Despite my best efforts, I could not acquire ingress to the roof on Saturday whilst touring the Club with a companion. (We also neglected to foray into the tunnels, the labyrinth of pipe-adorned hallways that hover beneath the building in the manner of the Phantom’s famed catacombs, but shall perhaps attempt that another day.)
Thus, share one of the innumerable, impossibly captivating views from the rooftop. (Cue Carole King’s soothing bop here…)
Deliberately omitted from the photograph: one foolishly barefooted female, wedged against an exhaust pipe in deference to the exuberant wind, black Polo shirt flopping about like a Pirate flag, unable to contain the engulfing grin that invariably forms each time I crest the roof’s apex.
The view never gets old.
