My alarm was set for 3:30 a.m., but naturally, I woke up closer to 4:00. Which is to say, my body politely informed me that booking a hotel until 11 the night before was not compatible with the fantasy of a predawn wake-up call. I scrambled some eggs, more out of duty than hunger, and I headed to Dad’s place.
Dad greeted me with the casual confession that he’d stayed up until two or three in the morning, which really set the tone for the day: none of us were properly functioning adults, but at least we were going to New York. I waited on dad to wake up and get ready. Then, we rushed to the airport and waited in line to check dad’s bag. We were barely there in time. We flew 30 minutes to Dallas, blinked, and suddenly we were on a much longer flight to New York.
The View from the Hotel
Once on the ground, we tried to solve the eternal New York riddle: cheap, fast, or easy—pick two. Naturally, we picked cheap. Twenty-six bucks for a seven-day MetroCard, a bus, a subway ride, and plenty of wrong turns later, we dragged our suitcases across several blocks and asked directions the whole way, because we had no idea how to get around here. Eventually, we collapsed at The Bentley Hotel, which—mercifully—was nicer than our transit experience.
We laid our things down and were ready to eat. It was then I realized I’d lost my phone. I’d left it on the first flight, tucked neatly between my legs, and promptly forgotten about it. Rather than spiral into despair, Dad and I decided to find food before life unraveled completely.
We ended up at Baker Street Pub on 2nd Ave, where the waitress was from Donegal, Ireland, and the fish and chips were excellent. I nearly ordered a pint just for the occasion, but remembered my dry streak and bravely stuck to water. Like a monk in the middle of a pub. After our meal we walked to a Starbucks and got coffee.
CentralPark
Dad and I decided to go back and take a nap. After a nap that felt like slipping into another dimension, Dad and I set off for Central Park. I can confirm: there are indeed an absurd number of attractive people in Manhattan.
Time Square
It’s pretty amazing to watch the comings and goings of all the people in this city. Dad and I found a vendor selling organic hot dogs in Central Park and got a veggie Italian sausage dog in a wheat pita with a bag of puffed popcorn and some kind of organic drink. I must say I rather enjoyed it. We walked around the scenic park until we decided to go to Time Square.
So, we jumped on the subway and plunged into Times Square—a dazzling carnival of lights, tourists, and professional weirdos. Along the way, there were people drawing sketches of people, comedy tickets, and more. I bought Liam a postcard, Dad bought comedy show tickets, and we somehow found ourselves taking a picture with a half-naked woman painted in American flag colors. It was the sort of experience that makes you question how many decisions led to this exact moment.
Dad and I in Time Square
That night we went to the Broadway Comedy Club. While walking there we saw where David Letterman’s Studio was. We waited for a while for us to be called in to be seated. While waiting, we met a guy and his wife from New Jersey and North Carolina, respectively. The comics at the show were hilarious, the two-drink minimum was less so, but I survived on five-dollar Cokes and laughter.
My first pizza in NYC
We closed the night with my first slice of New York pizza—spinach and cheese, a greasy masterpiece that more than lived up to its reputation. We walked a bit more, and dad bought some candied cashews, almonds, and coconuts. By 2 a.m., I had blisters and the distinct sense that New York was already eating me alive. We took the subway shortly after back to 59th and Lexington. We walked the rest of the way. (To 62nd and 1st)
Aug 21st
The day kicked off with Dad mailing half his luggage to Ireland—because apparently, “packing light” is something he only remembers to do after boarding a plane. Afterwards, we went for lunch.
I lucked into a pizza place where a fresh cheese pie had just come out of the oven, steam curling off the crust like it was auditioning for a food commercial. The crust was wheat, the kind that lets you pretend you’re making a healthy decision, even as molten mozzarella threatens to scald the roof of your mouth. Dad ordered a salad from the spot next door.
Post-lunch, we made a stop at a pharmacy. Dad needed socks, I needed Band-Aids—because the streets of New York were already doing their best impression of a medieval torture device on my feet. Errands completed, we hopped on the subway back to the hotel. Dad promptly collapsed into a nap, while I went down the street to Starbucks for Wi-Fi and the quiet, guilty pleasure of journaling while sipping coffee.
The plan was simple: let Dad recharge, then make our way to Ground Zero.
Ground Zero
Drinking Coconut Milk in Chinatown
By afternoon we made it to Ground Zero. Sobering. From there, we walked down to Battery Park where Lady Liberty squinted back at us across the harbor. What a cool thing to see.
Dad and I snapped a few obligatory photos. With the help of my map, we wandered our way toward Wall Street.
There, amid the temples of capitalism, we stumbled across an actual cathedral. Naturally, we took more photos, posing in front of a church wedged between the skyscrapers.
By this point, we were knee-deep in the Financial District, feeling a bit like Monopoly pieces wandering around someone else’s board. Our stomachs and feet joined forces in protest, and it became clear: we needed a subway, and we needed it to take us to Chinatown. After being pointed they way by several New Yorkers, we found one.
We got off the subway just south of Chinatown and were instantly swept into another world. The signs switched languages, the air smelled faintly of soy and incense, and suddenly we were surrounded by bustling markets selling everything from live crabs to knockoff designer bags. We drank coconut milk straight from the shell, followed the sounds of traditional Chinese music into a park. The park had stone seats and tables that you could play chess on. At the front of the park, was a tent with the musicians and a horrible singer. Aside from the vocals, the music was delightful. We found ourselves sitting near an incredibly attractive European couple. The woman—who looked like Shannon Sossamon—adjusted her dress in the heat and flashed a glimpse of blue lingerie. Somewhere, my teenage self high-fived my current self.
After resting our feet and listening to the awful singing, we stopped and had delicious Chinese food, waddled through Little Italy, bought a cheesy “Not only am I perfect, I’m Italian too!” shirt, and staggered back to the hotel. We started looking for a subway station once again. Being still unable to decipher the map, we had asked someone for directions. Somewhere along the way, we saw a girl get taken out by a guy on a bike. New York: the city that never stops entertaining. We seemed to stay behind her until we found the station. Eventually we had made it back to our hotel around 9PM, and we couldn't be anymore tired. I did have some Chinese leftovers though…
Aug 22nd
Since I went to bed pretty early the previous night, I woke up with ease around 8AM. Dad and I went down the street for breakfast where I had a full Irish fry-up, black pudding and all. Then, Starbucks for coffee, and another nap for Dad.
Dad surfaced from his 20-minute power nap like a man reborn, and we set off for Central Park. Armed with his iPhone GPS—because nothing says “adventure” quite like a glowing blue dot on a tiny screen—we hunted down Strawberry Fields.
Eventually, we found it: the John Lennon memorial, quietly tucked among trees and tourists. I read that Lennon had lived nearby, which gave the place a certain weight—like the city itself was still humming his music. Dad, meanwhile, seemed to have “Strawberry Fields Forever” lodged in his brain on a permanent loop, humming it every few minutes.
By this point, I had finally cracked the mysterious code of the subway map—or at least convinced myself I had. We hopped on, and miracle of miracles, I knew exactly where to get off. Confidence is a beautiful thing, even if it’s only about public transit.
When we surfaced near Rockefeller Center, the skies promptly opened up. New York rain doesn’t drizzle politely; it assaults you. Dad bought an umbrella from a vendor at street-level prices, which is to say about three times what it was worth, and we sloshed our way to NBC Studios.
First stop: the gift shop. I grabbed a Friends travel mug for myself and a “Central Perk” magnet for Mom, because we’re a family that unapologetically quotes Ross and Chandler at the dinner table.
Purchases secured, I climbed the stairs to find Dad sitting in front of a massive TV screen, methodically working his way through a frozen yogurt. The table in front of him was an HD water simulation, complete with ripples when you touched it. Naturally, I poked at it like a caveman discovering fire and filmed the evidence. We purchased or tickets for the tour after I helped polish the ice cream off. There, we waited in line for the tour.
The studio tour was surprisingly fascinating. There were posters on the wall of “USA Today” and a display glass with SNL stuff like Coneheads outfits from the 70’s. Finally, they let us in. After a history-of-NBC pep talk in a dark theater, we rode a series of elevators and peeked into sets for Dr. Oz, The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon, and Saturday Night Live. We heard all kinds of history as well as saw some of a makeup room where Will Forte from SNL got costumed. The real treat was spotting Jim Henson and Frank Oz’s decorated water pipes!
Back underground, we zipped to Times Square again. I knew how to find the subway and where to get off at this time. Hunger led us to Bubba Gump’s—because nothing says “authentic New York dining” like a chain restaurant themed after Tom Hanks’ fishing buddy. But Dad insisted, and I wasn’t about to argue on my birthday. I broke my 33-day dry streak with a margarita that tasted like redemption and dove into a pot brimming with shrimp, lobster, and crab. It was decadent. Then, mid-bite, Dad vanished to the restroom, and when he returned the waitstaff ambushed me into dancing while they sang a birthday song.
We ended the night with a subway ride home, dragging our soggy, satisfied selves back to the hotel. In the elevator, Dad—ever the showman—kept pressing buttons, lighting up floors we didn’t need. A woman got on at the fifth floor and had no choice but to ride with us to the top in complete silence. Nothing bonds strangers quite like shared awkwardness in a confined metal box.
Aug 23rd
I woke up to the dulcet tones of Dad on Skype, chatting away with Tonya Prince from Wales, a friend we’d met back in Handforth, England. Hours passed. By the time the clock was creeping toward two, I’d run out of patience and caffeine. Dad showed no signs of hanging up, so I staged a one-man escape.
First stop: Joe and Tony’s Pizza. A slice later, life was infinitely better. Pizza in New York is the great equalizer—it doesn’t care if you’re jetlagged, blistered, or waiting for your father to stop chatting with a woman across the Atlantic. Afterwards, I camped at Starbucks with my iTouch and Skyped my friend Bruce until Dad finally texted me to meet him at the Jerusalem Grill.
He was halfway through a falafel when I walked in. I stole a bite, and it was damn good. While he finished eating, “That’s Amore” came on the speakers. Nothing like a Dean Martin soundtrack to remind you that travel is, at its core, just a series of clichés waiting to happen.
We grabbed the subway downtown for the Liberty Island ferry. Dad napped most of the ride, while the rest of us got the full New York subway variety show: preachers, singers, beggars, and one particularly unpleasant man hurling racist comments at an Asian family. It was ugly, a reminder that not every city story is a charming one. It was VERY uncomfortable.
Battery Park was more forgiving. Dad filmed a video, we boarded the ferry, and soon Lady Liberty herself loomed into view. Seeing her up close was one of those moments that short-circuits cynicism. She wasn’t just a tourist icon—she was the symbol, the kind that makes you a little proud and a little awed, even if you’re standing shoulder-to-shoulder with 200 other sweaty tourists holding selfie sticks.
Back on shore, we made our way to Little Italy and landed at Sal’s Pizza. I ordered lasagna and nearly wept. It was, without exaggeration, the best meal of the trip—except for the seafood feast that had forced me to dance at Bubba Gump’s.
Full and happy, we hopped the subway and started walking back to the hotel. Only problem: we were walking in the wrong direction, and my bladder was seconds away from staging a rebellion. We ducked into a fancy café, where I finally got relief and Dad ordered a Heineken while I had a coffee. Neither of us finished; we were too tired to pretend we belonged there. A kind stranger redirected us, and we eventually stumbled back to the hotel, safe, sore, and utterly done with New York.
The next morning, I left for home with blistered feet, a stomach full of lasagna, and the sense that the city had wrung me out and left me grinning anyway.
The rain fell in a steady, rhythmic patter against the car windshield, blurring the edges of the world around us as we cruised past fields of grazing cows. This was my first father-son road trip with my six-year-old, Liam, a journey we’d both been looking forward to. Our destination? Lawton, Oklahoma, to attend the much-anticipated Comanche Festival. The trip stretched about an hour and a half, and in a moment of preemptive wisdom, I had gifted Liam a Nintendo 3DS to keep him entertained. From the backseat, he excitedly called out every new move he made in his LEGO Jack Sparrow game, eager to share each moment of his adventure. I nodded along, stealing glances in the rearview mirror, but my eyes stayed fixed on the road, accompanied by the familiar crooning of Kings of Leon on the stereo. As we rolled into Lawton, there was a palpable sense of excitement in the air. I’d heard rumors that Johnny Depp had recently been made an honorary brother of the Comanche tribe and that he would be a...
One of my greatest passions in life is travel. I mean, who doesn’t want to hop on a plane, train, or magical carpet to see the world? Most folks in their 20s dream of globetrotting, ticking off places from their bucket list like it’s a scavenger hunt. In my case, I hit the travel jackpot during the summer of 1997, just before heading into seventh grade. My grandma decided it was a good time for a mission trip to Tula, Mexico—yes, you heard right, a mission trip! My dad thought it would be a brilliant idea for me to gain some “cultural experience,” so he whipped up a permission slip faster than you could say “¡no hay problema!”, and off I went with my great-grandma, my great-uncle, and my uncle Chris, who is slightly younger than I am. Now, Chris and I have been buddies since we were in diapers—literally. Lucky for us, I had a smattering of Spanish under my belt, courtesy of my elementary school (which I suspect was taught by a pair of mismatched socks). We piled into a white Dodge van...
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