better make it count because you can't make it last!

With exactly a week remaining of my big city summer, it has become incumbent upon me to spend every instant in pursuit of new adventures. I had much of today free of work, so I set about this endeavor in my absolute favorite manner. I had only two goals for the day: to see Fraunces Tavern and St. John the Divine. I began with Fraunces Tavern, as it is at the bottom of the island, and planned to work my way up. Well, when I ventured down to the tavern where George Washington said farewell to his troops at the end of the Revolutionary War, I realized that I also wanted to see the former City Hall which was coincidentally the State and Nation’s capitol and where Washington was inaugurated! This led me to the Stock Exchange (I chuckled to myself as I stood behind the huge statue of GW and realized that he looks out on the very emblem of capitalism) which led me to Trinity Church, where Alexander Hamilton is buried. There was a pops band playing in the courtyard of the church, and I plopped down in the company of some fancy Wall Street suits to enjoy the music and read my book for a few minutes.

I went on my merry way after realizing that sitting still wasn’t getting me too far in the way of new sights! I meandered around the financial district a bit more, scoping out the Chrysler Building and NYC’s first skyscraper before heading to Union Square. I hadn’t planned on stopping there, but as I was walking I got a hankering for something sweet and knew just where to go. I have been following Big Gay Ice Cream on Twitter all summer and have heard rave reviews about this truck that travels around the city selling ice cream, but until today have never been in the right place at the right time. Well I found the truck and as I waited in the line that stretched halfway down the block, I watched as a young guy got down on one knee and proposed to his girlfriend with the ring and an ice cream cone! It was SUPER sweet (woah, no pun intended), and the guys that own the truck jumped up and down squealing and expressing their joy that now they too can get married in their home state.

The proposal was of course exciting, but it can’t hold a candle to “The Salty Pimp.” AKA—My ice cream cone. The cone was drizzled in caramel, sprinkled with sea salt, filled with vanilla, drizzled/sprinkled again, and dipped in chocolate. You haven’t LIVED until you have had a Salty Pimp! It put me in a good mood on my way to the office to get ready for tonight’s event.

An event it was—my generally eclectic crowd at the NYC Public Library was no less so tonight, though the speaker is a fashion editor for TIME Magazine and author of a book about Michelle Obama’s “power of style.” The attendees were primarily black females, with the exception of an Asian woman and one snickering, ”hmmphing” gentleman in the back. When the speaker was finished, he raised his hand to ask a question but instead informed the author that her topic of choice was “mere fluff” and that it was a waste of time and energy to continue to write about fashion. As you can imagine, the already rough crowd became incited; they argued about the importance of her topic from every angle from women’s suffrage to slavery. When an Asian woman with barely discernable English spoke up to criticize Michelle Obama for not wearing her hair naturally, the remaining audience became positively incensed. I was incredibly uncomfortable—I felt bad for the speaker as well as for her husband and young daughter who had not yet heard her speak since the book was recently released—and was counting the seconds until the host took control and ended the firing session.

Until just now, I had forgotten that last night’s event held a bit of an awkward moment as well. I was at the Princeton Club—it is just as hoity-toity as it sounds. It was a political event, and everyone was dressed to the nines. As members of the club toasted champagne and partook of their filet mignon, the speaker joked that he might need to take his jacket as a result of the New York heat. At that moment, all knives stopped cutting. No glasses clinked. Not a word was spoken until, just audibly, an old man at the table next to me grouched “and what? Be half naked?” The speaker stumbled over his words and muttered something about a joke and a tough crowd before straightening his tie and shoving his hands into his pockets. The rest of the evening went smoothly if not uneventfully, for which I was eternally grateful.

Monday night’s event was far more enjoyable even though it was equally fancy. It was a glamorous rooftop gala honoring two Jewish authors. The curator befriended me immediately upon arrival, and throughout the entire program slipped me handwritten notes under the table. By the time I realized that these notes were composed in Hebrew, it was too late to tell her I didn’t understand/wasn’t Jewish. We were already besties. She hugged me when I left, and I added her to the list of Jewish people who for some reason think I am one of them. On this list she joined the ranks of the man who held an hour long conversation with me about how much easier it is to be Jewish in Sweden (they follow all of the eating rules) and a woman I met on the train who wanted to bond over the difficulty of finding “a good Jewish boy.” I can’t be sure, but I don’t think it’s the blond hair/blue eyes combo that makes them think I’m one of them. Whatever it is, I hope it sticks around. This list is definitely one of my favorites.

In the vein of soaking up every minute, I am about to head out to see Harry Potter. I know I’m a terrible fan, that it’s almost 11, that I could conceivably watch HP when I get home—but it’s in IMAX! And I really want to see it. I never made it to St. John the Divine today, but hey, that's what tomorrow's for!So I will be posting soon about all of the rest of the things I can cram into the last few days, making them count!