One of my favourite movies is Paris, je t'aime (through the neighborhoods of Paris, love is.). It's a collection of short films about the city, mostly revolving around romance. My smile is already growing just thinking about it. Imagine my joy upon discovery that the creators made a sequel, New York, I Love You. Just try to imagine.
At the risk of sounding cliche, I love New York. The energy this city thrives on is incomparable to anything I've ever felt before. It sweeps me off my feet every time I step on its pavement. I'm suddenly both a welcomed guest and home-sweet-homed at the same moment, being pursued romantically with flowers and love poems around every corner. It's so that good.
Stocked with wine and chips and cake and Strongbow, I bid the New York movie to commence. I was teased and tortured with hints of the city around the actors. Nothing close to the in-your-face Paris scenes from the first movie. It left me a little disappointed. However, my memories filled in the gaps. I knew what was beyond the screen shot. I knew what it smelled like. I knew how fast people walked, what the musicians play in the park, the prefered business attire at Parker Meridian.
If I were to contribute a short to the movie, I would have strapped a camera to my head the day we were late to see a James Gandolfini show. Our failed attempt at understanding the subway map. Our sprint down 40 blocks, jumping over small dogs, shimmying past local fruit market stands, braiding around slow rich women in heels, barely noticing Trump Towers as we were only half way there. Our final arrival, just making it in time to squeeze into a tiny vintage theatre, seated 50 feet above the stage. We saw more of New York in our 15-minute dash than people do in a day.
I was hoping to relive these experiences though the eyes of an expert director. Though, I suppose with memories pouring out after every storyline, I did.
At the risk of sounding cliche, I love New York. The energy this city thrives on is incomparable to anything I've ever felt before. It sweeps me off my feet every time I step on its pavement. I'm suddenly both a welcomed guest and home-sweet-homed at the same moment, being pursued romantically with flowers and love poems around every corner. It's so that good.
Stocked with wine and chips and cake and Strongbow, I bid the New York movie to commence. I was teased and tortured with hints of the city around the actors. Nothing close to the in-your-face Paris scenes from the first movie. It left me a little disappointed. However, my memories filled in the gaps. I knew what was beyond the screen shot. I knew what it smelled like. I knew how fast people walked, what the musicians play in the park, the prefered business attire at Parker Meridian.
If I were to contribute a short to the movie, I would have strapped a camera to my head the day we were late to see a James Gandolfini show. Our failed attempt at understanding the subway map. Our sprint down 40 blocks, jumping over small dogs, shimmying past local fruit market stands, braiding around slow rich women in heels, barely noticing Trump Towers as we were only half way there. Our final arrival, just making it in time to squeeze into a tiny vintage theatre, seated 50 feet above the stage. We saw more of New York in our 15-minute dash than people do in a day.
I was hoping to relive these experiences though the eyes of an expert director. Though, I suppose with memories pouring out after every storyline, I did.
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