Nowhere Else But Here

So my number has increased.  Since leaving my apartment just over a week ago I have slept in six different beds, in six different apartments, in six different neighborhoods.  Pull out beds, futons, box spring mattress, and memory foam.  I think there might have been a pillow top in the mix but I can't be sure.  What I am sure of is that I'm tired and my back hurts.

Most notable among the six apartments I've called home for a handful of hours was the eight foot by twelve foot one room apartment in Chelsea.  If you are spatially challenged like I am and need a concrete visual to picture eight feet by twelve feet then imagine a room just big enough to fit a Volkswagen Golf with the doors closed and the mirrors folded in.  The apartment had a combination kitchen/bathroom sink and a mini fridge.  There was a twin bed and a television on the counter next to the sink.  There was clothing hanging from the ceiling and there were two windows facing the backside of the adjacent micro-mini Chelsea studios.  No toilet.  No stove.  No shower or tub.  Only enough open floor space for two people to stand up at once and nowhere to sit down except for the bed.  To think that this kind of a home exists, and that people would pay money to live in a closet like this, there must be something about this city!  I drew my knees up to my chest and looked around the tiny space in awe.

I did my nails at Sephora the other day.  Did you know that you can walk into their Union Square location, use their nail polish remover, any of their polishes, their cotton swabs and Q tips and give yourself a manicure right there?  I certainly didn't.  But in fact it's totally allowed.  I think it's even encouraged.  I'd wondered into Sephora just to get out of the cold when I saw the rows of nail polish on display and all the women gathered around, bent over in silent concentration.  I looked at my own fingernails.  Chipped, dull, pretty terrible looking on that day.  And of course there was no nail polish remover in my overnight bag, let alone cotton swabs or the latest shade of polish by Esse.  I found a spot for myself in front of the dozens of shades of grey nail polish and went at it.  After that I sampled some Nars blush and eye shadow.  Then some Clarins hand cream.  A half an hour later I was on my way to work looking like I had just stepped out of the salon.  So this is how the poor Ford models that live in the Tompkins Square Park dorms always manage to have the perfect hair, latest manicures, and a makeup artist made dewy glow on their faces.

Only in New York.