62 Hours In The City That Never Sleeps (And Neither Did I)

Life’s all about second chances (ok maybe that’s not what it’s all about ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ but here we go). Five years after New York City chewed me up and my spat my sad, defeated tush all the way back to California where it belongs, I decided to give it another go—just for the weekend (62 hours to be exact) this time.

With my posse—aka my boyfriend and my parents in tow, I felt ready to take on the city with all of the adult gusto I didn’t have when I was just a naive, newly graduated tater tot.

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Me, circa 2014 (and honestly also me present day).


With less than 72 hours to spare and the fuel of cheap ho-tel coffee flowing through my veins, it was game. on.

Friday night we landed at JFK Airport (home to not one but FOUR Dunkin’ Donuts) and made our way into the big city. I’d like to report that our first order of business was sipping fancy cocktails at the Algonquin Hotel like sophisticates, but it was not. That was our second order of business. First, we scouted out some sub-par slices like the true pizza rats we are.


Our stomachs duly coated with $2.75 pizza grease, we made our way to the Algonquin Hotel—home to one very plump feline named Hamlet. Cool cats aside, in the 1920’s the hotel served as a rendezvous to a coterie of gossipy elite (kind of like Mean Girls, but more drunk off of bathtub gin). They dubbed themselves “The Vicious Circle”, which is a very good name for a clique of any era, IMO.


The next morning, bleary eyed and and bushy tailed, we set off to Chelsea for mile-high pancakes at Bubby’s followed by a morning of ~culture~ at the Whitney Museum.



We chased our museum visit with a brisk walk on the Chelsea High Line, a former railroad turned linear metro-park, and chased our brisk walk with a pit stop at the Chelsea Market, mostly to raid the shelves of the Fat Witch. 

A chilly, post-market stroll around Chelsea led us straight into the warm, ricotta-stuffed arms (much like those of a large, hairy Italian uncle) of Eataly. After eyeing the specialized panini, charcuterie, pizza and pasta stalls of the mercato gastronomico, we settled on a hot, peppered bowl of cacio e pepe and DIY cannolis.


I’m going to recap Saturday in the way that my now 8 year old niece learned the difference between the words “fortunately” and “unfortunately”. Ready?

A trip to the Big Apple isn’t complete without a Broadway play. Fortunately, our unofficial travel guide (my mom) snagged us prime tickets for a Saturday evening show. Unfortunately, these tickets admitted us to The Band’s Visit, which contrary to its numerous Tony accolades, was no good at all. In fact, it was quite literally about nothing. Sorry, Tony.

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Having tackled a famous hotel bar, a museum, one park, two gourmet markets, a broadway show, 8 miles of city blocks and approximately 600 carbs, we decided we hadn’t quite done enough. Thus, we chartered on.

We taxied through the rain to Sarabeth’s, a Central Park adjacent brunch spot, for stacks of the fluffiest french toast known to man before visiting some of the greats like Monet, Matisse and Miró at MoMa. Below is a smattering of the art that didn’t resemble something a 5 year old made.

After wandering into Rockefeller center to see larger-than-life Diego Rivera murals (MORE! ART!) , we rounded out the evening with buns n’ n00ds at Momofuku Noodle Bar…


followed by a leisurely (and spooky) walk through Central park…

…and finished strong at Serendipity with a pie-stuffed sundae. We asked the waiter to roll us out the door. He politely declined.


In typical New York fashion, we were anxious (I could just end the sentence there and it would be oh so accurate) to make the most of our last few hours in Gotham City. Why is it called Gotham, by the way? Don’t worry, we’ll get there.

We waited in line with all of the other carb-seeking tourists at Best Bagel & Coffee to get our bagels n’ schmear on.


After single handedly keeping Uber afloat over the course of the frigid weekend, we opted to navigate the subway to check out Canal Street Market and the likes of SoHo. We combed through stalls of indie artists, racks of vintage collectors and finally we hit up…

…wait for it…


I don’t have any words for this one. I was quite excited.

We’ve reached the end of my 62 hour return to NYC, and if you were exhausted just reading this, then congratulations—you got the gist of the trip. And if you made it this far, here’s how Gotham City got its weird, Batman name.

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