She adored New York City.

After several days of wallowing in post-Christmas funk (wearing the same pair of pants, going braless, avoiding the mirror at all costs), I launch myself off the couch at the first sight of the snow. One of the few certainties of life (other than the unerring perfection of Peppermint Patties) is that when I am feeling low or lethargic or bored with myself, a walk through New York makes me feel instantly renewed.

Out of the house and into the snow. Gleeful tourists abound - it is as though New York is putting on a free, city-wide street performance of The Nutcracker just for them. It makes me happy to see them so pleased. Love my city, I want to say. It's magic, isn't it?

At the New Museum, Elizabeth Peyton dazzles me with her vibrant palette, making me want to pick up a brush and paint pop celebrities with abandon.



After satisfying my soul, I wander out into Soho to fill my belly. I stand inside the packed Cafe Habana with a burrito in one hand and a cafe con leche in the other, breathing down the neck of a man who is loitering at a window seat. He is watching the snow fall, drinking his fizzy water in a leisurely, absent-minded way, while the rest of us circle him like vultures. He seems unaware of the growing impatience behind him until, suddenly, he turns to the burly man next to me and hisses, "Would you mind not crowding me?"



The burly man, who has been cursing under his breath at the loiterer for the last twenty minutes, erupts.

"If you'd stop NURSING that SAN PELLEGRINO like your mother's TEAT, it'd be a lot less CROWDED in here."

The Spanish tourists giggle. I, for one, am relishing the reintroduction of the word "teat" into my vocabulary, and the Spaniards, standing behind me with their neat haircuts and little velvet collars, seem to enjoy the abuse. It's as though all of New York has become an episode of Seinfeld just for them. Love my city, I want to say. It's brutal, isn't it?



Paintings by Elizabeth Peyton.