As it turns out, it is completely possible to plan a ludicrous Christmas vacation just one week in advance. The insignificant detail that the planning occurred in the midst of my finals did little to hamper my efforts. I don't think I can stress enough how little philosophical musings and key journalistic standards mean to me when there are Broadway shows to be booked and itineraries to be compiled. Minute details like budgets are petty annoyances and must never be taken into account for crazy-fun holidays. A five night stay at the Hilton? Yes please. Best seats for the Phantom of the Opera and Chicago? God you're turning me on. A sex-filled extravaganza in the greatest city in the world, getting swept away by the bustling energy of famously jaded New Yorkers, all while having tongue-related pleasure-spasms from NY chilli dogs? Hell to the yes.
After a three hour flight behind a guy who's two decades too old to have a multi-colored, dangling, flaccid mohawk, I was whisked into a shuttle cab that drove me into the heart of Manhattan, dodging bluetooth-wearing businessmen that enjoy weaving in-between cars on the road. I stepped into the lobby of the Hilton with my prepared shades and leather duffel (Coach and Fossil, in case you're wondering how impossibly classy I looked and wanted to emulate it for yourself). I was in the metropolis that gave us Sex and the City, I must do Carrie proud. (This is only the beginning of many, many SATC references, toss back a cosmo and brace yourselves.)
Times Square was the subject of my hunt that night. The genius thing about NYC's streets, of course, is in the grid-like numbering. You could never get lost, simply follow the numbers as you would a grid. Each street intersects with a perpendicular avenue, and as long as you knew the intersection you can navigate the streets like a pro. That is, unless, you manage to untangle yourself from the surprising number of Elmo furries on the streets coaxing guileless children into taking photos with them.
People in mascot costumes always freaked me out. Just the thought of knowing that some poor sonofabitch is in there, humiliating himself for a few tips from boisterous tourists while putting on a creepily cheerful disposition is enough to turn my stomach. What are they thinking as they put their furry arms around our children and wave at the camera? God I hate kids, if these paw-hands weren't obstructing my fingers I would snap each and every one of their necks ... Or worse, what if they were sweaty pedophiles with their greasy hair plastered onto creepy grinning faces? Who knows what kinda psychos lurk beneath the innocent mask-face of stupid, slow Elmo.
I didn't stumble upon Times Square as much as it sprang upon me and ejaculated its load of insane energy, lights, crowd, smoke and noise on my face. You don't walk onto Times Square, you get thrust into it. Billboards, giant screens, bright, flashy lights. Every time you turn your head it only gets wilder, every step brings you to something even cooler. The huge smiling face of Janet Jackson looks down upon me as I float about in a daze, soaking in the sizzling atmosphere of it all.
Partaking in a very new yorkish tradition, I purchased my dinner from one of the Halal street vendors. Apparently, there's a world famous one right by the Hilton, where people would wait ridiculously long for some silly chicken over rice. I, instead, went for the cart right next to it with much fewer people. This is the ugly sibling effect. It's not as famous, probably because it's just not hyped up by some food journalist who has never really had authentic Muslim food from an Asian country anyways, but still tries hard to please its customers because of the pressure of its much more popular sibling. In any case, it was still delicious and definitely still over-priced.
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