New York's way with words

YOUR Departure Lounge has been in Manhattan and here is what she has learned about life in the Big Apple.

Illustration: Tom Jellett

YOUR Departure Lounge has been in Manhattan and here is what she has learned about life in the Big Apple.

For a start, Lounge thought she had a reasonable grasp of English expression and elocution but, no, she has not.

To save you similar embarrassments, do not, for example, ask a guard the whereabouts of the toilet or the lavatory in, say the Metropolitan Museum, or the uniformed attendant will blush and ask if you mean the rest room.

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Euphemisms abound, too, in the world of underwear. Knickers are not known commodities, although figure-enhancing suction garments that compress your kidneys are. In Macy's, Lounge is directed to intimate apparel for her underpants. There are things such as innerware and outerware and letterman cardigans that do not appear to have late-night television hosts inside them.

Cushions are sofa enhancements, curtains are window treatments. A handbag is a purse; a purse is a pocketbook. Milk is cream; coriander is cilantro and herbs ain't herbs but 'erbs. Never call a thing by its most obvious name. Titles are important. Lounge discovers a glossy magazine with a staff list that includes, respectively, Vice Presidents of Jewelry and Watches and Audience Development. Another publication boasts an Earrings Associate.

Do not walk slowly while pondering on sidewalks, not pavements, such astonishments. My colleague David Meagher is strolling along Fifth Avenue when a New Yorker pushes him out of the way with a good bit of advice. "Move faster, you're in Manhattan now, fella." Indeed. There are power walkers and frontier shoppers. There's gluten-free shampoo and artisan shower gel. There are size 0 confections of frills and feathers and, who knows, possibly spun sugar and the frothed breath of Berber folk seamstresses in the Upper East Side boutiques of Madison and Fifth avenues; this gear is so minuscule Lounge can't even get one of her arms in the various openings.

Lounge must confine her clothes shopping to the broader-sized beats of the city, those districts bereft of skinny dames carrying small dogs in Burberry hoodies under their arms as casually as if they were handbags.

Such canines look like peeled rats and when their owners take vacations they stay not at boarding kennels but puptels.

Lounge is told of a hot dog served with black truffles, foie gras and heirloom tomato ketchup that costs $US70 and is known as a haute dog. At the gorgeous Surrey Hotel on the Upper East Side, there are bespoke towelling robes for four-legged guests. In SoHo, Lounge spots a pet store called Doggy Style that sells canine-sized futons and vegan treats. Neighbouring stores are hawking eco-friendly mattresses and green-tea smoothies; tarot-card readings are big, as are gourmet granola bars with names such as Haute Diggity Date. A beachwear store is closed for the summer break; the sign on the door reads: "Gone tanning".

New Yorkers are crazy about organic produce and the more esoteric, the better, from pink banana pumpkins at a Greenwich Village fruitique to stinging nettle lasagna at the fantastic new Eataly indoor marketplace at Fifth Avenue and 23rd Street. Feel like a shot of something bracing? Head to a tequileria.

A corner store is a bodega, jam is jelly, jelly is Jell-o, cosmetic surgeons sell their services with slogans such as "Genes only get you so far". The real-estate advertisements are riveting. Lounge learns of roof rights, children's imagination rooms and artisan lofts. Forget apartment building foyers and common areas: insert "social spaces". In fact, just get over bedrooms and the attendant connotations of discarded socks and yesterday's lovers and come to grips with "sleeping spaces".

New Yorkers are friendly and up for a chat or sometimes just a monologue. Want to make a new friend? Open a map. Lounge is lunching alone at the lovely Petrie Cafe and Wine Bar at the Metropolitan Museum; the Parisian-style tables for two are close together in bistro-style ranks. Lounge is studying her map. In a flash from her neighbour: "Is that a map? I love maps. Do you love maps? I like nothing better than maps. Can I help you read that map? Hi, my name's Jeff and this is my mother, Dale, and we love coming to the Met. We come here all the time. Where are you from?

"Australia? No way! Did you hear that, mother? We know someone who went to Australia. I'd love to go to Australia. What have you ordered? The pasta? I love pasta. Do you love pasta ..."

Favourite T-shirt slogan seen on the streets: "Be Yourself, Everyone Else is Taken". Best snippet of conversation heard at JFK airport: "Look, honey, anyone can be an American; it takes real talent to be a New Yorker."

On her flight from JFK to LAX (always talk in airport codes), Lounge is in the front row of the main cabin and up ahead are two rows of first-class seats, each chair the size of a sofa. One appears to be empty, but no, when Lounge passes it enroute to the rest room, she sees a tiny white dog sitting atop a cushion, its floppy ears braided with ribbons and bells. Its owner is asleep in the adjoining seat; the dog looks dazed.

Lounge longs for it to run amok, cock a leg, career down the aisles, set off those bells into an entertaining glockenspiel harmony.

But it stays silent for many hours until we land at LAX and prepare to deplane, or deboard, take your pick.

"Thank you for flying with us, sir, and have a nice day," chirps the cabin attendant at the small dog. It bares its tiny teeth and looks as if he would like to take a good nip at that particular platitude.