The Sounds of the City

I’m officially a New Yorker. At least for the next three months. Yesterday Mr.YemenEm and I picked up our beloved Diplocats, from whom we were parted for the past 14 months, packed a U-Haul van, and drove to a furnished apartment in Manhattan. This will be our base for the next three months. The place where I will attempt to write a book; where we will host cozy fall dinner parties on plates that are not ours; and where I will retire to each night, skin tainted with exhaust fumes, cooking smells, and a touch of the energy the air here really does feel as if it contains.

We had to make several trips up to our 15th floor apartment while being illegally parked. All the while our hyperactive kitties alternated between cowering in fear under the bed and looking out a window that is higher up than they have ever been. It was a little touch-and-go when the traffic cops pulled up and when our building informed us Sunday move-ins were against the rules. But we talked out way out of both situations, thankfully.

Our apartment is fairly large by New York City standards. It has a teensy kitchen, stark white walls, and few cheapy pieces of furniture, but I’m sure we’ll make it homey soon enough. The biggest downside to this pretty much ideal situation, is that I feel like I’m living on a set of a TV show featuring a New York City apartment where there is always New York City street noise being pumped in. For all you Mad Men fans, have you ever noticed that every time Don and Megan Draper talk in their Park Avenue apartment, there are whooshing sounds of street traffic and sirens blaring? This place is just like that, minus the sunken living room and the lingering scent of Canadian Club whiskey. I woke up in the middle of the night last night and thought for a hot second that I was sleeping in a tent in Times Square. Today I am unpacking and buying some household necessities. First on the list: ear plugs.

Last night we met some of Mr.YemenEm’s colleagues for a little get-to-know-you on the eve of Mr.YemenEm’s new job here in NYC. We were running late and as you do when you’re running late and your spouse asks “Is this shirt too wrinkled to wear without ironing?” Mr.YemenEm responded “No, it’s fine, we just need to go.” So I went out in New York City with a shirt that was indeed too wrinkled to wear without ironing. And then at dinner,  I happened to be sitting next to a ridiculous glamorous, impeccably dressed older woman who has written about art, food, and health, for Vogue magazine since she was 22. I was kicking myself because (as was the case before Yemen when I bought a “So Yemen” wardrobe) I’ve already stocked up on a number of pieces which have what I call the “City Gritty” aesthetic. So I should know better. Henceforth, I won’t leave the house without artful yet effortless layers, leather leggings, a bomber jacket, and a pocketknife.

Back to unpacking our New York City apartment. I think I’ll type that again, just because it felt good on my fingers. Our New York City apartment.

With love (and gratitude) from the Big Apple,


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