Sex and The City Bus Tour

Let us pray, “Armani, thou art in Neimans,” the Sex and the City tour guide has her eyes closed and her head down. A bus of 55 women is cruising past the church where an episode of Sex and the City was filmed. “In the name of Gaultier, Dolce and Gabanna, Amex.” The tour guide ended the prayer and looked up to receive few giggles.

The three hour long Sex and the City tour is the epitome of America’s unhealthy relationship with television on wheels. I do not recommend this tour to anyone who regards New York City as much more than a TV studio. The Chrysler Building in not a prop and the four girls in Sex and the City do not live in Manhattan. For some, this is common knowledge. For my delusional bus mates, this is debatable.

Throughout the entire tour I was forced to exercise my silent scoffing, (a technique I learned especially for this outing) while the tourist remained shocklingly tame and boring. Carrie’s character on Sex and the City would have cleverly coined these people “borist." Who knew the self proclaimed Samanthas and Charlottes would be such a tough crowd.

Caught in traffic on Fifth Ave gawking at a shopper’s paradise, I amused myself by guesstimating how many of the borist had spent their mortgage payments on pair of Blaniks. The tour guide offered up a small dose of reality by quoting Carrie’s spending at 40,000 a year on shoes while making 54,000 a year salary. As if this was the only piece of info lent to the argument of the show being unrealistic.

The mood lightened a little as we pulled in front of a sex shop, and a clip from the episode where the girls shop for a “Rabbit” dildo was shown on the little bus TVs. It occurred to me then, Sex and the City was full of little commercials. Miranda was holding the dildo explaining its pleasurable functions while Charlotte squealed “Oh it’s not gross at all, it's even pink! For girls!”

After a lot of nervous giggling and faking repulsion, it was onto the front stoop of Carrie’s home in the West Village. Before we were herded to Carrie’s stoop, we were required to scarf down a knock off Magnolia cupfake in the park next to the Magnolia Bakery. The tour guide seemed annoyed by the speil she spouts off every tour convincing the borist that "Magnolia only gives people so many cupcakes at a time, so they had to get them from another bakery but it was the same recipe." It wasn’t a shocker when the pudgy borist covered in all things Canal Street did not need much convincing to ingest yet another item just a smidgen away from the real deal. It was clear these women were not interested in that silly old burdening ritual otherwise known as reality.

The last stop, which would be much more functional as the first stop, was a bar to drink Cosmos--the martini made popular by the show. We all sat down to yet again try to get as close as we could to feeling like the characters on a TV show. After my first martini hit my empty stomach, I felt friendly enough to call the tour guide over for a chat.

You see at the time I had a red, bulbous, pimple with a pulse on my forehead. As we were talking I could see the tour guide’s focus move up to my huge blemish. I began to recoil in embarrassment until the dusky light of late afternoon caught the thin gloss spread over the herpes nesting in the crack of the tour guides mouth. I instantly battled back focusing my gaze on the crusty cloisters drowning in Abreeva. I could see the tour guide squirm a bit at my sudden counter attack, but neither of us missed a beat of the conversation all the while in a flaw stare down. Brainwashed by the tour I heard my inner monologue sounding off in my head in a voice just like Carrie’s.

I had to wonder what Sex and the City was really about. I was not befriended by one woman. When I did try to reach out I was aggressively ogled in some sort of comparison shoot out. Is this show really about empowering women and loving thy sister as yourself? Or are we drinking the martinis, eating the cupcakes and using the dildos to fill a void? As the rest of the women boarded back on the bus, I turned around to face the remaining martinis that would now be mine at no price. Why are these women getting back on the bus, turning to television for answers, when they are spread out right before us on a tray. Free booze! Pink for girls.