Let it Be Madi

Me: "I feel like a bucket."

Kirsty: "Aww no... wait: is that a metaphor?"

Me: "Nope. It's a simile."

Kirsty: "Oh... so what would it be if it was a metaphor?"

Me: "I am a bucket."

I've been back from New York for over a week now, and I've finally gotten over post holiday blues. Sure, I'm still avoiding revision but at least I'm not craving fried eggs (sunny side up) on bagels for breakfast anymore. I've learnt to accept my Rice Krispies again. 

A lot happened in the three and a half days in which me and my family were in Manhattan. So much so that it felt like we were there for a fortnight and I've actually got gaps in my memory on certain events. (This may be because I have always had a selective memory. Winning the college poetry competition last year? Slipped my mind until I found the poem a couple of weeks back. But the public humiliation of having a banana thrown at my eye and crying in front a big crowd? Will ALWAYS haunt me...)

One memory in which I will always remember from New York is the night I felt like I actually belonged there, lived in the magnificent city. My sister and I had been shopping all day, and was just finishing up in Victoria's Secret when we realised that we had to meet our parents in five minutes and we were a whole block away from the meeting place. We rushed to the queue, grabbed our large, bright pink parasol umbrellas (FREE with any purchase over $50!) we bashed our way out of the pink shop and in to a crowd of New Yorkers. 

My sister may be four years my elder, but her legs are about half the size of mine (chalk and cheese, we are constantly compared to. Chalk being myself - sickly pale and no shape, and Cheese being sister who sports a tan all year round... This analogy not entirely appropriate because my sister isn't yellow. Oh well, at least I'm trying to be clever); therefore making one of my strides about two steps for her. So as I zipped through the New Yorkers she struggled behind and moaned. The night was officially upon New York, yet the streets were still heaving with eager shoppers and with scaffolding outside a lot of the shops our challenge was not only to dodge bodies but poles as well. Which is more difficult than it sounds when you are in a rush.

We arrived 5 minutes late outside Macy's and sat on a bench with our pink umbrella's, gasping for breath. The temperature had dropped immensely, and though we had heard storms were coming on the news, we didn't expect the ferocity in which the wind was now whipping us. After ten minutes of waiting, shivering in our holiday outfits of vest tops and thin cardigans, and breathing in the smoke of a fat guy who was sitting next to us; it was time to get the mobile out.

You can imagine our frustration as we recieved the text: "Gone back to the hotel. Feel ill. Night." Thanks mum! (Though she was actually very ill and we felt very sorry for her the next morning, as well as for our dad who didn't get a big american meal that night. But in the moment we were very angry, ok?) The wind was really picking up and suddenly the cute little paper bags you recieve in every shop weren't as practical as they seemed as they flipped over in our wrists and threatened to spill their contents. Oh, and the umbrellas? Really not the greatest idea.

We were starving by this time, worn out and annoyed for being stood up in night time New York. We headed back to the hotel, the wind actually pushing my sister off a curb at one point! The temperature was dropping so much and we shivered and struggled and grumbled. Then - a souvenir shop. We dashed in from the biting cold, and bought two FDNY thick hoodies that have never been so wanted in their entire lives! They were so cosy and I would have happily sat in the corner of the shop for a quick nap and a cuddle up in the soft fleece. My sister, ever the Del Boy, got a deal for buying two and we were back in to the cold.

Brgr. Sure, not the catchiest name - but surely the most modern name for a burger joint? With shiny vinyl seating, and stools at a bar where you watched the chefs cook (as well as the promise of "The best shakes in New York") was enough for us to drag ourselves to a chair in the relaxed restaurant. 

As my sister and I sat eating out burgers and fries at a little table, with soft rock music playing in the background, and the quiet chatter of the chefs and waiters, well; it was bliss after a disappointing start to the evening. It was 9pm, we were eating a true American diner supper, relaxed among the locals because of our exhaustion and cosied up in freshly bought hoodies.

I felt like a New Yorker.