We went to New York to escape from a coming Northern Winter.
The philosophy was, let's get so much stimuli from graffitied walls, colourful people, hot dog stands, intense theatre, fashion, architecture, depravity, sewage stink, fastfastfast... that gratitude for the land, the quiet, the solace, just falls into our laps when we come home to the Yukon.
Well, it worked. It worked a little too quickly.
One week into our trip, I was extremely relieved that I had had the foresight in the planning of the mielmoon, to make a reservation to Blue Hill at Stone Barn. Far away from the bustle of anything metropolitan, it is the epitome of a farm-to-table experience, in that the majority of the bounty and harvest served at dinner, are from just steps outside their kitchen door. It would mean taking a train ride away from the high rises of Manhattan proper, towards the greener things of Pocantico Hills.
(Don't get me wrong-- I was loving my urban getaway. It's just that I've turned into a bit of a rural mouse that feels a bit sideways in her heart, when she has to crane her neck for a view of the sky. )