You're not in New York now...

I spend a lot of my time in New York drawing imaginary maps of the UK in the air in order to explain where Wales is. 

After ten minutes of my hand flailing the usual response is "So what part of London is that in?"

Geography is not a strong suit of the average American and is it any wonder when new stats show that despite a huge rise, only 30% of citizens hold a U.S. passport?

In their defence, there is a lot going on in their homeland. If you're a Californian you don't don't even need to leave the state to ski powdery slopes, sunbathe golden beaches or see breathtaking mountains.

And if you live in NYC it's like residing in a vacuum. It's not like the rest of America, if it wasn't for George Washington in your wallet, you might forget you're even living in the U.S. There are many reasons never to leave. Stay here for too long and you become confused when people in other cities tell you they don't have 24 hour food delivery and Drag Queen bingo.

I rarely leave New York myself. Not out of choice, more out of a lack of Benjamins in my wallet (Oh freelance!). So you can only imagine my squeely joy recently when I was invited on a press trip to the Florida Keys. I threw my Hunters in the cupboard, dragged my summer clothes from under the bed and spent much time debating whether my main hot weather look should be "Out of Africa" or "Nautical meets Chanel cruise wear".

In the depths of the January sleet I left my apartment in NYC at 6 a.m. in five layers. I flew South for less than 3 hours and shed clothes on the plane as I went. By the time we reached Miami airport I had changed into flip flops, sunnies and a floaty dress. I was still in the same country but now it was 82 degrees and men were wearing Hawaiian shirts.

You know that line "You're not in New York now."? The one that always gets churned out in Rom Coms where the Louboutined heroine is forced to move to Hicksville and is astonished to discover there's no Prada and the restaurants shut at 9p.m? Well that was what was in my head. Although it barely mattered by dinnertime when I was eating fresh seafood under a palm tree.

6 days, a lot more seafood and a minor sunburn later and I came back to NYC and one of the worst snowstorms in 300 million years. 20 inches of the stuff. So thick it made the trees look like they were growing cotton.

 

Florida feels like it never happened. Florida didn't. It couldn't have. Except there are 182 pictures on my digital camera that say it did.

So to remind me- and extend the very last dregs of my bragging rights- here are just a few of them...

My food travelogue piece on the Florida Keys will be published in the NY Metro newspaper.


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Snowmageddon

Posted: March 5, 2010 Friday 26th February I wake up at 7.30 a.m. with a raging hangover to see Snowmageddon part 2 happening outside my window. Except this time it's being called a Snowicaine, which just sounds like a drug euphemism. It's also being referred to as a Snowpocalypse, which has a nice ring to it-but I'm sticking with Snowmageddon, a phrase actually endorsed by Obama. And the most dramatic. 7.45 a.m. and Teenager is still asleep, despite her alarm going off half an hour ago, so I shake her awake and do the "Woo hoo snow!" and she says her usual "For fuck's sake." It occurs to me that Mayor Bloominbonkersberg may have done an overnight U turn on his decision to keep schools open, so I tell her to turn on NY1 and I go off to make tea. I come back 5 minutes later and she is staring at the TV in a trance, managing to miss the red BREAKING NEWS ticker that announces all public schools have been closed. When I point this out she does a fist pump in celebration and announces she's going back to bed. I do the same. By lunchtime I am still under the duvet popping prescription painkillers to make the hangover horrrors go away and watching HBO while watching my fire escape, which seemed to be the best indicator of snow depth. It's growing inch by inch on the steps. 2p.m. It is still chucking it down, alternating fat flakes with delicate flurries and I am wondering how many new words to describe the weather drama. I come up with Snowsaster, Snowastrophe and Snowmergency. A journalist friend emails me to tell me this is already the snowiest month in New York history and there is now 20.8 inches in Central Park, making this the fourth heaviest snowfall ever. Fortunately the plucky vendors on delivery.com are still operating despite the record breaking snowflakes. It takes more than a blizzard to take down Valentino's Gourmet Market in Union Square and it's entirely civil $10 minimum order. One chicken chipolte sandwhich and two diet Dr Pepper's later the world is feeling like a better place-or maybe it's the Tramadols? I'm flicking through movies on demand when the Teenager comes in to my bedroom making some unreasonable demands-like we actually stick to the plans we had this afternoon, including her appointment at the hairdressers. The most I had planned for the rest of the day was staying in bed and waiting the arrival of my parcel of sale goodies from Urban Outfitters which UPS are optimistically claiming on their online parcel tracker, is still due for delivery. The Teenager seems pretty determined too, so I stagger to the shower and try and wash off the stench of two bottles of Rioja seeping from my pores. We head outside and her ''For Fuck's sake'' attitude disappears when she sees a 2 foot high snowdrift and jumps straight into it gleefully. We spend the next few hours sloshing through the dirty grey slush puddles that line the streets around Greenwich Village between the hairdressers, getting coffee, going shopping and taking pictures of broken brollies in the snow. All is well and The Teenager and I seem to actually be having some kind of bonding moment. She even allows me to links arms with her. I think the physical affection is sanctioned because she is unlikely to see anyone she knows on 5th avenue. Nevertheless, we are shiny, happy people until we head to Sephora and see this sign in the window. I expected better of my beloved Sephora. At least there is my Urban Outfitters parcel to look forward to? But when I get back to the apartment there is no delivery. I check the website and there is an ominous message in big dramatic caps explaining why my parcel hasn't come. EMERGENCY CONDITIONS BEYOND UPS' CONTROL Emergency? What the fuck? You haven't delivered my parcel because of the fourth biggest storm in NYC history? The fourth. Not the first. People still need clothes in the snow! When the snow starts messing with the shopping things are getting serious. It's not fun anymore. Snow fun. * More blogs http://welshalien.blogspot.com/ Even more rambloings http://twitter.com/WelshAlienNYC

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Notes from a Stylist is glamming it up in Jackson Hole

Posted: March 1, 2010 Now I know the ski set are a breed apart and I’m just getting my head around all this, but clearly jumping straight in at the high end is skewing my take on how to do a stylish ski weekend so far. We arrive at Jackson Hole and get swept up by a man complete with stetson, cowboy boots and waistcoat. We drive past a motel called The Virginian and I recount a story about quite fancying Trampus from that old TV show - but it seems to fall on deaf ears as I realize that our hosts are a tad younger than us and Laura Ingles with her Little House on the Prairie is more their generation. So back to the man in the stetson, who gamely grabs our bags and loads them on our car – and there are a lot of bags, because who knows what the weather might bring, or where fate might lead us – but its better to be over prepared right? So once ensconsed in our spacious apartment, courtesy of our buddies who have bid high on an auction item that's a condo in a super swanky ski resort and then asked their less fortunate party mates to tag along, it's time to unpack. The thing is the packing/over prepared deal kind of depends on who you are holidaying with - and it seems this weekend, we are traveling with a minimal packer and an over the top packer. I am happily midway between my ski buddies. So the ski lark?, apparently it’s all down to the resort – the Four Seasons is high end and I think, much to the chargrin of my husband, I could become accustomed to this – need to take your boots off? No fear there’s a lady right there to do it for you. Fancy a glass of vino whilst you’re in the hot tub? Relax another nice lady is on hand to deal. Unhappy with your grey ugly ski boots that give you pins and needles when you're buddy has nice white ones with purple fluffy lining? calm down - a nice young man can sort it out for you. Yes indeed, I think I'm beginning to like this skiing thing...

Posted via email from Big Apple Brits - British Expats, Anglophiles and Brit Culture Lovers New York City