The best nights in New York City are those that begin as epic failures. The past week, I've been neurotically rounding up my friends to ensure we went dancing Friday night. I wanted to cross off Lavo from my bucket list, and, more importantly, create an opportunity to wear a new dress I impetuously ordered online in between meetings at work.
Ultimately, due to a permutations & combinations of logistical issues (i.e., no one wanted to spend money on Lavo tickets), we settled on Riff Raff's, a place of which I'd not known, but that was on my friend's bucket list. She told me the dress code was "hipster hott." Since my preferred attire is a grey t-shirt and jean shorts, I desperately scoured Google images and ultimately concluded that I could not wear that new dress, but I could wear a cotton wife beater endorsing a Thai beer. (I actually have one.)
Some obligations after work prevented me from eating dinner, and so I clumsily ate Greek yogurt as I put on my stockings and red lipstick and ran around with one contact lens in. All of us were meeting up at different times and places, and so while I wiped honey off my chin, I was also texting my friends to coordinate our eventual encounters. Finally, we all found each other on the line at Riff Raff's.
We're living in times of scarcity. Even an allegedly low key venue rejected our group. Freezing, sleepy, and still hungry (the latter was probably just me), we went into the Hurricane Club to warm up and brainstorm over overpriced drinks.
A random, vagabond promoter from Riff Raff's followed us into the Hurricane Club, and like the self-proclaimed coolies on train platforms in India, almost forced us back to the place from which we were rejected. Dignities intact and expensive drinks recently ordered, we said no.
Instead, we decided to walk over to the Gansevoort Hotel, (where I probably should have worn my new dress instead of a worn wife beater). Miraculously, we got in.
The music enslaved us. The beat was constant, tantalizing, and yet not overbearing, not suffocating. I danced more than I anticipated, more than I had planned for, more than my Payless ankle booties could withstand. We lounged by the pool on the rooftop, from which the Empire State Building appeared so close I could hear the residual awe from this morning's tourists. By the end of the night, most of us had dispersed, confirming brunch plans for Cinco de Mayo before heading home. I was still at the Gansevoort with a few eager stragglers, and so my friend and I got into the Red Room, which, true to its namesake, was a room infused with flashing red lights. Again, we danced, we threw our hands in the air, we rejoiced the delicious turn of failed events that transpired, that led us atop a stage in a red room, in the Red Room.
By the time a friend lost one high heel and the DJ repeated a Sean Kingston song, we decided it was time to make our exit. I took a cab home, made myself a spinach hummus wrap, viciously killed a cockroach, and slept peacefully till the next morning, when I was awoken by the sounds of my own heart beating excitedly to the prospect of a new day, of a new adventure.
End of Day 3.
Ultimately, due to a permutations & combinations of logistical issues (i.e., no one wanted to spend money on Lavo tickets), we settled on Riff Raff's, a place of which I'd not known, but that was on my friend's bucket list. She told me the dress code was "hipster hott." Since my preferred attire is a grey t-shirt and jean shorts, I desperately scoured Google images and ultimately concluded that I could not wear that new dress, but I could wear a cotton wife beater endorsing a Thai beer. (I actually have one.)
Some obligations after work prevented me from eating dinner, and so I clumsily ate Greek yogurt as I put on my stockings and red lipstick and ran around with one contact lens in. All of us were meeting up at different times and places, and so while I wiped honey off my chin, I was also texting my friends to coordinate our eventual encounters. Finally, we all found each other on the line at Riff Raff's.
 |
| fruit platter, with a side of sangria |
A random, vagabond promoter from Riff Raff's followed us into the Hurricane Club, and like the self-proclaimed coolies on train platforms in India, almost forced us back to the place from which we were rejected. Dignities intact and expensive drinks recently ordered, we said no.
Instead, we decided to walk over to the Gansevoort Hotel, (where I probably should have worn my new dress instead of a worn wife beater). Miraculously, we got in.
 |
| the music was enthralling, the view was captivating, the friends were inspiring |
The music enslaved us. The beat was constant, tantalizing, and yet not overbearing, not suffocating. I danced more than I anticipated, more than I had planned for, more than my Payless ankle booties could withstand. We lounged by the pool on the rooftop, from which the Empire State Building appeared so close I could hear the residual awe from this morning's tourists. By the end of the night, most of us had dispersed, confirming brunch plans for Cinco de Mayo before heading home. I was still at the Gansevoort with a few eager stragglers, and so my friend and I got into the Red Room, which, true to its namesake, was a room infused with flashing red lights. Again, we danced, we threw our hands in the air, we rejoiced the delicious turn of failed events that transpired, that led us atop a stage in a red room, in the Red Room.
By the time a friend lost one high heel and the DJ repeated a Sean Kingston song, we decided it was time to make our exit. I took a cab home, made myself a spinach hummus wrap, viciously killed a cockroach, and slept peacefully till the next morning, when I was awoken by the sounds of my own heart beating excitedly to the prospect of a new day, of a new adventure.
End of Day 3.
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