Still zonked from the big work event that took me to Nashville and back earlier this week, I walked home from work in the warm, late afternoon, yesterday, up through TriBeCa and into SoHo.
Strolling north on Mercer Street, I was once again reminded of how much that neighborhood has changed. Where it was once a comparatively whisper-quiet backwater of modest, independent businesses and galleries, the strip in question is now a hotbed of retail activity, playing host to any number of high-end “streetwear” outlets that attract gaggles of teenaged hip-hoppers in expensive sneakers. The third-floor gallery I used to work in at 55 Mercer is long gone, its buidling converted into a pricey condominium a few years back.
As I proceeded further, I spied a roiling, animated crowd gathered just beyond the intersection of Prince Street. There was a horde of gawkers spilling over the sidewalk and into the street in front of the Mercer Hotel, gazing up at the hotel, many with smartphones extended above their heads in the hopes of capturing some fleeting image. It was not quite Beatlemaniacal pandemonium, but obviously someone of note was about.
I asked someone standing with earnest intent on the far corner what all the fuss was about.
Apparently, one of the Kardashian sisters was rumored to be inside.
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