So quickly the foreign becomes routine. The funny ramshackle minibus rolls up to the bus stop, we loop through the tunnel, we pass over 6 American dollars and emerge into the rush of new york city. The day is bookended the same.

Dylan had a surprise for me, we walked towards the industrial edge if the city. Then architecture lessons came to life, not the empire state building or radio city music hall, a garden in the sky – it was the high line.

A gorgeous day and walking above the city with flowers and trees sprouting cleverly between disused train tracks, even with all the people there was something so special about that walk. It resonated with me even more than central park, something abandoned and ugly given new life. A reinvention of eden.

The journey over we found ourselves outside artists and fleas. Handmade and vintage packed into a room, characters galore. It was the tie pins that drew us in, music notes, classic bars and stars. Crisp ties, pocket squares, coffins and vintage suits. Oh the suits, I felt my way through them, my fingers tingling when it felt the softness of quality wool. Dylan uncharacteristically enthused tried it on, a perfect fit. The gentleman running the stall was a sartorial dream, his motto know the rules then break them. He had none of the cold pretention of many vintage sellers, he had a genuine passion in transforming his customers and bringing their personality into their style. He stood in his socks so he could see Dylan wearing his shoes with the suit, told him never to do up the bottom button of a jacket and wear your sleeves short so you can see some cuff. It was rather a charming experience and for a vintage Italian suit and the sellers delightful presence $170 seemed very reasonable and everyone one left with a smile on their face.