In which Layla and Roz ice skate, eat, and get pedicures

by Layla

I awoke with delight after my 10 course meal and a long sleep to find myself not ill any more. I leapt from bed and found that we had returned to business as usual - I was sent to the corner shop for the last time to buy Roz a morning coffee. The usual woman, who always remembered my order and said a cheery, local hello, was off, and I knew it was a sign: time to go home.

We packed up, and went down to the gay men's flat below to print out our boarding passes. Going home preparation activities complete, we proceeded out into the sunny Saturday morning to pretend going home was not on the horizon. First stop: the Rockefeller Center. It is always my dream to go ice skating (and since last year I'd been taking lessons). I'd had to accept that we had come too early: the rinks weren't open. But then, like a miracle, a tiny notice: the Rockefeller Center ice rink was opening that very day! I was joyous. We arrived at an ice-cleaning time (yes, I'd misread the schedule) so wandered around Saks Fifth Avenue and suchlike fancy places where Roz wanted to buy a wallet but I had to throw myself in her path due to the terrifying price tags. And then it was time. Delightfully, news that the rink was open had clearly not spread. There were only about 20 people on the ice. Surrounded of course by about 1000 spectating tourists who had been passing. I was bitter to find that a few months without lessons had left me almost as rubbish as previously, but I gained confidence and even managed a very little spin. Hooray.

After ice skating we tried to get the metro, it was closed, and ended up getting a cab through Times Square to our lovely little brunch establishment, East of Eighth. We were bitter to find the sunny day had prompted them to close the usual pretty restaurant and decamp to a little patio, but a couple of mimosas and some delicious Eggs Benedict (with guacamole) later, we were quite happy.

After lunch, we wandered down the street feeling aimless and sad about the impending flight. And then we walked past a beautician type establishment where a line of ladies sat in special chairs having pedicures. We had never partaken in such things before, but suddenly, randomly dashed inside on a whim. Great idea - before long we were seated in side-by-side pedicure chairs, our feet in baths of bubbly milk and lavender. After the pedicure, we moved, with shiny toenails, to massage chairs and had shoulder massages. Ah, life's not so bad...

Two beauty treatments later and we walked down towards Greenwich Village towards our dinner - very early due to the flight time. We'd walked all the way to the restaurant before deciding we didn't fancy it, wandered back, established ourselves in Cornelia St Cafe, didn't really fancy the food, and felt sad and irritable and not-wanting-to-go-home-ish. And then I popped next door to a glamorous yet friendly feeling little restaurant called Po. They were fully booked but squeezed us into the bar area, where a great gay boy waiter tended to our every need and we started to feel very cheery indeed as we tucked into delicious food and wine (well,Roz had wine. I was still nervous about my stomach...). The pumpkin ravioli was a delight that I will dream about for years to come.

Bad moods banished, it was disappointing to realise we had to leave (though a relief to the waiter, I'm sure, as the place was packed). We walked back to the flat, grabbed our cases, and with great reluctance headed to JFK, lamenting the stupid idea of getting a night flight. Sure enough we did not sleep a single wink. Which allowed us to appreciate the hysterical screaming child. But luckily the horrors did not cancel out the loveliness of a fantastic New York holiday. More next year, please!