[New York travel journal continued:]
Try as I might to enjoy all the fabulous mini-moments that doing book stuff provides, they can’t quite beat the profound relaxation that comes after a reading.
AK knew I’d want to stick close to home base the day of the reading—it was everything I could do not to show up at 4 p.m. (when I was supposed to arrive at 8). So we made it a Met day—saw the lovely light (and six million people) surrounding Vermeer’s Milkmaid; saw the crazy metal tree (and pissy security guards) in the rooftop garden. But I still feel like there’s so much more Met and Central Park I could see. It’s like Disneyland, where you need a three-day pass to do it right.
The reading went well, especially given the lack of promotion and last-minute time change. A healthy number of people, thanks mostly to Terry, I suspect. Seeing the store, with its cozy lighting and $7 bandannas featuring a diagram of a uterus, its sink made out of a bucket, reminded me that things hadn’t gone wrong because New York was too cool to talk to me, but because the store is scrappy and volunteer-run, just like the writers it hosts.
Afterward we ate Dominican food with Terry and some of her art friends from back in the day, one of whom had crazy stories about a wild leopard-cat she’d been babysitting. AK and I finished with a little Soho bar-hopping on our own. Rarely have I felt so ready for a drink.