The Frick Collection, a mansion-turned-museum holding the acquisitions of one lone man – industrialist Henry Clay Frick.TIMOTHY A. CLARY/AFP / Getty Images
I'm standing in front of the iconic Plaza Hotel, but precocious little Eloise is nowhere to be found.
Instead, author Kay Thompson's pint-sized literary character has been replaced by a tour guide screeching at her charges: "PEOPLE! Follow me if you don't want to get lost!"
And while I may be in Midtown Manhattan, only a stone's throw from peaceful Central Park, the chaos playing out in front of me looks more like a scene from the Chicago Stock Exchange: Hucksters wave their wares frenetically, tour buses belch fumes and tourists three-deep clamour to snap selfies in front of one of New York's greatest icons.
The reasons why this city never sleeps are legendary, but the synapses in my brain will need a timeout every now and then, too.
Thankfully, there is peaceful respite in New York; you just need to know where to look.
A couple of blocks from the Plaza, I beat a hasty retreat to the revolving doors of the Pierre Hotel and manage to leave the din outside.
Here, refuge comes cloaked in marble, wood panelling and richly textured silk and brocade (the better to muffle sound).
A delightfully anachronistic elevator operator asks in a hushed tone, "What floor, please?" and silently presses the button with a gloved hand.
At first blush, the Plaza and the Pierre have much in common: Both hotels were built in the early part of the 20th century; both hosted gathering patricians during New York's Gilded Age; both overlook Central Park (although only the Plaza's condos, not its rooms, have park views these days). But that's where the similarity ends. While one buzzes like Grand Central Station, the other, fresh off a $100-million (U.S.) renovation, still harks back to that genteel time when a frenetic pace wasn't considered a virtue. The Pierre's hallowed halls and 189 plush rooms are a perfect oasis of tufted-headboard calm in the heart of Midtown.
It's a calm I need to double down on the following morning at Chelsea Market. I remember visiting this reimagined National Biscuit Company headquarters in 1997 when the gentrified factory first presented its groundbreaking mix of independent stores, restaurants and grocers. The market still has all the right parts that make it one of the greatest food halls of the world; only, now, six million other people have cottoned on to it, too. From morning until night, a crush of foodie pilgrims jam so tightly inside that it's best to channel the Buddhist analogy of a leaf on a river and simply flow with the stream and have faith you'll be spat out at the end.
I elbow my way to an exit and escape, and within a few blocks stumble across Chelsea Market's mini-doppelganger at 52 Gansevoort St. – a historic, brick-walled warehouse packed with independent food purveyors. I briefly wonder if I've fallen into some sort of Meatpacking District rabbit hole, but it turns out I'm just at the months-old Gansevoort Market, a previously decrepit 8,000-square-foot space reimagined as a 60-seat ode to artisanal food. There's a crepe post (Crêpe Sucre), a requisite too-serious coffee purveyor (Champion Coffee) and an exclusive-to-New York spot (Bruffin Café, which specializes in muffin-shaped brioches tailored to different countries' cuisines). It's busy in here, but not Chelsea Market-busy; I leisurely finish my bruffin with maple Canadian bacon and sharp cheddar.
It's time to walk off the caloric hit, but judging from the crowds on the adjacent High Line, I ponder the alternatives. Flocking to a slice of green so slim and manicured that only a resident of a 54-storey apartment would call it nature seems daft. And strolling cheek-to-jowl with what appears to be the entire crew from my recent Chelsea Market experience only further underscores the need to get out of Dodge. I hop a train and head to the northernmost tip of Manhattan.
I'm rewarded for venturing to this relatively remote corner: The rugged natural beauty of Inwood Hill Park also happens to be the last and largest natural woodland left in the city. Its 196 acres were left untouched until 1916 when the Parks Department came along and purchased it. The city's goal to leave it as natural as possible makes for history at a glance: I can almost imagine how Manhattan looked 500 years ago when it was the site of a native American village. Now, the park is a joggers' and dog walkers' virtually empty paradise, with miles of rugged trails; on this particular day, it's just me and a couple of birders straight from Central Casting over at the Audubon Society (undoubtedly here to see the more than 150 bird species on record).
While I'm recharged after my healthy dose of greens, I didn't come to the most densely populated burg in North America for its nature. It's culture time, which New York has in spades, but where can I catch a break? To ease my re-entry into mayhem, I eschew the swells and the all-things-to-all-people approach at the Met in favour of the Frick Collection, a mansion-turned-museum holding the acquisitions of one lone man – industrialist Henry Clay Frick, steel magnate, union-buster and one of the great collectors of our age. You'll not want for big names – monumental Gainsboroughs and Velasquezes were some of Frick's favourites, but it's the quiet moments captured inside an actual person's former private house that make this a contemplative spot like no other in town. Frick's decorative-arts collection easily exceeds the Old Master paintings with an astonishing array of ceramics, silver, clocks and watches, furniture, porcelain and enamels (his trip to Paris in 1914 yielded $400,000 worth of treasure alone, in a single month – this at a time when a Model T cost $200). Since children under 10 aren't permitted inside, much of it can be displayed out in the open, affording an intimate, tranquil exploration through grand, marble-columned halls. I've timed it well – on the way out, I pocket a copy of the museum's just-published book devoted entirely to Frick's decorative arts.
Surrounded by these priceless baubles, I've got a hankering to do a little shopping of my own despite being woefully shy of six-digit budgets. Nearby Bloomingdale's serves up epic choice for its well-heeled crowds, but I've seen obstacle courses that were easier to navigate than the store's phalanx of perfume spritzers and makeup hucksters. But I don't need to head to all the way to Brooklyn to find a more imaginative take on high style. In the Garment District, the new five-storey department store Bene Rialto mixes lines from up-and-coming global designers (I note Toronto's Ela handbags and King's Crown Men's Grooming) in a thoughtfully curated upscale marketplace setting. Opened last October by a bevy of sartorial powerhouses (including David Teeter, a former Holt Renfrew VP), this boutique market-cum-gallery-cum-fashion incubator connects people and ideas (the fourth floor is a showroom where designers meet with industry pros), design (the first three floors house collections) and experiences (the top floor is an event space).
Refreshed, recharged and re-energized, I stroll back to my haven at the Pierre and, as usual, Fifth Avenue is bumper-to-bumper, exhaust fumes and horns duelling it out for my attention. But notwithstanding a day spent crisscrossing the most frenetic city on the continent, I have reserves and reserves of patience to draw upon.
The writer was a guest of the Pierre Hotel.