Jeffrey and I went to New York for a very nice, and very chilly, post-Valentine's Day/President's Day weekend. This visit, we decided to embark upon the East Village hippie experience we always meant to have at NYU, but never got around to it. Yes, there's a fair amount of facetiousness in that statement. Relax already.
How does one go about this? First, one must stay in the reasonably hip Union Square area in a place that's fairly unheard of, fairly reasonable, and very clean (we're bohemians this weekend, not animals). Then one should explore thrift shops that sell a bunch of the same crap I played with when I was four, but is now being resold in dishevled, used incarnations for about twice the price my parents paid for it in 1984 all in the name of kitsch. A stop in an all-British owned chip shop for a deep fried Mars bar is nice. Followed by tea in the vegetarian tea shop owned by Moby (the Mobyteria, in Robyn parlance). Of the 96 types of tea (no hyperbole implemented), I selected a delicate oolong (great words always start with two vowels), which I was told was handpicked high in the treetops by monkeys. I questioned the ethics of a vegetarian tea house that chooses to employ monkey labor, but did not do so out loud, for I desired monkey tea without argument. Those monkeys pick some fine tea. I just hope they get decent benefits. I think I may have broken the flusher on Moby's toilet. Although I was too embarassed to notify the staff, I now tak ethe opportunity to say: "Moby, I'm sorry I broke your potty." We follwed the tea shop visit with a trip to a feminist bookshop that smelled like tasty coffee.
Bohemian Day was brought to a close with the requisite visit to oh-so-mainstream (and oh-so-pretty) Rockefeller Center. The visit lasted approximately four and a half minutes, for it was told as a citch's wit. Following day consisted of a visit to the Met, then home.
Thus endeth the entry that proves that Robyn is indeed "getting out."