Tao (NYC Day 5)

In true to SATC-form, the destination for my last dinner in New York was Tao. For SATC fans, this was the place Samantha brought her lesbian-phase girlfriend to meet the rest of the girls, and there was a giant Buddha statue by their table. Reservations were made, and I, along with a Parisian traveler also touring NY, made my way to Tao at 10pm. It's just the kinda place that's so swanky you only have dinner in the dead of the night.

Everything's very Asian-fusion, as their theme describes it. I don't know why 'fusion' was used, maybe because it happens to rhyme with 'Asian'. A lot of restaurants like describing their styles as so but what are they fusing it with? That part wasn't made explicitly clear to me. Is it a way to dodge questions about whether their chef's really Asian, or to charge exorbitant prices? "We don't need real Asian chefs, that's the whole point of fusion, come on! Keep up with the times already." It's very loud like the inside of a club, the lights are dim and decorations are mainly black and red. Perhaps they meant Asia fused with sex dungeon?

My new pal for dinner doesn't speak much English and I don't speak much French, but we meet each other halfway with a inter-spiced dialogue of both languages and somehow manage to understand each other. I, for one, was delighted to be able to put phrases we learnt in class to practical use, such as "what looks good on the menu", and "you have a real job so you're paying for my $40 filet mignon." So thankful I paid attention when they were doing the chapter on "10 everyday phrases for ripping strangers off".

We were seated about 5 meters away from the table they used in Sex and the City, and I was facing Giant Buddha directly. It was a moment of pure reverie as I breathed in the essence of opulent, over-priced fake Asian food. The oddly shaped menus were dizzying to my already intoxicated brain, and I settled on the shabu shabu steak with wasabi. "Shabu shabu", as explained by my attentive waitress, meant that I had to cook the thinly sliced filet mignon in a hot-pot at my own table. I wondered if there was a DIY style for drinks too, where they can just bring me a bottle of vodka and let me mix my own creations. The wasabi was an inspired addition to the flavor of the beyond tender meat. Quite honestly one of the best meals I've had in my life. 

Taking a break from my peach cosmo (peach schnapps instead of triple sec and peach juice instead of cranberry), I rested my inebriated head on the seat-back and looked up. There was a giant scroll of Chinese calligraphy decorating the ceiling, and realized that the Chinese name for Tao was "道". I explained to my Frenchie the meaning behind this restaurant's name, partly to snub him for only knowing one and a half languages. He, however, wasn't really interested or impressed and was apparently also fluent in Italian. Damn it. I was going to have to look for different ways to demean the guy paying for my dinner.

It was a thoroughly enjoyable experience. I stumbled out of Tao with my belly filled with cosmos and steak, feeling very much satisfied. I, however, am not the kind of person who crosses things off their 'to-do' list and be done with it. I don't want to check things off and never do them again; once I discover something I want to repeat it over and over until I hate it and ruin it for myself. (Precisely why I can't enjoy rum chocolate and casual sex anymore.) Some people go, "Oh that was delightful, now I can say I've been here." No, I want to come here so often they replace Buddha with my statue.

Returning to Madison after all this excitement sure is a drag. I'm very glad I was impulsive enough to get myself to New York for a fantastic holiday trip within such short notice. I feel so much at home in NY that leaving seems crazy. Where am I going? I'm already where I have to be. 

A Phantomy Christmas (NYC Day 4)

Ah, Christmas in New York. It's a magical, exciting idea, to stroll down Fifth Avenue and let myself be dazzled by the drippy lights of Fendi, or have a latte on the steps of St Patrick's Cathedral. (I generally don't visit grounds of worship for fear that I may be struck down before I'm allowed to step foot on holy ground, but this cathedral was so pretty that I had to risk it.) I just forgot that a million other tourists had the exact same idea.

"Sure, flock to New York and congest the streets with your strollers and puffy coats, why don cha?" I'd spit in the face of a baby if a parent's stunned reaction paralyzes them and allows me to sidestep them. Yeah I'm visiting too, but I'm not stopping every five feet to furiously snap photos at every last brick. You guys spent thousands to be here, so be here. What kind of vacation would it be if all you ever remembered was looking at it through a 3-inch screen? And for fuck's sake, your baby-stroller is a tripping hazard. They should invent strollers that levitate in the air like a balloon, and if it floats away, better view for the baby. 

I never knew the Rockefeller Tree was real, I always assumed they just put up a fake tree in Rockefeller Center every year. I guess I never looked too closely at the famous tree when it was on TV, 'cause honestly the word 'tree' paired with anything makes me sleepy, even if it's 'famous'. Unless it's 'tree-house', now that's a thrilling word, mostly because I never had one and have never been in one. No one owns trees in Singapore, building a tree-house would probably constitute as defacing government property. As a result, Freud would say I'm fixated. Tree-houses bring such a youthful, rebellious image to my mind, a place where little kids can be the man of their own house, away from their parents, and have kinky yet youthfully innocent explorations with the neighbor kid from down the street. Your mom'll then "drop by" and pretend that she's delivering cookies but really she just wants to check if you children are doing anything weird, because she's been young and knows what kids get up to the minute they're in a room by themselves, but since the tree-house is a fort, she'll have to ring a bell to have the step-ladder lowered, and by then all the evidence of any doctor-play have been stuffed behind pants and zippered up. 

I need to stop mourning the loss of my own childhood opportunities.

So there I am, packed in Rockefeller center with a thousand other people. It's a lot less idyllic than what Home Alone 2 made it out to be. You know it's unrealistic when Macaulay Cokehead Culkin's mom can find him by the Rockefeller Tree on Christmas day cause he's the only one there. In real life the kid would be lost among that crowd, probably 'till this day where he's 30, uneducated and scavenging on the streets of New York, occasionally receiving sexual favors from Pigeon Lady. I inch my way across the plaza and looked up at the monstrous tree. It's a lot fatter in person, I have to say. Very bottom heavy, pardon my insensitivity. 

My Christmas present to myself (there aren't many words sadder than these) was one ticket (oh, there we go) to the Christmas Day showing of 'Phantom of the Opera'. Like 'Chicago', I had previously seen the fantastic movie version and was thrilled to be able to see it performed live. I don't particularly like opera because it mysteriously manages to be both over-the-top yet boring at the same time.  'Phantom', however, was a classic that I enjoyed as a movie, and it must be amazing if its the longest ever running production on Broadway, ever. Still, at the back of my mind a little voice told me I should have went to see Daniel Radcliffe in 'How To Succeed' instead. I shall regret that to my dying day. 

I completely enjoyed 'Phantom', especially for the elaborate sets they deployed. 'Chicago' should take notes. These people sprung for actual flying chandeliers, dungeons with floating candles, magic disappearing acts and trick-floorboards - Chicago should be able to afford more than 5 chairs and 6 feather boas. When I watched the movie, I really rooted for Raoul, but for some reason I hated him in the play. Maybe because he's less attractive- I tend to do that sometimes. Have irrational bouts of anger towards uglies. Maybe because the play's version of the Phantom is a lot more sympathetic. I have always been drawn towards stories with an unhinged, stalker-ish love affair. Clear-headed people go crazy in love, but crazies in love just become more human. 

Grand Central Shenanigans (NYC Day 3)

I generally don't contain myself to militaristic itineraries when I'm on vacation. I find it utterly counter-productive if I have to restrict my enjoyment because I have to rush off to meet the requirements of the timetable. Fun can't be scheduled; the harder you try to pin and nail it down, the harder it evades you. My style is to simply follow where the path leads. See something interesting? Take a peek. Feel a little urge for a quick nap? Take an hour (or five) to rest. Whatever feels right.

My wanderings on my third day in New York brought me on the path towards the Empire State Building. I made a beeline for it, until I found my path blocked by a majestic looking terminal. "Grand Central", it says on the outside. "This is just one of those moments", I say to myself, quoting Barbra while simultaneously drawing eye-rolls from New Yorkers who have encountered way too many unhinged theatrical types to be bothered with my self-musings. As I walked pass the columns and into the terminal, entering the cavernous concourse, I at once knew that this, not the Empire State Building, was the true destination of my journeys today. (Also because I later on tried to find the ESB but got lost, but forget that for a moment and share in the beauty of the Grand Central Terminal with me for a while.)

I stood upon the stairway landing, directly facing the main hall of the train station. People were lining up for tickets, hurrying along to their respective platforms for boarding, stepping off trains and entering 42nd Street, all bustling and busy. Yet each one of them slowed down for a while in the concourse, and took just the slightest moment to soak in the astounding beauty of the exquisite designs. The ceiling, elaborately painted with astronomical patterns (curiously backwards); the arching windows, tall and grand, streaming in sunlight. 

A trip around some of the stores brought me to a shop dealing only in model train sets. A huge portion of the store was dedicated to a model set with no less than 6 or 7 trains running through it, with kids plastered to the side of the display, as if wanting to jump into this miniature world and live a day as train conductors. I'm sure they would rethink this, if only they knew that in the United States, a train accident occurs every 2 hours. Happy conducing a train that's derailing into fiery disasters! Children can be so silly. 

Trains do bring a certain romantic image to my mind. It's so classic, the way people traveled in vintage, black and white movies. The heroine's husband is returning home from the war, quick, darling, to the train station where he will see you first among thousands of other sex-starved housewives! Running from the mob because you're material witnesses to a crime? Hop on a train and be whisked away to certain cross-dressing adventures! (I can't not make a reference to 'Some Like It Hot', it is the single best movie that involved trains, trannys and Marilyn Monroe.) 

I left Grand Central Station on the other side of the building, feeling as if I, like the weary travelers stepping off their respective trains, had also made some sort of journey. It was a step through history, a walk through a crucially important destination that affected so many of America's pioneers. Barbra herself stepped through these pillars in 'The Prince of Tides'. I emerged from the terminal feeling pleased with myself, knowing that my destination-less plans worked out once again.