The last week of October marked the end of a grueling 2-month shooting schedule on a project that promises to be an exciting one and I look forward to seeing the fruits of our concerted efforts early next year. I am, however, glad to get a chance to catch my breath, decompress, and yes return to blogging.
By day’s end on October 31, I was exhausted and without regard for cleverly carved jack-o’lanterns, tricks nor treats. All I wanted was a meal and a good night’s sleep. So, whilst enjoying comfort food at Trout Fish Shack (though I miss the scrumptious stuffed turkey burgers of its predecessor, Gravy) in Boerum Hill I decided to check into Nu Hotel, a recent addition to Brooklyn’s changing landscape. Located just blocks away on the corner of Smith Street and Atlantic Avenue, it beckoned me, “come, rest.”
A quick trip to nearby Rite Aid for toiletries would be all I’d need before attaining Nirvana. A lone child’s Speed Racer getup, complete with helmet/mask, white pants and trompe l’oeil “jacket” dangled forlornly above the nail polish remover. A sucker for the lonely, and with my dormant love of Halloween reawakened by the parade of revelers traversing Smith Street, I sized up the ensemble, figured it would fit–in a highwater kind-of-way– and rescued it from the purgatory of garish drugstore lighting.
I opened the door of the clean, spare and surprisingly spacious (especially for a boutique hotel) room 401 and entered a welcoming, white-walled, modernist dream. Crisp white linens, fluffy down comforter and a sprawling king bed provided the best night’s sleep I’d had in a long time and a perch for mindless channel surfing of the flat-screen TV.
I awoke lazily the next morning and met a friend for a lovely brunch at Jolie Restaurant Français just across Atlantic Avenue. I kept it local and low-key for the rest of the day, grabbing some tasty morsels from the menu of small plates at The JakeWalk on Smith and DeGraw before heading back to workout in the gym at Nu. I stopped in the small lobby lounge and discussed the mixing possibilities of St. Germain, an Elderflower liqueur whose elegant belle époque bottle reminds me of my late grandmother’s vanity tray. He says gin, I went with vodka, retreated to my room and capped off the evening in an Alpine blur.
The next day I joined the congregants of the Church of the New York Marathon lining Fourth Avenue to cheer on the thundering hordes of runners who never fail to make me well up on the first Sunday of November. I couldn’t have asked for better weather for my impromptu staycation in my beloved burg or a better time than I had. It was much-needed balm.