Recently my tasty, and by tasty I mean insanely busy, travels took me to Mecca. For me this Mecca is New York City, home of every possible magazine known to man. With Juless and Vicky in tow for good measure, we were all in for a good time (or at least to take something back from New York, lessons if you will on the Big Apple life).
Life Lesson #1 – Don’t Drink the Pineapple
Tired, overworked and jet lagged in the way only a red eye can accomplish the girls and I decided to head down to the swanky hotel lobby bar for a tasty libation or two. On the menu for the evening? Pineapple Martinis - with their tantalizing “I won’t affect you” taste that unlike the pineapple and Malibu concoctions of our youth will actually have you seeing double in no time. We ordered a round and--unaffected and bored as we customarily are in places such as these--ordered another, then another.
Before you know it we, and by we I mean Vicky and I since teetotaler Juless dropped off early to catch z’s, were about 4 martinis deep and being convinced, rather successfully, by the swanky bar bouncer that we should go to club in the basement since it was the place to see and be seen. So there we go, being swept off by said bouncer to guarantee immediate VIP entrance, we enter without any restraint and resume to the now ritualistic downing of the pineappletinis, drinking them like shots then dancing to absurd music about a chick who is “a mentirosa”
Maybe it was the vodka talking or maybe it was the vodka talking, but I was enjoying the ghetto mix of house and reggaeton when we were joined by a few fellas who insisted on dancing with us even though we both refused to acknowledge their existence (it is good to see that even while intoxicated we maintain the unaffected and bored attitude). So there they remained, dancing in our shadows, and the more we ignored them the harder they danced. Then something happened that would change my experience with the New York man forever.
Life Lesson #2 – Bring Business CardsSo then there I was, a few more deadly pineapple martinis into it, when said shadow dancer, after many failed attempts to speak to me, leans in close to me and says “by the way I work for [insert second rate bank name here].” I guess the wildly surprised look in my eyes gave it away, or maybe he thought I was hard of hearing, but he leaned in closer and said “I am a banker for [insert second rate bank name here].”
What? Um, guy Sex and the City is a TV show and not a way of life for this California girl…ESPECIALLY when you introduce yourself with the name of where you work. And not that it matters to me where you work, but if you are going to go there at least work for someone reputable not for some crap ass bank doing retail…no one gives a damn about your retail banking experiences. (of which I am sure I spouted some variation of this to said “banker” in my mean girl intoxicated state).
At this classy cue, Vicky and I downed one for the road and left said club to wander around aimlessly around Times Square to “walk it off” or some version of walk really since it was more like stumble around TS in the wee hours of the morning (as evidenced by the above photograph). I am not really sure how long we walked for, but I do know that it was not enough since the mad thumping in my head, effects of The Cup of Life blaring for my constantly ringing cell phone, the next day made me want to just curl up and die.
I wish the banker story ended there, but I guess all the bankers wish we could all be California Girls. Later that week there sat 5 communications professionals and the tasty eatery knows as
Pastis, when the herd was approached by a pack of hunting bankers, this time of the hedge fund variety. Why do I know this? Because I got handed a business card as an introduction followed by a cheesy line regarding the hedge funding type and an offer to buy me a drink.
This got me to thinking, is it that bankers think they can only get laid if they divulge their profession, or is it really a sense of pride that has takes hold of these boys that they are handing you a business card with a shiny bank logo before you can even get their name (although their name is on the biz card so maybe the joke is on me)? I went to the only credible source I could find, a source who has been both a banker and a banker in NYC to get to the bottom of this.
I told funding boy the story of the bankers pick up manifesto that I encountered in NYC and he just laughed hysterically then mentioned something about a bulge bracket. I don’t really know what that means, besides the fact that the next time he parties with his “boys” I should consider confiscating the biz cards, nor did that answer my question but for the sake bankers the world over I sure hope that the answer is the latter.
As Mecca time approached its end, I think in retrospect, New York your not that bad. True most of your men are all eager and proud bankers, but you do mix one deadly yet tasty cocktail and I could see myself living Greenwich Village (although I am partial to the California air). I guess the saying is true, if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere...just make sure you have plenty of business cards.
A coworker once told me this story regarding wretched stomach issues and Ricky Martin. She was in France for an athletic competition of sorts when she came down with the stomach flu or food poising or something to that effect and had to stay in her hotel room to recuperate. At the same time, France was hosting the World Cup and Ricky Martin’s song “The Cup of Life” was the anthem. As she laid, sick in bed, she would hear the fantastic song blasting everywhere and thus forever associated this song with food poising.
