non-English temperatures.  I needn’t have worried: the fixed gear bikes are super easy to ride on the flat streets of New Orleans and the breeze when cruising is a pleasant way to cool off.  It leaves me itching to get a bike when I return home to the almost as flat Leicester streets.

I’ve been reading New Orleans-based books while I’m here: Poppy Z Brite’s Lost Souls, the New Orleans classic A Confederacy of Dunces and, having picked up a copy in New York specially, Zeitoun by Dave Eggers, which is good preparation for The Presbytere. The Katrina exhibition is amazing and I spend a lot of my time there biting my lip, willing myself not to cry.  Lots of photographs, recorded testimony, video and donated objects (everything from a mud-encrusted teddy bear to the wall of an apartment on which a resident wrote his diary).  I stumble out into the sunshine of Jackson Square full of awe at the resilience and spirit of the residents of New Orleans.

I want to be a part of it

New York – and specifically Manhattan – have long been dear to my heart, but on this visit it’s Brooklyn that I fall for.  Our cousins live in Crown Heights, an area that while rough around the edges has its fair share of funky bars and vintage stores.  And in fact that’s precisely what we spend our first afternoon doing: walking to Prospect Park and then round Prospect Heights and Crown Heights, ducking into vintage shops ($100 dollars for a dress, anyone?!) and ending up at Franklin Park, a dark neighbourhood bar with pear cider on tap.

The following two days are blisteringly hot and many of our plans go out of the window.  Finding that the Strand bookstore on Broadway has air conditioning, we loiter for a couple of hours (no great hardship) and leave with a stack of books between us. 

Other great discoveries: 

A bookstore in downtown Brooklyn which is open till 10 at night - great to browse after a few cocktails.

Magnolia Bakery in Greenwich Village. 

Lunch at Grey Dog on University between 11th & 12th Streets.  Their homemade lemonade really hit the spot after a morning in 38 degree temps.

Brooklyn Flea on Saturday morning was a great final stop and I wished I could fill up my bag with goodies.  If I’d been flying home that day I would’ve done so, but I didn’t think the vintage maps, street signs and other tempting ephemera would survive a 5000 mile trip round the States so we left empty-handed.