After weeks of intense heat, the skies finally had enough on Wednesday and cooked up a massive storm for us. It was pretty exciting, huge hailstones, lightening and thunder abounded. This view from our apartment demonstrates none of those things.

It would have been slightly more exciting for me had I not needed to go out in it to see my beloved Simon Amstell in the East Village. I’ve wanted to see him for years, but tickets sell out fast in the UK and I am consistently useless at booking things in advance. Fortunately (for me more than him) he is less popular here, so tickets were available the day before the show. The dedication of my accomplice in Amstell fun deserves a mention here, what with her driving all the way from Montreal, just for the show. That’s about 370 miles, fact fans! In fact, I should probably give up calling Amstell my beloved, for he is clearly far more hers than mine. He was wonderful, hilarious and just a little poignant, as expected. Although it was odd watching him in an audience of New Yorkers, hearing him try to explain things that didn’t need explaining… Like comparing Shoreditch to Williamsburg, which made me less inclined towards the latter, hipsters make me feel funny in my tummy.

The couple of days after the storm were grey and rainy, so my adventures were limited, though I did manage a trip to the aforementioned hipster centre on Friday night. There were less haircuts than I had feared, and more Polish beer, which I like. Mr me was more enamoured than I. I found it a little quiet after the constant buzz of downtown Manhattan, though I am assured it’s just because everyone leaves the city for summer. I just feel like the beauty of New York is the fact that it never sleeps. Dear old Frank taught us that (I say dear a little cynically, I hear he was actually a bit of a sh*t. Nice pipes though). However, I am relentlessly fickle, so expect a post in the future where I bang on about how much better Brooklyn is than smelly old Manhattan.

On Saturday we awoke to a beautiful, sunny, non-sweaty day so I decided to introduce Mr me to the wonderful High Line. On the way we dropped into Pastis on 9th Avenue for a spot of brunch. I’d visited before, and had enjoyed it muchly, so thought it was a risk free proposition. Sadly, I was wrong. A more disappointing brunch has not been eaten in years. YEARS! For $28 I was served pouched eggs with hard yolks (a travesty of first world proportions!), standard white bread, overcooked, dried out sausages and merely half decent potatoes. My Mr fared a little better with his smoked salmon and scrambled eggs but only barely. We arrived at the tale end of the brunch service, so perhaps that was the problem, but I won’t be visiting again to find out. Humph.

The High Line, in case anyone reading isn’t in the know, is an elevated park which runs for a mile along the west side of Manhattan, along old railway tracks. Construction started in 2006 and it first opened in 2009. It’s really bloody lovely, beautifully designed, with wonderful architecture in its environs. My Mr and I took many photos, some of which follow for your viewing pleasure.

And this is where I was standing, on the right there.

Flowers and streets.

Keep off the grass, bitches.

Hot daaaaawg.

City field.

Art, innit.

Oh, how we laughed.

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