Runnin’ & Gunnin’ in NYC

I’ve been living in New York for 45 days, and I think I’m just starting to figure this place out. Call it the first step in a thousand-mile journey.

Now, before I get into that, I woke up at four in the morning today. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Why? Because I went to bed at eight o’clock last night. Why? Because I’ve been runnin’ and gunnin’ for a month and a half in the city that never sleeps. 45 days of living life on my terms: fast, spontaneous, and exciting as hell.

But, as Newton’s third law states: for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Suffice it to say, mine came.

The previous day was like any other:

7:15am – Woke up, coffee, wrote, read.

12:30pm – Lawn Bowling match in Central Park, which I lost in another damn tiebreaker.

1:50pm – Walked home, showered, put on a suit and tie, and walked back to Central Park.

2:30pm – Two-hour lunch meeting at Le Pain in Central Park (coincidentally, next to the Lawn Bowling clubhouse).

4:40pm – Took train downtown.

5:30pm – Meeting at the Down Town Association.

7:15pm – Took train uptown.

8:00pm – Meeting at the University Club, cigars.

11:00pm – Pastrami sandwich that could’ve fed a family of four at a diner on 7th Ave.

12:30am – Got home, undressed, and laid on the couch as my body began to wind down.

1:15am – Got into bed.

It was a normal day, but my tank was officially empty when it was over. No more topping it off with caffeine or squeezing in another nap. Game – set – match.

It’s seven in the morning right now and I’ve already had two cups of coffee and a cigar that I lit at 5:45 when the sun was rising over Manhattan. The sky, at least the part that’s visible from the canyon of buildings I’m engulfed in, is eggshell blue. And it’s quiet. The city is just starting to wake up. Black birds are swooping around in figure-eight patterns as jets pass by in straight lines.  

I’m sitting on my patio looking south at a fiery mix of oranges being cast upon The Pierre’s limestone. It looks like a monk’s robe is draped over it, minus the reflective sheen of the silk. The moon was at eleven o’clock, as bright as a golf ball, but now it’s approaching one o’clock.

The last 45 days have been a blur. I have no idea how many meetings I’ve attended, but close to a hundred. I’ve been in subways, taxis, buses, and my loafers are filing for divorce. A German cobbler on 49th St served me on grounds of cruelty and infidelity, which is a lie, at least the infidelity part. I was only looking in the John Lobb store. When did that become a crime? I haven’t cheated on Allen Edmonds in the 15 years we’ve been together, hand to God.

I’ve been to ten movies, three plays, two concerts, one museum, and the opera. I’ve visited a dozen bookstores and bought enough books to fill a small library.

I’ve visited SoHo, NoHo, and NoMad; Chinatown, Downtown, and Stuyvesant Town; Upper West Side, Upper East Side, and the Lower East Side; East Village, West Village, and Greenwich Village; Midtown, Murray Hill, and the Meatpacking District; Tribeca, Chelsea, Little Italy, and Nolita; the Financial District and Flatiron District; and I took the tram to Roosevelt Island.

I’ve eaten hot dogs from vending carts and enjoyed caviar at a two-star Michelin restaurant. I’ve lost count of how many places I’ve bought a slice of pizza from.

I’ve smoked cigars or dined at the Harvard Club, Union League Club, Anglers Club, Explorers Club, Down Town Association, and University Club.  

I’ve seen a drunkard defecate on the street, a heroin addict shoot up in the subway, and, just when you think it couldn’t get any more dispiriting, a homeless man pleasuring himself in broad daylight. It ain’t all glitz and glamor.

I’ve met poets, playwrights, media personalities, bankers, architects, lawyers, journalists, haberdashers, professors, nonprofit directors, academics, actors, musicians, ministers, restaurateurs, anarchists, Marxists, and a variety of intellectuals and entrepreneurs.

45 days in the greatest city in the world. And I am exhausted. The Big Apple got its pound of flesh. How arrogant to believe I would be the exception to the rule.

So…what have I learned? A lot, but two things stand out.

First – To quote Mr. Keating, “Sucking the marrow out of life doesn’t mean choking on the bone.” In other words, pace yourself. New York and all of its trappings will be there tomorrow.

Second – Humbly accept you will never understand this city. It’s single-handedly the most complex and beautifully intricate social experiment in the history of mankind. Nine million humans call it home. To put that in perspective, thirty-eight states have a smaller population. How about a crazier number - the GDP of New York City is $1.2 trillion. To put that into perspective, of the 209 recognized nations on the planet, NYC beats 193 of them. On top of that, over eight hundred different languages are spoken. It’s not meant to be understood. It’s meant to be enjoyed.

The moon is sitting at two o’clock now, which means the city is awake and it’s time to get my ass in gear. I’m under no illusion that I’ll permanently slow down; that ain’t my style - maybe I’ll moderate.

But if you know me, you’d put your money on a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest over me hitting the brakes. Here’s to the next 45 days!