Rufus Wainwright has a lyric that goes, “Always been a shoe made for the city,” which reminds me that as much as I’d like to consider myself a shoe for the city, I own no shoes made for it. It’s something I realized when I first moved to New York. Even my damn sneakers hurt my feet. And this trip was no exception. Day 1: Flat sandals = oh no no. Day 2: Neon heels = lots of cabs. Day 3: Wait, what’s this? My slouchy motorcycle boots from Steve Madden paired with socks = I got this.
My feet didn’t hurt when I shopped Chelsea Market. They didn’t burn when I explored the High Line. They didn’t ache when I brunched at The Standard. They didn’t bark when I got lost looking for Bleecker Street. From noon to nine I walked the city. I took in the sights. I took in the sounds, the tastes, the shopping. And my feet didn’t hurt. Finally, a shoe made for the city.
Here’s a look for my adventure that day.
Because what do I love more than anything else in the world? Rusted metal. Found this amazing door just down the street from The Standard, which btw makes the one back home feel like eating a rice cake when what you really want is a glazed donut.
The High Line is so beautiful. I only wish someone could make a green space of something time has forgotten back home.