What is it about NYC that keeps dem ladies coming? Is it the rustic yet tre obvi 21st century graystone road bricks of Soho that make us think of a simpler time, a la 2007? Is it the recent gentrification of Harlem that’s so extreme I thought a corner bodega sold exclusively Pamplemousse La Croix? Or is it the coveted ‘cronut,’ a delicacy so divine, you can only respond with: “$8.49 for this shit?” I decided to go to NYC to figure it out.
Upon arrival, I eagerly leapt out of Laguardia, greeted instantly with a heaping waft of what I call “the inside Shia Labeouf’s frontal lobe.” Subtly foul, but still leaving me curious for more. And once I coughed up a mouthful of shame left over from the 2016 election, I was ready to take off! I was in NYC baby!
Too poor to take a $148 cab, I got onto the shuttle that would whisk me off from the deep throes of Queens, into the even deeper throes of piss-ridden mid-town Manhattan. Just a quick 45 minute bus ride, given no traffic!
Five hours and three editions of War & Peace later, I was on 43rd Street. I was on BROADWAY! I could feel the energy of Broadway shows-past filling me with energy and excitement, as if I could just get out there and do anything! Upon gazing at the majesty of The Lion King marquee, a man in a Winnie the Pooh costume asked if I wanted a picture. When I said I didn’t have any money on me, he whispered a kind and welcoming message: “Don’t expect to get too far with that response here, Kristen Stewart.” Wow! I was honored! I couldn’t believe he actually thought I was Hollywood bad-girl and possible wax figure Kristen Stewart.
Now that I was officially welcomed into the city, it was time to see my first Broadway show. The options were endless!! What should I see? Wicked? Book of Mormon? The highly coveted Phantom of the Opera? I walked up to the ticket window in a tizzy with all the options. An older Polish woman with a mustache that’s been growing since the Cold War greeted me with a warm, yet off putting demeanor that felt akin to saying hi to your AP US history teacher when he showed up to your grad party. When I told her I was ready for any show available that night, she told me that my options were somewhat limited. And by somewhat limited, she meant my only options were either an outdated version of a 40s minstrel musical with loudly racist undertones or a 10th row, perfect view orchestra seat for some wacko show called Dear Evan Hansen. I went with the latter because, well, I’d already seen the movie version of Holiday Inn.
You don’t need to know much about the musical. Basically, a kid falls out of a tree and then gets Internet famous for pretending he has friends. It didn’t seem like anyone really liked it. There were only three massive mobs waiting at the stage door post-show. Doesn’t a good Broadway show have like six?
The next day I decided to take a nice, long walk in Central Park. After worrying I contracted salmonella from a street vendor hot dog, I puked it up and continued on my way! Whilst on my walk, I was greeted by several eager homeless men, who assured me my placement into the kingdom of heaven was riding on my alms to the poor. Five homeless men and $58 later, I am happy to report I am definitely getting into heaven!
I wanted to make sure I got one hearty New York meal into my stomach. After listening to suggestions from a family of Puerto Rican circus performers, they told me true New York pizza could only be found from one source. So once they gave me directions, I ran as fast as I could. I quickly got into line, eagerly awaiting NYC’s best pie. And after careful consideration and several yummy slices, I confirmed that the hot spot for some New York ‘za is the very exclusive, highly coveted, password protected: 42nd St. Sbarro with several semi-patched-up gunshot holes. Who knew Michael Scott knew what he was talking about??
Some other highlights from the trip include getting kicked out of an H&M for walking out wearing pants I had purchased from a different H&M store months ago, getting called a ‘hussy’ when I asked for ketchup on my hot dog, and getting accidentally mistaken for Kristen Stewart again, which I only realized after a strawberry slushi was thrown at my face for ‘doing that’ to Robert Pattinson. I guess New York really doesn’t like Kristen Stewart.
As I spent my last night gazing up at the New York sky, I thought about the city and how it expanded farther than what I could ever imagine. There were so many people I had met, so much culture I had taken in, so much history of our country ingested in my veins. And as I looked up at the horribly polluted gray cloud of a sky, I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe I could make it here. Maybe I could make it my home.
All I had to do was get off the heaping piling of hot, summer garbage I was lying on.