I laugh. “Sounds like the perfect grandma.”
“Oh, she is.” There’s something about the serious way Noah says this that makes me instantly look at him, but his face is expressionless and fixed on the road. “So, up at that turn I’m going to hang a left,” he says, “and then we’re pretty much there.”
“Oh.” We’re surrounded by grim-looking warehouse buildings now, and there are hardly any people around. I can’t see anywhere that looks remotely like a hotbed of food and adventure, but maybe once we get around the corner we’ll emerge into the heart of a quirky little neighborhood, crammed full of vintage stores and cafés.
Instead, when we get around the corner, we emerge into an industrial wasteland full of garbage Dumpsters and tumbleweed. OK, there isn’t actually any tumbleweed, but there should be—it’s totally a tumbleweed kind of place.
Noah pulls up outside a warehouse building that looks long abandoned. The walls are crumbling and covered in faded graffiti like old tattoos. Most of the windows are boarded up with sheets of corrugated iron and the few that aren’t are lined with heavy metal bars. Even the trees that are dotted about look derelict, leafless, and spindly against the beige brickwork.
“I know it looks kind of sketchy,” Noah says in what has to be the understatement of the year, “but once you get inside it’s a whole other story.”
“We’re going inside—there?” I stare at the building. The only time I’ve seen anything like this before has been in the scariest scenes of really scary movies—usually involving crazed psychos armed with guns. Or, one time, an actual chain saw.
Noah laughs. “You’re gonna love it, seriously.”
I turn to stare at him. Maybe he really is crazy, and not in a good way. “But w-what—is it?” I stammer.
“I’m taking you to a secret café—for artists,” he says.
I admit it; now I’m interested. “Really?”
“Yep. No one knows it’s here. They never advertise it. It’s strictly invitation-only.”
“So how do you know it’s here?” Although the idea of an invitation-only, secret café for artists intrigues me, I’m still not fully convinced.
“My dad used to have a studio here,” Noah says, taking the keys from the ignition. “The whole building’s full of artists’ studios. It began in the seventies when the building was empty and a whole bunch of artists started squatting in it. Then, in the nineties, when the authorities wanted to bulldoze it, the artistic community got together to protest and the mayor granted the building a special status.”
“Wow.”
Noah nods. “This is the real New York,” he says wistfully. “Places like this. It’s also my favorite place in the world,” he says.
I immediately get that fluttery feeling again at the thought of him bringing me to his favorite place in the world.
“And, hey, it seemed like the perfect place for Magical Mystery Day—it’s top secret and it has cake.”
“It’s perfect,” I say, and Noah starts to grin.
We get out of the truck and the icy wind is so biting it makes me shiver.
“You cold?” Noah asks.
I nod. “A bit.”
He takes off his scarf. “Here.” I stand dead still as he puts the scarf around my neck. He’s so close to me I daren’t lift my gaze from the floor. Then I do look up, and for a split second we’re staring into each other’s eyes. And click—I feel another part of me slotting into place with him.
“Come on.” He places his hand gently in the small of my back and guides me over to a gap in the metal fence surrounding the building.
We scramble down a steep bank covered in weeds and stubbly grass, and over to a large metal door. There’s an old keypad next to the door. Noah presses some of the numbers and there’s a clicking sound. He pulls the door open and ushers me in. We’re standing in a concrete corridor lit by harsh flickering fluorescent strip lights. The one appealing thing is the graffiti on the walls. This graffiti isn’t like the faded tags on the outside. These are proper works of art, whole murals stretching all the way along the corridor.
A door in the wall opens and a woman comes out. She’s wearing a long tie-dyed dress and her hair is pulled back into hundreds of beaded braids. It’s so nice to see someone so bright and colorful and friendly-looking that I’m instantly reassured.
“Noah,” the woman cries as soon as she sees him.
“Hey, Dorothy, how’s it going?”
“Great. I just found out I’ve got two pieces accepted for an exhibition downtown.”
“That’s awesome.” Noah gives the woman a hug. Then he turns back to me. “This is my friend Penny. She’s come all the way from the UK. I wanted to bring her someplace special for lunch.”
Dorothy gives me a warm smile. “Well, you came to the right place. Welcome to New York, honey.”
“Thank you.”
“OK, I’ll catch you guys later—gotta go have a meeting with the gallery. Well done, Noah. I’m so proud of you.” Dorothy gives him another hug and starts heading off along the corridor.
Noah looks really embarrassed as he turns to me. “Come on, let’s go eat.”
I follow him to a door at the end of the corridor that opens onto a stairwell.
“The café’s down in the basement,” he explains, holding the door open for me.