It all started with coffee spilled on a white tank. That’s pre-fast-paced NYC. So is there really an excuse? Feel free to ask my darling sis, Dana. She’s kept us from nice things for years.
D and I had a very adult trip after that. We boarded the plane, chose the worst seats, which were surrounded by a loud sixth grade dance team, fell asleep before we could use our free drink tickets and took too many out-of-the-plane photos for any self-respecting 24-year-old.
But our adventures truly started when we grabbed our luggage, walked out into the LaGuardia hustle and bustle, ran into a family friend — made awkward conversation — got ourselves an Uber, asked the Uber driver 300 too many questions, survived the 25-minute drive through the overpopulated streets of Manhattan and arrived in Times Square at our Hilton Garden Inn Hotel.
Whew.
Evan greeted us on the ground floor; she was already there on a work trip, so she was Ms. Cool-Calm-Collected about the chaos — basically immune after 96 hours spent on the streets.
Thank you, Mama, for giving us this savior. She took us, the starved travelers, to dinner.
And that’s where we learned New York Lesson Numero Uno.
The city, as a whole from my understanding, does not split checks by what you ate. It either gets split evenly no matter what you ordered or someone picks up the whole bill. For the sister who writes for a living, this was disappointing news for my bank account. Either roll high or not at all. Tough decisions, New York, tough decisions.
Our second New York lesson was about being tourists.
Should we look cute touring the city or comfortable? Pretty or practical? We embraced tourist status and rocked tennies, fanny packs and City Bikes.
This all took place in the Upper East Side — basically the trendiest, highest-end neighborhood in all of Manhattan. Did we look trendy? Not as on trendy as the beautiful Australian couple touring around on their City Bikes.
Were the fanny packs at least practical? It could hold only my ID, my credit card, cash (to make Dad proud) and my sunglasses.
So simply put, no, they weren’t all that practical. We looked like dweebs.
Truth: we set the standard low for triplets taking on Central Park. There wasn’t even a second look. You’re welcome. YOU. ARE. WELCOME.
Our third most important NYC lesson came in the form of boozy brunch.
We flew out on the Fourth of July, a Saturday, but not until 6 p.m. And when in New York, you do as New Yorkers do. You brunch. And you brunch like you’ve done it a hundred times, but this is definitely — most definitely — the best time.
We found ourselves at Big Daddy’s, a diner with an eclectic, if not crammed, ’80s feel. With $15 bottomless mix-and-match mimosas and Bloody Mary’s, you can imagine the trouble one could get into.
And trouble we did.
Boozy brunch on a normal Saturday where you get to climb into bed and nap — magnificent. Boozy brunch when you have to go through security, wait in an airport and fly home — horrendous.
The only goal of the day once hangover status hit was to wear my sunglasses from the time I stepped into the airport until the time Greg picked us up in KC. Mission accomplished. Goal completed. Easily my greatest success.
People hated me. I hated myself.
And that basically sums up our entire trip.
Waiters disliked when we asked for split checks. New Yorkers threw shade on our “trendy” fanny packs. Airport-goers judged the crap outta my sunglass-wearing ways.
Truthfully, it felt like the city was trying to reject us. But we did not let that bring the spirit of our trio tribe down. We'll just have to try harder next time.
Because New York, there will be a next time. Keep your eyes on the Midwest because when you see us again, we'll be prepared.