Marianne in Manhattan

People are always trying to impress you with their insider knowledge about New York – that secret bar in the meatpacking district, that magical garden in an abandoned lot on East 7th Street, that perfectly secluded spot in Central Park, the newest little French patisserie in Chelsea.

But in this city of endless opportunity, there’s always more to see and do, and you soon reach activity levels that are unsustainable. You can’t run off and join every “so exclusive it’s practically a cult” yoga studio in SoHo from fear you’re missing out on all the good stuff. The best tip I’ve been given about living in New York wasn’t about some funky speakeasy on the Lower East Side. It was this: don’t try to keep up with the city, because it can’t be done.

(A view of the most dense collection of skyscrapers in the world from the top of the Rockefeller Center)

I’ve tried to keep up, believe me. After feasting on this city over the last few months, I find I’ve barely scratched the surface. I’ve hosted six sets of houseguests; climbed to the Top of the Rock twice to admire the impossible view below; squirmed through a confronting Harold Pinter play; caught the sweat flying off the dancers from the third row at the best Broadway musical ever; stood beneath the massive sculptures in Chinese artist Cai’s spectacular exhibition at the Guggenheim; lost my bearings exploring Central Park; fallen in love with this Jackson Pollock during my third visit to the Met; dined at countless eateries and slowly savoured cocktails mixed to unprecedented perfection; ventured to the Bronx to drink expensive beer, eat bad hotdogs, and be bored senseless watching the home team lose a game at Yankee Stadium; rekindled my literary side at the New York Public Library, listening eagerly while Colum McCann, Michael Ondaatje, Salman Rushdie and Jeffrey Eugenides delivered fireside chats about their craft; I laughed till it hurt all over at the Gotham Comedy Club; took in a couple of burlesque shows at shady venues around town (burlesque is, like, so hip right now); tapped my toes to some Real McCoy Jazz at the Village Vanguard; bought a random painting of Hillary Clinton (media: acrylic on beer carton) from a chick on the street in SoHo; and I even managed to procure the final pieces of furniture for my apartment.

(This is not my apartment. This is artist Cai Guo Qiang’s installation of exploding cars, part of his “I Want to Believe” exhibition at the Guggenheim)

These experiences have been rich and addictive. You feel privileged to have the chance to laugh along with the audience after Salman Rushdie has made a casual joke. (When asked, predictably, to talk about the whole fatwa business, he rolled his eyes and replied “What do you want me to say? Should you kill people for writing books? My view is no. Even Dan Brown must live”.) I admit that I’ve often left little time to savour the last experience before hurtling towards the next. And even though each day is scheduled to within an inch of its life, I still regret those things I missed – the Metropolitan Opera in Brooklyn, Thievery Corporation and Bebel Gilberto performing on a Thursday evening in Central Park. I regret them as though it were possible to do it all. My friends, it is not. And the act of trying can get a little exhausting.

So, I am jumping out at the next stop and I plan to sit at the platform for a while. I will stop feeling anxious about opportunities I may be missing. I will let some of this pass me by. Because you just can’t keep up with this city. Of course I mustn’t pass up that invitation to see the fourth of July fireworks display from a rooftop party in Brooklyn Heights, and I’ll have to check out that David Byrne sound installation in the maritime building – you know, the one where he’s rigged up an organ to the infrastructure of the building, converting the very walls “into a giant musical instrument”. But then, after that, then I’ll stop for a while. And maybe catch my breath.