Friday, 26 September 2014

The first day: Jet lag, banking and tequila

I feel like Patrick Swayze in Ghost. Like I know for sure I’m not dead trying to reach out to my now widowed wife about my unjustified murder, but I definitely feel like I’m having an outer body experience. In some countries (well probably most) they refer to this as JET LAG, or as I like to call it: ‘stop fucking with my body clock’ syndrome.

I’ve been in NYC a mere 48 hours and all I seem to want to do is nap. I mean don’t get me wrong, every time I see the Empire State Building or a cute guy I squeal with excitement but as of right now, it seems nothing in comparison to a cheeky midday snooze or early evening slumber. I am putting this down to the fact that a lot of my energy was used on trying to contain my life in two very large, very over-the-luggage-allowance suitcases; nevertheless we made it.

I have to point out that it’s not that I have been entirely unproductive nor excited for that matter. The first night itself was understandably a right off, like a bad One Direction song that you want to forget ever existed type of thing; basically I slept. The next morning, following another emotional goodbye to my pops and sending him off on a two week hols courtesy of himself to California, I immediately left Jamaica (Queens) and headed for the concrete jungle. Half an hour later in traffic, my nerves had officially left me as I looked forward to reaching my home for two weeks in SoHo – courtesy of a very nice, super sexy girlfriend who I now am forever indebted to. If i’m honest, if couch surfing was always this good, I would never look for a place! As Jagged Edge’ ‘Let’s get married’ came on the radio (and I immediately asked the taxi driver to ‘turn my shit up’), I realised that it was the perfect song for the perfect matrimony: NYC and I back together again.

Finally, having arrived at my destination I decided to ponder around on Broadway, take some snaps for Instagram, purchase toilet paper and open my first bank account. Note to self, it’s probably not okay to show the bank manager a video of you behaving explicitly at Hip Hop Karaoke, but in this case in no way did it even hinder the process for me. In fact, you are now looking at a Chase Private Client - not sure what that means but I felt super special.

Day one ended with a Mexican feast involving another hot girlfriend and two of my favourite things: chicken and frozen raspberry margaritas. Not sure how I temporarily forgot about the whole USA-free-pour situation but I was kindly reminded after two drinks and a shot of tequila - which by the way looked like a jug as opposed to a single 25ml shot – and they thought Brit’s had no limits. Pft. More ramblings tomorrow I promise as it’s nap time again.

Ps. Microsoft word is trying to Americanise my shit but I ain’t letting it happen!

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