Wait Until Spring, Bandini

My day got off to a pretty good start, even though I accidentally went off into the day wearing my house dress, which I realized upon my first stop, was just a bit more Jayne Mansfield than is necessary at 9am on a Friday. Um, oops. But oh well, the weather was nice and it got me a lot of help from all the salesmen. Where was I headed? Downtown. My new favorite place. Thank you to Mo for reintroducing me to this elegant, rundown and forgotten part of town.

First, I would like to introduce you to the Dancing Girls building. This is a building that I would love to live in, convert to lofts and light up the sign. C'mon, how great would that be: the Dancing Girls Lofts? I am starting a fund now for which you can donate to the cause. And I will keep you all posted. Hmmm, maybe the cleavage can help in some way! I see a theme emerging...

Next stop, the flower mart. Because I was a florist for three years way back in college, whenever there is a family function, I am the one called upon for my special talents. And I don't mind. I love cut flowers. I love knowing the names of them. I love their smells. I love holding them in my arms like the winner of a beauty pageant. I love the simple flowers, like daffodils. I love the overtly sexual ones, like anthuriums. I love being snobby about the flowers that people--okay mostly men--think are appropriate to give to women whether in courtship, in apology or in some mild sense of gratitude. The flowers that are so trite, unimaginative, and well, lame, that they are the equivalent of a Hallmark greeting card. Are we as women so appreciative of any small gesture a man is willing to make that this is acceptable? Or am I being a total unnecessary elitist here? Well, I digress and it's really not my argument these days. Let me get back to the poppies. Is there anything as life-affirming as a poppy about ready to unfurl it's petals? Like a baby's fist holding on for dear life and then suddenly letting go. It's a pleasure to behold, I tell ya.

I also planned ahead. I brought my knife to be sharpened at the cutlery store nestled nearby. It only takes 20 minutes, so I walked across the street to the Grand Central Market for my juice. There is a mind-boggling array of juice available: celery, watercress, beet, not too mention apricot and pomegranate. All freshly squeezed and distributed out of these neat little contraptions. I settled on pomegranate, apricot and banana with some protein powder thrown in for good measure. Delicious.

I also had time to buy some tropical fruit. Large, ripe papayas grabbed my eye--hard to miss those--as did the Meyer lemons, and while the guayabas were not ripe yet, the cheremoyas certainly were. Everyone was super friendly and even the more so when I spoke Spanish to them. Many an introduction were made, a few de donde eres's and I got the lowdown on when to come back for the guayabas.

I came back for my knife, it's sharpness demonstrated to me by one swift slash of the newspaper in which it was wrapped. Chatted about which knife would be a best second knife--next time I have the extra 80 dollars or so--and marveled at the wide selection of hair clippers available for purchase. This place has been around for ever and they charge you on the length of your blade. It is quite reasonable. I think this quote about sums it up: Two brothers and forty years of business.

Finally I peaked into the famous Bradbury building next door. Famous, not only for it's eclectic Victorian architecture designed with the utopian ideals of Edward Bellamy in mind, and famous not only for being featured in Blade Runner, but famous to me because it is where I shot my first Super-8 film back in high school. A special thanks is now in order to my sister, for agreeing to climb this famous building's fire escapes for my little movie. No longer available commercially, you can contact me directly for your copy. Hell, for 20 dollars, I will even sign it.