Lost in SoHo

I have a habit of going out for morning coffee in Manhattan and not coming back for hours on end. Little did I know, on this particular day, I was about to embark on an odyssey through SoHo.

I woke up around eight o’clock, debating whether I’d get my morning coffee in Chelsea or in the Village (first world problems, I know). I settled on revisiting a place I’ve come to love off 6th and 11th called Travelers Poets & Friends. It’s an Italian shop that has a bakery, bar, and restaurant, but my vice is the vanilla latte.

I enjoyed my coffee, read the paper, and chatted with the Italian speaking baristas when I wasn’t people watching. An hour later, it was time for a second cup of coffee, but the wanderlust in me took control of the reins.

Here is a good place to stop and explain how my brain works. I prefer taking the scenic route – always. It doesn’t matter if I’m in New Orleans, Carmel, or simply driving to the local library. You can bank on me finding every piece of interesting architecture and historical landmark and visiting them, to the exclusion of everything else. I can’t help it. I truly can’t. There’s a skipper in my brain whose call sign is Captain Disaster. He’s an excursionist who despises maps, itineraries, and clocks. He has full control of my faculties and operates with a broken compass.

I walked down 6th and hooked a left on Waverly Place to cut through Washington Square Park. It was a dreary morning, just crummy enough to ensure that those who didn’t need to be outside stayed inside. Having parts of New York to yourself is lovely. After taking photos of The Row, my internal compass (who doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground) had me on every side street in Greenwich Village with no intention of using my phone as a map.

The objective was Vesuvio Bakery on Prince Street in SoHo, which I eventually stumbled into for my second cup of coffee. Vesuvio’s is one of those quintessential New York institutions; a bijou café dripping with charm and a patina that takes a century’s worth of New York seasons to acquire. The coffee was delicious, but the $0.90 rainbow cookie is to die for.

This is the point where normal men head back to where they came from, shower, shave, and get their day going. But Captain Disaster had other plans.

I explored every nook and cranny in SoHo, and how could you not? There isn’t anywhere else like it on the planet. SoHo, despite its gentrification issues, is unequivocally gorgeous. So, I walked around with my coffee and took photographs. The rain had picked up beyond a light mist, but not enough for an umbrella, so I kept on… to Little Italy.

I had never been and figured, why not? It’s only a few blocks southeast of SoHo. I must admit, of all the neighborhoods in Manhattan, this one is terribly underwhelming. I saw several restaurants that I’m sure are delicious, but my God… how many ‘Daddy’s Little Meatball’ t-shirts can be sold in a several-block radius? Little Italy is basically a bunch of abysmal tourist shops that appear to be owned by the same person. I wasn’t impressed, so I walked a few blocks to Chinatown.

I was a bit amazed how you can cross a single street and EVERYTHING changes. Literally everything. Chinatown is a world unto itself. Streets are draped with red and yellow balls, there isn’t a single storefront in English, and it’s packed with Chinese people. Not that I didn’t see Italians in Little Italy, but rest assured the differences between the two are massive.

I visited Doyers Street because my curiosity was bubbling over after research on Chinatown. Doyers is known as the bloodiest street in America, with Chinese gangs fighting over this curvy two-hundred-foot stretch of lower Manhattan for over a century. What was once a street full of opium dens, tenements, and brothels, today is lined with tiny restaurants and salons, but for decades, it was an all-out war zone that was fought with machetes. I find this stuff fascinating.

I eventually found my way to Bowery Street and walked in the opposite direction of the World Trade Center in an effort to get back to where I came from. Little did I know where I was. For starters, the Bowery is a far cry from the New York I’m accustomed to – it ain’t the West Village. It’s gritty, covered with graffiti, and unusually authentic. I was mesmerized. No trip to Manhattan is complete without a walk through this neighborhood.

Time seems to have stood still (at least where I was). Shops that appear straight out of the ‘70s are still in business, even if their storefronts haven’t been painted since Koch was elected. But this is New York today, not the New York of yesterday. So just when you think you’ve come across a piece of ‘old New York,’ you see Whole Foods. It is what it is.

I took a left on Houston, spotted a Mickey Mouse mural on Mott Street by a street artist named Jerkface, and then it became official: I was lost. Really lost. Captain Disaster had done me in (but I was having a BLAST). I completely lost track of time, but since it was relativity early, I wasn’t concerned with missing meetings (I think my first one that day wasn’t until 2:30pm in the Upper East Side).

By this point I was three miles into a cup of coffee that was originally a few blocks from my place. But, and this is a BIG but, I was exploring a part of New York that I had never seen, and it was as handsome a place as I could have imagined. I live for this stuff.

Eventually, I ran into the REI shop on Lafayette Street, which is amazing. My God… only in New York. But somehow, I ended up walking south AGAIN (thinking I was heading north towards the Village). I passed a gorgeous building with metal shutters on Jersey Street en route (accidentally, of course) to the Old Police Headquarters on Broome and Centre. I had NO clue where I was, but I didn’t care. I was having too much fun. The next time I looked up, I was on the corner of Crosby and Prince, which is simply stunning. The point is – I’m quite sure there wasn’t another person in SoHo as lost as I was. And to be honest, I didn’t even know I was in SoHo.

Eventually, I used my phone to get my bearings and walked home, but not before visiting Washington Mews in the Village.

I spent the afternoon in meetings, and by the time I got home, I was exhausted. At this point, I was flirting with 20,000 steps, most of which were in the rain. I took my suit and tie off, laid down to rest, but damned if the old Captain didn’t have one more adventure in store, and it had to do with God’s gift to mankind: banana pudding.

I had read about Magnolia Bakery a while back and had their infamous pudding on my mind ever since. That said, I’m a banana pudding connoisseur. Actually, I’m a world-renowned expert. And not just pudding - I specialize in ice cream and popsicles too.

To quote the great Jackie Gleason, “I have no use for humility. I am a fellow with an exceptional talent.” That’s me with banana pudding. So off I went in the rain, but luckily it was just a few blocks from my place.

I could wax poetic on this pudding till the cows come home, but in the interest of keeping this piece under 1,500 words, trust me when I say it is THE best banana pudding on Earth. Gold medal. Numero uno. I thought I’d take one bite and finish it at home, but instead, I danced through the West Village in the throes of a euphoric love affair, eyes rolled back, a dopey smile on my face, clicking my heels on 11th Street like a sugar-drunken version of Gene Kelly in Singin’ in the Rain.

DEE – LISH – OUS! If you’re in Manhattan and need a taste of Dixie, Magnolia Bakery will transport you south of the Mason-Dixon line in one spoonful flat. But if you’re not Southern and just need a culinary escape that is borderline rapturous, it’ll do that too.

Boy Named Banjo

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