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Friday night Curtis and I ventured into Manhattan to check out a few bars he’d seen in Time Out. We disembarked at the West 4th St. station after a young girl puked at her friend’s feet on the last car of the F train, and headed up Bleecker St. until it split off toward the Hudson River. Our first destination was a bar in the Meatpacking District. Going with the dead animal theme, I imagined the area to be like the Tenderloin in San Francisco — kind of shady and gritty, somewhere you wouldn’t venture at night. That’s exactly how it was, but in swaths and splotches, dare I say much like the marbled cuts of the area’s namesake. Below the rows of meat hooks that hung above the sidewalks were lines of young hipsters waiting behind velvet ropes. Dresses, sportcoats, flashy jewelry, impeccable hair and makeup, high heels, sports cars, valets. As meat delivery trucks sat idle in loading bays, stretch limosines wrestled with cabs to maneuver down the narrow streets. For every dark, dirty packing plant there was an open-air wine bar, dimly lit restaurant or tucked-away bar entrance. Bags of old meat sat rotting in front of warehouses, as girls in summer dresses and guys in collared shirts flirted, smoked and chatted on cell phones a block away.

It was the most curious juxtaposition we’d ever seen.

After a whiff of the Hudson and a hand stamp from the bouncer, we were inside. It was packed with twentysomething Abercrombie types. It was as if Ivy League frat boys had taken a wrong turn somewhere. We couldn’t get close enough to the bar to order a drink, much less find a crevice to hover in. On the way back to Bleecker, we passed galleries, specialty stores and more nightlife. There was something unnatural about it — the nexus of trendy anchored among meat carcasses and gutted industry.

As we crossed 8th Avenue back toward the Village, we passed a much more low-key strip of revelers. The perfect bodies of the Meatpacking District gave way to normal-looking folks out for a drink and a stroll. Primped college kids strolled past gay couples and middle-age adults eating gelato.

Then the buzz of Greenwich turned to the lull of midnight in Soho as we turned off Bleecker down Mott. The trendy boutiques were gated, display windows dimmed and stoops bare. We were some of the few folks wandering the street. Chinatown was all but abandoned. A few shopkeepers rolled down their metal doors, a dumpling shop provided the only bright spot on a dark street where Chinese banners hung lifeless amid the putrid smell of fish. We cut over to Mulberry street, which was much more alive as the last diners enjoyed pastries and coffee as restaurants shuttered for the evening. We grabbed a cannoli under a “Welcome to Little Italy” sign and headed up Canal toward the Manhattan Bridge. After trying to enter the East Broadway station where a man was peeing and the gate was closed, we made our way closer to the East River to find a 24-hour entrance. Back on the F train and home with a red-eyed, slouched, rumpled cast, for an evening of Casino Royale and iTunes until the sun rose, and we went to sleep.

The bodega around the corner gets its fresh bread delivered every day at 9pm. Curtis and I have made a habit of walking over there for a hot pastrami sandwich when I get home from work around 1am. For $4.75, plus two $0.99-cans of Arizona Iced Tea, we get dinner for two for less than $7.

In other news, I’ve been in more thundershowers in my three months here than I have in my other 24 years in California. It rains suddenly and inexplicably all the time. 87 degrees and sunny. Rain. 75 degrees and overcast. Lightning. I can’t predict it, I’m always unprepared, there’s no good way to dress for it. I’m constantly opining incredulously about how “crazy” the weather is. Fortunately my hair hasn’t been as off-put as the rest of me.

I just put down The Great Gatsby (re-reading after 5-10 years) to polish off a bottle of Moon Mountain Sauvignon Blanc with Curtis, paired with bee stings (custard-filled honey buns) from Sweet Melissa.  Before that, we headed to Union Market to pick up some fresh ingredients to make spicy chicken tacos (Curtis made them) with guacamole (I made it!) and corn relish (looked good at the market). We cooked and ate and drank and listened to music, and it was all a fitting prelude to my Gatsby revival. I’d also like to note that the Gatsby purchase came from a HUGE bookstore called Strand, on 12th St. and Broadway in Manhattan. Austin and Susana, some of my more literary friends, tipped me off to its existence. I got the book for $5.95, and an awesome logo tote for not much more than that. I think Fitzgerald would approve of the day’s activities.