A thousand lives: One Saturday in NYC

How does one spend a Saturday alone in New York?
This question has so many answers that planning my day whilst Rain was at work was really quite stressful; my indecision and need for perfection kicked in and I just couldn't decide what to do because ohh what if I picked the wrong thing (and the love of my life was where I'd decided not to go)?? Ohh the stress of having so many choices.

In the end I headed for the Metropolitan Museum Of Art, walking there through Central Park.
Central Park on a sunny Saturday morning is really something else. The spirit of the American Dream hangs in the air and hovers in all the well organised group activities. It is so tangible you can smell it. It sells itself to you. I want to live here and get married and have a job and children and be happy.
Whilst looking at the map of Central Park a man gave me directions, enquiring whether I wanted the quick route or the scenic route. It was very scenic but I did also get really quite lost. It didn't matter though; strolling through the park, with all its people watching and views, was a near perfect way to spend a Saturday morning.

When I did eventually reach the Met, I sat on its grand steps, just because Serena and Blair do in Gossip Girl. I'm so Upper East Side.
As I sat, a middle aged woman in a fabulous straw hat started dancing to the gospel choir who were performing, much to the embarrassment of her son.

The Met was brilliant.
I was truly inspired by some of it, scrawling away notes and ideas in my shabby notebook.
I became obsessed with Georgia O'Keeffe, standing for hours in front of her outrageously suggestive close ups of petals and unfurling flowers. I was reminded of Angela Carter and her celebration of the sensual and female sexuality. I was transfixed.
My spell was only broken when a boy asked me if I liked it. 'Like' is maybe the wrong word; I was attracted and drawn to it. I found myself telling him all about Carter, and its meaning, although our conversation rapidly moved on to my accent, with a demand that I say something British. He genuinely whooped with joy when I offered him a cup of tea and was equally delighted when, thanking me for my time, I shook his hand. The joys of being British.

I also became obsessed with a portrait of a naked woman, stretched out on a bed, her open eyes turned towards mine. I tried to decide what it was that made me return to that painting every time that I left it. It must have been her eyes; they were open but it was almost as though she didn't have any. They were empty and full of a hostile challenge. They were huge and blank and encapsulating.

The wooden artwork from various tribes of Oceania, central to culture and traditions, were like nothing I'd ever seen before and were fascinating and terrifying.

The beautiful Greek bust of a young man with a full head of intricate curls was also stunning; his beauty was made only more striking by the imperfections of his missing nose.

I left the Met feeling truly enriched and inspired, which I know sounds like something a teacher would say, but it's true; I want to paint close ups of flowers and drift wood, and do portraits in the style of Charles Demuth. I plan to do this asap and seriously recommend that everyone visit the Met: the beautiful glassed ceiling hall in which the Greek statues are majestically displayed is alone is worth seeing.

I then walked down Fifth Avenue, feeling very Upper East side in my cat eye sunglasses, stopping off at Barney's and Bloomingdale's for some quick (window) shopping, as well as successfully buying Salt Water Taffy on request of a friend.

It was then just a quick subway ride to my spiritual home: Little Italy. Italian New Yorkers: I couldn't really be happier and thus have already planned dinner out one evening this week in one of the many traditional Italian restaurants that line the entire length of Grand Street, which is nestled, strangely enough, in the midst of Chinatown. I wandered through here and then into Soho and the boutique shops off Broadway. I even found Topshop, which left me feeling very much like I was at home and in desperate need of a cup of tea.
By this point my feet were starting to ache and the air was just beginning to turn old and uncomfortable, the way it does in New York in summer time at late afternoon, as the day wilts and before the night has been newly born, so I hopped on the subway back to 59th Street, Columbus Circle, and once again found myself in Central Park.
I settled myself at the base of a tree and watched the picnickers and toddlers, the tourists and the dog walkers, the soft ball players and the buskers, and enjoyed several Chinese plums I had bought from a Chinese fruit stall in Chinatown (ignoring the warning that they were 'very sweet' - I thought I would probably cope - as well as the temptation of Dragon fruit, also called Chinese Kiwi, as I just didn't know how I'd ever get past the curled waxy pink leaves and into the fruit), as well as some crystallised ginger that was big in Chinatown, and absolutely delicious, although some bits were so strong it made me cough!

I lay there in a calm, heat induced stupor, until I finally found the energy to drag myself back to the hostel and in order to greet Rain from work and make plans for the evening.
I'm not sure why, perhaps due to how much I'd done, or the difference in the places I'd been to, but Saturday seemed to stretch out endlessly, far beyond the six hours I'd actually been out exploring for. The Met seemed like days ago. Time had dissipated and warped. Maybe that's what's so magical about New York City; there's so much to do see and so much to do and so many places to go that it can feel like you've lived a lifetime, as a hundred different lives, in just one short day.