New York in Photos: The Financial District

View of the World Trade from Newport, NJ harbor

View of Lower Manhattan from Newport, NJ

All images subject to copyright, Jill Warren

New York in Photos: Central Park, Midtown Manhattan

All images subject to copyright, Jill Warren

New York in Photos: Williamsburg, Brooklyn

All photos subject to copyright, Jill Warren

New York in Photos: Staten Island

All images subject to copyright, Jill Warren

New York in Photos: Greenwich Village

All images subject to copyright, Jill Warren

NYC's Rough-Cut Diamonds: U.F.Os, Apocalyptic Weather & The Joker of Death

“Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius and it's better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring…” 

- Marilyn Monroe.

It only takes one breath of pretzel-scented air before you know that NYC is the most beautiful, mad, and completely ridiculous city that you'll ever have the divine pleasure to become acquainted with. 

In no other city will you spot a naked cowboy on your lunch break, grind with a leprechaun, or witness a traffic cop waving through mustard cabs on Broadway while (in the words of Snoop-D) popping it like it is HAWT.

There are enough restaurants in New York to eat somewhere new everyday for 54 years and never eat at the same joint twice. You'd definitely die of some form of cholesterol-induced heart attack after about year number four (give or take a few months, depending on how often you opted for low-fat ranch sauce) but one can dream. 

I have already sampled some pretty incredible NYC cuisine (shout out to the awesome fish shack in Williamsburg with margaritas so good I almost wept salty-lime tears) and come to learn not to question when it comes to American produce. (This chickenzilla breast is bigger than me, how? Why hasn't my bread gone mouldy after seven weeks? Wait, my sausage is actually a burger, is this normal?  All chewing gum is only available in strips, could I be stuck in a time warp of the nineties? What the hell is this strange piece of bright red meat in my Cuban sandwich?) 

U.F.Os: Unidentified Fried Objects. AKA: The hangover cure

And then there is the apocalyptic weather. I kid you not, the NY weather will mess you around more than Don Juan on Tinder.

Seriously. On Saturday, I sunbathed in Central Park. Men were topless, life was good.

On Sunday, shards of ice fell from skyscrapers onto the sidewalk, creating scenes worthy of 'The Day After Tomorrow'. The wind chill was so high that the Naked Cowboy nearly lost his most profitable asset. 

Another of NYC's roughly cut gems? The Subway. It's as creepy as it is brilliant, which is a bizarre cocktail by all accounts. Sights and smells which once would have made me wince are now familiar and inoffensive, a bit like growing accustomed to your eccentric aunt's moustache. The sight of a rat's tail as it flickers over the tracks, the guy taking a leak in the corner, the stalactites of rotting god-knows-what that drip from the grimy ceilings… A fuzzy-lipped kiss straight on the lips.    

I've even taken to making new friends on The Subway. All those lessons on Stranger Danger clearly paid off, especially at 3am after a night on the razzle.  One guy had seven black stitches in his face, a quilted overcoat so large that it covered three plastic seats, and a well-thumbed pack of cards in his grasp like some form of Dickensian pilferer. The deal clincher? Every single last card was a joker, and his favourite happened to be the Joker of Death. What else? 

The pleasure was all mine.

Mum, if you're reading this, he was actually a very lovely chap. I never thought he might take me hostage in his huge Lord of the Rings overcoat. Not once. 

Become a Technicolor Dream (For Holi)

I've been in New York for two months, and I've celebrated St.Patrick's Day with a black gangster leprechaun, marched down 6th Ave to the beat of the bagpipes for Tartan Day, and drank enough cut price tequila to turn someone blind for Cinco De Mayo. Needless to say, these Yanks bloody love an excuse to get involved. Culture vultures. 

This weekend, it was Holi time; the Indian spring festival to celebrate love, colours and frolic. And y'all know how I love frolic. 

So right in the middle of Uptown New York, (Hammarksjold Plaza, to be precise) this technicolor extravaganza took place, with strangers of every age and ethnicity wishing you 'Happy Holi' before chucking paint powder directly in your face.

Paint does not taste so good.

Obligatory before and after: Go hard or go home

The NYC Bhangra Dance Company performed traditional Indian dances on stage. And because this is America, the land of the free and awesome, everyone busted out their inner Bollywood. Every now and then a bus load of tourists would go past and the whole crowd would cheer, throwing handfuls of colour into the sky. Who needs dollar bills when you've got purple rain?

I <3 NY

New York Street Art: Williamsburg, BK

American and proud, yeah

Gucci ghosts

Walk with me

Cheers, I'll take that. 

The Blues Brothers

Not technically street art, but this hotel is the B-I-Zness 

Sidewalk sketch

Remember the Heroes

Happy Meal

BK, NY life

Peek-a-boo 

Mandela: "It always seems impossible until it's done."

Get Your Game Face On

If you’re looking for the ultimate American experience, you have got to head to a game. We went to see The Brooklyn Nets* v Detroit Pistons at The Barclays Centre, Brooklyn, and it was full-on U-S-Awesome.

 *I went to see Jay-Z’s team. How cool is that? Mr. Brooklyn. He runs this town.

For $39, we got seats right up at the top of the stadium. It’s not advisable for the vertigo-afflicted (you could literally have a chat with Zeus on Mount Olympus from our stand) but the atmosphere was incredible. Snap back caps, foam fingers and corn dogs for as far as the eye could see.

Death potential: High. But what an American way to go. Hamburgers and fries at the funeral fo’sho.

At half time, a guy proposed to his girlfriend in front of the 18,000-strong crowd. These American folk are not shy.

And the American dream did not end there. The ‘Brooklynettes’ cheerleading squad came out and shook what their momma’s gave them (ain’t no spirit fingers in Brooklyn baby), and then fired game tees into the crowd with big bazooka guns.

Dress me in stars and stripes and stick me on an eagle, I am so totally American right now.

Final score: Nets 116, Pistons: 104. Go Nets!

Tartan Day Parade: Bagpipes and Belhaven

Once a year, the entire Scottish community of NYC (top-to-tail in tartan) congregates in Midtown to march ten blocks, from W45th up 6th Avenue to 55th. I’m not even Scottish, but I signed up with my Glaswegian pal Morvern (Girls who drink together, march together… err, said no-one ever).

THIS GUY HAS A SWORD

What a surreal experience. Firstly, I didn’t actually realise we would be marching in the parade. I thought we’d just be waving a few blue and white flags from afar. So walking down the middle of 6th Ave, with hoards of Americans whooping and cheering from the sidewalk, was not what I was expecting when I woke up that morning with a slight hangover.

Who let these scamps in?

I’m still not quite sure why they allowed us to get involved. Quite frankly, we did not fit in with the uniformed groups of professional-looking bagpipe-players.

Dad's Army

And at one point, we were so busy taking pictures of each other on the traffic-free avenue that we got left behind and had to run to catch up… and the crowd clapped us along. God Bless America.

Probably the closest I will ever come to running the NYC marathon

After the parade, a group of us dedicated Scots headed to Shake Shack* in Grand Central for some much needed replenishment. Marching is exhausting.

*If you have never been to Shake Shack, you are missing out. Get on a plane, and go. It is the food of the Gods. Like mega-NOM.

And to top off Morvern’s special day of Scottishness, we went to a bar where it was free-drinks for all of the parade marchers.

Morvern's 'special' day

Now a free bar is generally like sweet bagpipe music to my ears, except that the flyer omitted to mention that the only free drink was a form of Scottish stout called Belhaven.

A word to the wise: Never, ever, drink a pint of Belhaven after a vanilla shake. It is not big, and it most certainly is not clever.