The Bowery Hotel, New York City

I’ve now been in New York since September 7, 2009… less than two months. I arrived from Australia and stayed at The Bowery Hotel (my 2nd time) before stumbling across a craigslist advertisement for a two-bedroom apartment in East Williamsburg, Brooklyn. The girl on the end of the line said to “get out of bed, pack your bags and get a cab here now!” Glancing lazily at the clock it was 4pm: a late-late check out but the girls behind the desk were actually happy that I’d chosen to live in Brooklyn as they all lived there too, and so the late-late check out was complimentary.

The Bowery Hotel. Gah, I love it. Wood-paneled elevators, Moroccan tiles, faded Oriental rugs, and the rooms with their factory-style windows. The whole place is handsome and depending on who is there, has a quasi 19th century artist-studio feel. The bathrooms are so rock n roll: water therapy, my friends, is good and these tubs are deep. The lobby is romantically lit, with old iron lamps and the fire places with many velvety big ornate lounge chairs and wooden tables, like an Old World drawing room.

I guess I had to leave the Bowery’s pillowy fantasy world and the bath tub and get on with life. The girl on the other end of the phone, Jessica, seemed adamant about it. Always a good thing to trust someone when you can’t (re jet lag induced coma state) trust yourself. Jessica turned out to be an avant-garde fashion designer and her house underneath mine is like an oasis. She greeted me and gave me a mattress, a towel, and a pillow. I slept draped in my long black coat, in a desolate flat that first night.
Contemplating the thought of leaving ... noooo

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