Us, out on the town, not thinking about dogs at all.
How did we get there?
Exhausted from three intense days of activity, we were finally able to sleep in. By 11:00 a.m., however, I started to panic--we were wasting the day! I got up and fussed around, whining about how Ben should get up right away. At last, he did. How could he sleep with my nagging?
We perused a few city magazines and decided to head back to Chelsea. I wanted to see art, but rather than pay a lot of money and feel compelled to see every corner of MOMA or the Met, Ben suggested the galleries. Free art. Exactly what we needed.
In one of the city guides, we found a list of a handful of "don't miss" galleries, so off we went, after a long deliberation in the doorway of the hotel about whether or not we should wear our coats. Ben's cigarette break earlier in the morning confirmed an unusually warm day outside--and rain. Did we want to lug around heavy hot coats that would soon get soaking wet? We decided we did not.
But as we came out onto the sidewalk, the rain was coming down hard. How would we wander romantically around Chelsea in this deluge? We turned around and went back to the Milford gift shop. We bought two tacky pink rain ponchos and a meager umbrella. And then we headed back out again, fearlessly, into the rain. We didn't look fashionable. And we matched! It was romantic in its own silly way. Because after all, it was the day before Valentine's Day!
We walked under a scaffold to the corner, then only had to cross one street, leaping over the puddles, to get to the subway. We travelled as close as we could to our target, then walked about six blocks to the area of concentrated galleries. I admit to getting the most benefit from the umbrella.
Wet and cold, our fingers stiffening, we walked quickly, and finally found the Paula Cooper Gallery--or, as we were soon to learn, one of the Paula Cooper galleries. I had read about an exhibition of the work of political artist Hans Haacke, but instead, we discovered an exhibition called Wood. We particularly liked this wooden block by Jackie Winsor called Fifty Fifty (1975), "a 40-inch cubic structure made of more than 1,500 wooden strips regularly spaced and nailed crosswise to each other in successive layers. The piece contains as much negative space (created by the space between each strip) as wood." (According to the Gallery's website.)
But the exhibit we sought was just across the street, so after examining the small spaces (and an interesting stairwell), we crossed the street to the other Paula Cooper gallery (we would pass a third on the way back to the hotel). This was the one we wanted. We enjoyed this couch with its amusing political embroidered pillow:
Then we walked into the space with Haacke's sculpture, Wide White Flow (recreated from his 1967 sculpture). This amazing yet simple construction--an experiment with matter and energy--is a giant white silk sheet (water-stained due to a leak in the roof that dripped down from the vaulted ceiling and bare rafters), anchored in four corners of the room, the sheet covered three fans on the far end of the room that send streams of air beneath the silk, causing it to undulate like ocean waves. Mesmerized, we stood and stared for many minutes, then took pictures and this video. (Press play, below, to see it.)
By the time we our had finished our enraptured "Wide White Flow" gazing, the rain had let up--Haacke was right, everything is always changing, nothing is static. So we wandered around Chelsea, past other galleries. We stopped here and there, peering in windows and admiring interesting exteriors. We went inside the Chelsea Art Gallery but didn't pay the admission. Instead, we warmed up and browsed the gift shop, then realized it was time to get over to The Daily Show. We had scored tickets a few months ago, and the instructions said to arrive at 3:30. And it was already 3:30! But we knew the doors didn't open until 5:15, so we figured we had plenty of time.
But by the time we arrived, at about 3:45, the line to get into the studio stretched around three blocks! We took our place at the end, sodden and only a little discouraged. After all, we had tickets. Surely we would make it inside. As Ben held our places, I walked back around to the front of the line where I had seen a deli. I got some cash and bought two cups of coffee to warm us up. Then I bought a pretzel and a hot dog at a vendor, smartly parked near the middle of the line. Ben and I stood there for an hour, slowly sipping and chewing and ruminating on whether we would really get to see Jon Stewart in person.
Then Ben noticed a couple of people handing out cards to everyone in line. When they got to me, they handed me a white card with a #1 on it. Ben got a #2. Numbers one and two? That sounded promising. Until a young man called out, "Who has the white card with the number one?" I raised my hand. He came over and to us, looking apologetic. "You're the first stand-by," he said. Everyone behind us groaned. "However many of our VIPs don't show up, that's how many stand-bys we'll let in," he continued. He looked at me. "When the line starts moving, you stop at the door. Don't come in until we tell you." I sighed. All right. What could we do? We should have arrived earlier.
But this story has a happy ending. Thirty long, cold minutes later, after some enthusiastic fluffing by a gregarious guy who stood outside getting us excited about the show and encouraging us to think of good questions for Jon, the line did start moving, and I did stop dutifully in front of the door. And we did get in. So did a handful of people behind us. They guided us through the studio, having explained that we were not allowed to take any pictures or ask Jon for an autograph.
They guided us to back-row, back-corner seats, but in the small studio, every seat was a good one. There it was, the Daily Show set we know so well, right there in front of us. Loud alternative rock music played as everyone filed in. Then a young girl told everyone they had exactly five minutes to use the bathroom. They would not be allowed to get up during the show, and if they didn't make it back within five minutes, they would not be allowed back into the studio. At least 40 people stood up--strangely, they were mostly men--and filed out, then back in.
Next, a comedian came out to warm up the crowd. He did his routine, bantering with the audience, and even made a crack about Iowa, and how Barack Obama must be doing very well if he won in Iowa. Ben woo-hooed and he asked us if we were from Iowa. Of course, we yelled "Yes!" He asked what color we were. "Um...white?" "See?" he laughed. "Everybody in Iowa is white." We didn't bother to disagree with him, even though we are from diverse and multi-cultural Iowa City.
Finally, Jon came out and people asked him a few questions. Does he have a celebrity crush? (He does think Stephen Colbert is pretty cute.) Who does he think will win Best Picture at the Academy Awards? (He pretended not to know he was hosting, then admitted he would pick No Country for Old Men. Turns out, he was right!) Then, the show started, and they announced that this was the very first show with the writers, newly back from the strike. The show, that had been going by the moniker A Daily Show, would now return to its original name, The Daily Show. Then, to make matters more exciting, they began with a bit about the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, and Uno winning! ("A decisive victory in the War on Terrier.") Jon delivered the line sardonically, then made a crack about how the writers had this much time off, and this is what he gets?
We yelled as loud as we could, hoping our voices would be audible on TV, and had a great time. At the end, they linked via video with Stephen Colbert, and Jon and Stephen joked around for a few minutes, talking to the audience about what they had for lunch. Then they filmed their usual segment. At the end, we watched them film the intro for their weekly international segment, that plays worldwide. Then we filed out. We walked past the stage, Ben was looking at Jon's desk, and the girl who had directed people to their seats handed a stack of blue papers to Ben. "Do you want these?" It was Jon Stewart's script! If you watch the show, you've seen him scribble all over the papers in front of him on the desk. That's what she handed us--complete with his doodles. Swirls and lines and random scribbles from Jon Stewart's pen.
A girl behind us asked, "Hey! How did you get that? Can I see? I always wanted to know what he was writing."
"She just gave it to us," I said. "She must have thought Ben was cute." We examined the papers together.
"I always suspected he wasn't really writing anything," she said.
Although they had told us early on in the experience that we weren't allowed to take any pictures or ask Jon for an autograph, a few people took some quick cell phone shots in the lobby while exiting. I snapped this one, on my phone, of a life-sized poster of Jon Stewart. It was as close to the real thing as I was going to get.
We left the studio, cursing ourselves that we hadn't worn our coats. Our clothes still damp, we shivered in the chilly night air, but walked briskly and bravely towards our next destination, the fashionable bar we've visited many times before, and its accompanying restaurant, where we've never yet eaten because we always arrive too late: Philippe Starck's fabulous Hudson Hotel and Hudson Cafeteria.
We always know we've arrived at the Hudson Hotel by the preternatural yellow glow. Walk inside and you are confronted with more of this strange glow, and an inviting (or not) glowing escalator.
We ascended, and headed straight to the restaurant, ordered drinks (Stoli Martini, Manhattan), then looked over the menu I've admired for five years now...without ever getting to order anything! We enjoyed our drinks and the beautiful, warm, dark atmosphere for nearly an hour before ordering. This wasn't due to indecision. I've known for five years what I would order. We wanted to savor an experience we knew would be expensive--and it was, after all, our early Valentine's Day.
At last, I ordered the Butternut Squash soup with wild mushrooms, the flatbread with tomato jam and tapanade, and the Macaroni and Cheese (the restaurant is known for its haute comfort food), and Ben ordered the skirt steak. The food was good, if not quite as over-the-top-good as I expected. The one exception: the flat bread tasted old and storebought and the spreads were nothing special, but the waiter removed it from our bill. The soup was probably the best part.
After dinner, we visited the interesting restrooms, then wandered out into the small narrow lobby. In the lobby at the Hudson Hotel, vines and trees grow everywhere and a magnificent chandelier sports holograms of lightbulbs. The bar itself glows like some kind of alien fairyland, with a lit-up floor and pulsing psychedelia, but somehow organic and woodsy at the same time. Ben especially likes the long log with chairbacks inserted into the wood.
But the cocktail waitress told Ben he couldn't leave his camera bag on the floor, and we didn't want to check it with coat check, so we went to The Library, the other, warmer, cozier bar. We hung out, chatted with other patrons, and finally decided we didn't need to buy any more $18 drinks.
We meandered home but couldn't resist stopping in to Thalia, one of our favorite bars. We've eaten here before--great oysters--but didn't need to eat this time, so we ordered drinks and enjoyed the atmosphere and our last night in Manhattan.
Ben likes to disappear into stairwells and bathrooms to take pictures, often of himself. It's weird and annoying because I sit there by myself for extended periods and odd people inevitably try to talk to me. But sometimes he gets some cool shots. Like in the bathroom at Thalia:
Finally, we headed back to the Milford, on foot. The rain had stopped but it was cold. I had shed my pink poncho but Ben kept his on..."to break the wind." It fluttered behind him like a billowy dress. Back at the hotel, we took a quick one-hour nap. Then we got up, packed, and hailed a taxi at 3:30 a.m., to catch our flight at 6:00 a.m. I was a little concerned--I thought we should have left earlier--but I needn't have worried. I had no idea we had just entered the cab from hell! This cab driver sped through New York City at a harrowing pace. Now, we've been in plenty of taxis. Fast taxis. But this was a taxi in a whole other class of taxis. This was a turbo-taxi. We sat in terrified silence, clinging to our arm-rests in the back seat. As we went practically airbourne over the bridge, Ben murmured, "Tell me when I should scream so I don't die a silent death."
Click on this photo if you want to get an idea of what our cab ride was like:
And yet, somehow, we lived. "That was very...um...fast," I said to the driver, who ignored me (but took the tip). The upside of that death-defying pace was plenty of time to mosey on through security, where we knew Ben would have to endure more high-end security treatment due to his expired I.D. On the plane at last (that jet airliner seemed rather pokey in comparison to the cab ride), we finally slept, all the way to Detroit, and all the way to Moline. We didn't even take any pictures.
Arriving, bleary-eyed, at around 9:00 a.m. in Moline, we found our car and drove home. And that, as they say, was that.
