yes dear readers, yesterday another evening of yoga substitutes faced me. thus i reached into my handy yoga coupon pile and dragged out a free pass to levitate on 8th ave.
levitate is a most stylin' studio: great lobby, nice elevator, beautiful foyer with floaty sienna curtains, chocolate brown seagrass throws down the hall, granite countertops in the bathroom, elegant upholstery. . . .and the worst yoga floor ever.
the main practice room is spare and minimalist, in soft green. one wall boasts huge windows lined with sparkling votive candles.
the floor! however dear shiva the floor! is shellacked linoleum tile over concrete. not a safe floor for working on, not a floor i wanna fall on.
don't get me wrong: it's not ugly. it's probably the most lovely cats-eye and jasper glittering linoleum ever. but!
also -- and this is death for me -- the place was completely air-conditioned. it was freezing. i felt like i was in the uptown fairway's walk-in meat cooler.
in case anyone needs proof of the karmic concept, the teacher turned out to be erika hildebrandt. that's right, the sister of the yoga teacher who most gets on my nerves.
unlike her brother, however, erika is a lovely, soft person who speaks in a near whisper. she taught an elegant, floating breath-centered vinyasa.
i loved it. she's by far a better teacher than you-know-who.
anyway, walking back up the ave. towards the c train, i was surprised on the wrong side of 50th by a horde of people running pell-mell, the mounted police right behind them.
ah. the dread anarchists. once they reached the intersection, they fanned out, blocking traffic, and quickly stripped.
then in the most unbelievable act, they lay their naked bodies down in the new york street. think about that: a new york street.
i wouldn't touch the surface of 8th ave. with my bare hand, much more less. . .well, you know.
anyway, i must say that it was above all a stunning proof of how completely unattractive most people are without clothes, even if their average age is, oh, about 20.
i did note one young man, briefly in an nyu t-shirt, who had a charming prince albert. which he should have kept in the can.
not that i have anything against piercings: everyone knows i have diamonds embedded in my body my own bad self.
but mostly i was fuming -- not 50 ft. from the subway station! there i was, trapped on the far side of yet another die-in and god knows when i could get to a train.
the police began to make arrests. in despair, i turned around, walked back down the block and wandered into a bistro called pigalle.
thus i consoled myself with grilled asparagus and steak tartare. worse things have happened to me, don'cha know!
posted by fortune | 7:14 AM | top | link to this | email this: | | | 0 comments