So, I wait in the straw packed lobby and talk to a novelist/fashion and beauty blogger and a sex blogger about how New York isn’t the same without the World Trade Center and I admit that I haven’t seen Ground Zero and before we know it, we’re ushered upstairs to the 9th floor to check in and receive badges. My new friends get lost in the crowd that floats like seaweed, noisy intoxicated seaweed.
After an hour and a half of mingling and staring at a cake tower of untouchable Oreo cookies and drinking a bicycle powered smoothie and avoiding the champagne table all together for feat that I won’t be able to walk after two glasses.
His apartment renovation is featured in the issue. I forget to photograph the crowd because I’m swept away by the light cast through the windows and am more than hungry when I reluctantly leave the party to photograph the city cast in painterly light before it’s too late.
On my way out, a woman with a video crew in tow asks if I’m a garden blogger and when I say no, she apologizes for suggesting that I might be filmed and I tell her its okay and whether I write about gardening or not matters little. I’m on a mission.
I walk outside into the smashed apricot and blackberry dusk with my camera slung around my neck and carrying two bags of Martha related shwag. The city doesn’t get much better than this, unless that is I’m wearing flip flops instead of heels and have a cup of turkish coffee and baklava in hand.