Wednesday, February 27, 2013


My country tiz of thee... hand over heart now... Sweet land of liberteeeeee.  No kidding, this inspiring view greeted me every time I went to the bathroom on the sixth, and top, floor of The Jane.  The warm glow of freedom had sort of a diuretic effect -- I was in there all the time.  Plus I was drinking a lot.  Of water. 
This time around, I gave Emma and Frank a break and did not stay with them and leave my damp running clothes on radiators and behind the bathroom door. I did that at The Jane,, see below.  That's me sitting on the bed/storage area/lounge/work space in my $79/night cabin. You read right -- 79 clams. They've maintained the charm of the hotel's origins as a sailor's hotel without the scurvy and venereal diseases.  Notice the rail with sliding hooks where my running clothes are dripping.  Charming. In addition to the convenience of being able to touch all four walls from any given spot, there was a window that opened, a flat screen TV, a radio/ipod dock, free and fast wifi, 400-thread-count sheets and, because you have to scamper down the hall to one of several communal bathrooms, they provide a short and revealing robe and awesome monogrammed slippers that were neither right nor left -- you just slip em on and scuff away.  Also included in your unbelievable $79 rate is a 24/7 hipness factor, patronized as it is by models, film industry people and other artsy types practising their craft on a limited budget.  It's located at Jane Street and the West Side Highway, on the border between Greenwich Village and the Meatpacking District, so, if you've ever in your life dreamed of buying dental floss next to Liya Kebede, your chances are better here.  On the other hand, you may be coming back from a run and have snot on your jacket the one time you cross paths with Ben Affleck.  So it's a double-edged sword.
Absolutely every dreadfully hip and trying to be ironically bourgeois (the effort is palpable) boutique is within a three-block radius of The Jane
like the sandwich boarded Margiela shop where there were six white t-shirts hanging from a pole, egg cartons stapled to the wall and a plexiglass covered bathtub quirking up the fitting room.  I made some comment about giving me an exam to the white-labcoated employee -- il n'a pas apprecie.  Much as I apprecie'd the close shave with the cutting edge of fashion...
here is where my blood pressure skyrockets,  the rods and cones go into a frenzy (poor lighting, straining to see if that Helmut Lang jacket really is marked $10.99, mind blown) and the credit card comes out. Note the way the bourgeois concept is carried through effortlessly, down to the sleeping bag and remains of a meal just inside the door.  I did not make any cracks about physical exams to the employees here at the Quincy Street Salvation Army, because they weren't wearing white lab coats.  And because STD testing is only done on Mondays at this location.

No comments: