NYC

Another day, another plan.  This time we were going to hit The Village, which Caro was sure would be full of Funky Shops.  I could see real determination in the eyes of Caro and Lisa to damn well buy something.  Even if they didn’t want it and would never wear it.  Lisa started well, buying a pair of shoes, but as the day wore on it was obvious that this was another shopping day gone bad.  I think in the end they figured it out:

"These F*CKING shops are all for these BLOODY stick-figure women!" they agreed.

It's probably true.  Anorexia does seem to be in, fashion-wise.  When Caro was touring Old Navy she found a number of interesting t-shirts in small sizes, but when you look at the larger sizes they're certainly WIDER... but no LONGER.  The result would be a t-shirt that lets everything flop out at the bottom which is not a good look, and believe me I know this for a fact because I've seen plenty of American women sporting it.  They look like they are wearing an inner tube.

I'm starting to make New York sound like a drag.  It wasn't, believe me.  I mean, the heat and humidity were uncomfortable, the crowds were awful (I thought the height of sticky summer in New York actually reduced tourism, silly me) but that didn't matter because New York is just a beguiling place anyway.  You can just walk around and take in the atmosphere (which is approximately 84% carbon monoxide) and enjoy the personality of the place.  Also the personality of Caroline and Lisa.  And here's a question for them both - why does the subject of Brazilian Waxes always - and I mean ALWAYS come up when you two are together?

A quote: "Jesus - can you imagine?  I mean when they pull the wax strip away your lippy bits have probably been stretched out by about a metre.  Oops, sorry Symon." 

I shan't tell you who actually said that, but you KNOW it could have been either of them...

Another memorable conversation concerned breast implants and how they can lead to a better life by marrying some "crusty old bastard" and waiting for him to "cark it".  Lisa warmed to her theme, "I mean, people criticise Anna Nicole Smith, but I say good on her - the old b*stard probably couldn't get it up properly anyway, just give him a bit of a w*nk every now and again and you're in the money." 

You can probably tell by the turn of the conversation that the girls were getting fed up of shopping, which had worn them out and made them feel fat.  

So we decided to cut back on the shopping and concentrate on touristy things.  We caught the bus down to Battery Park and caught the ferry to Liberty Island and Ellis Island.  I have to admit to being very impressed with the Statue of Liberty - I thought I would be very blase about it, but it's a very vigourous sort of statue - thrusting that torch up in the air as if to say "Fuck off!  I've got a HUGE fucking torch!!  Go on!  Just try something!  BA HA HA HA HAAAA!!!" 

The statue has a point - it IS a big torch. Unless they build another large statue carrying an equally huge super-soaker, there's nothing much to threaten the Statue of Liberty. 

Or something like that.  Anyway, it was a lovely warm day and I got sunburnt and loaded myself down with fabulously tacky souvenirs including a Statue of Liberty lighter.  I found the girls weren’t so concerned with Ellis Island.  I informed them that the museum is supposed to be very touching, and Lisa replied riposted that so is an Italian meatball sub sandwich when you’re fucking hungry.  So the girls sat outside and had lunch while schoolchildren shrieked about the place in a vain attempt to be educated, and I tried to get some tourist, “Here we are in New York,” pictures.  Lisa and Caro weren’t very co-operative.

Getting pictures of Caro was impossible.  Every time I asked her to pose she looked grumpy.  According to my photo collection I'm involved with the grumpiest woman in New Zealand.  To counter this I took to being sneaky and leaping out at her with the camera when she wasn’t expecting it.  So my photo collection consists of pictures of Caro either looked really pissed off or like she’s about to shit her pants in shock.

The three of us then rushed back to the hotel and got changed for "Tony 'n' Tina's Wedding" a wonderful improvised show at which you (as the guests at a wedding) interract with the actors at a traditional Italian wedding.  This sort of thing is right up Caro’s street and she just loved it – we were sat behind “Mr. Nunzio”, father of the groom, who offered sarcastic comments throughout the whole proceedings, especially about the mother of the bride, but didn’t spare us guests either.  My favourite moment of the ceremony had to be when the audience (who were never told whether to sit or stand) were bobbing up and down, unsure of what to do.  Mr. Nunzio sat down directly in front of us, but Lisa decided to stand.  He turned around to look at the bride and got a facefull of Lisa’s bust instead.  “Nice to meet you too,” he said, rolling his eyes at me.  I was sat behind his wife, a non-too-bright exotic dancer who was thrilled we were from New Zealand (I was a temporary Kiwi – it just makes things easier to explain).  “Oh, I just love Australia!” she announced.

The wedding itself was a hoot, and afterwards the audience is escorted to “Vinnie Black’s Coliseum” for the reception dinner (all served to the theme from “The Godfather”) and some Italian entertainment courtesy of “Vinnie” - a man in a frilled shirt and a medallion.  When he dropped by to exchange pleasantries with Caro and Lisa, we noted he was dry-humping Caro’s arm.  Lisa, meanwhile, was chatting to Marina, the overweight bridesmaid, squeezed into a tight pink dress and bemoaning the lack of Catholic men in New York.  As for me, I was taken out to the back of the venue for the Nunzio family status report.  Then Mr. Nunzio informed us that Mrs. Nunzio was about to do an exotic dance and that we should encourage by tipping.  “But no nipples and no bush,” Mr. Nunzio explained.  It’s sort of weird exchanging conversation with actings playing parts.  The best thing to do is just to go with it, and bear in mind that you’re sort of playing a part yourself.  Or is that too metaphysical?  Maybe getting drunk is the best option.

The evening ended with a big dance to The Chicken Song, and we found ourselves out in Times Square at only 9:30, with plenty of time to look at cheesy New York souvenirs and visit HersheyWorld for chocolate too.  If that isn’t a full evening, I don’t know what is.  The girls collapsed back into their beds, looking happy and full of chocolate.