Last weekend, after an all night vodka fest in Queens, my married man and I took the N train back to Manhattan. As luck would have it, the train broke down on Central Park South and Fifth Avenue. Still half in the bag, we decided to walk down Fifth Avenue to my East Village apartment.
But first we need nourishment, so we ducked into a Starbucks and ordered soy lattes and bagels. As we noshed our caffeinated selves down Fifth Avenue, we suddenly discovered ourselves in front of Tiffany’s.
As we held our hot javas and bagels, it dawned on us we were having Breakfast at Tiffany’s ala Holly Golightly. Of course, we weren’t wearing Givenchy shifts or rhinestone tiaras, but we were recreating a moment that put thousands of girls and gay boys on the road to New York City.
It’s moments such as this that keep me in Manhattan.