New York City, Redux: Part 3 (3/19/22-3/20/22)

Since we'd slept late a bit the previous mornings of the trip and were going to have to wake up a 4 am the next day to head to the airport, we decided to wake up early Saturday, March 19, to make the most of the day. We sort of woke up early...at least for a Saturday, and headed to the nearest subway station to catch a ride to Central Park. The basement of the Herald Square Station was in full effect that morning, as a babbling, disembodied female voice echoed off the walls in an unknown language, always moving closer, never appearing, constantly threatening to reveal Santa Muerte herself, trudging around the corner, dead flowers falling from her eye sockets, skeletal fingers stretched forward, beckoning. On top of that, some little shithead kid kept singing Frozen songs, and it was really annoying. Thankfully, our car eventually came, and we let it go and got the hell out of there, and into Central Park.
I can't express how beautiful a day it was that not only could that terrifying voice in the subway and that jackass seven-year old Elsa not dampen it, but the crazy screaming guy on the bench just inside the southern edge of Central Park couldn't either. I've seen some nutty homeless guys in my life, but this guy was really special, giving an entire college lecture to the air, making strange, aggressively spell-casting-like hand gestures at everyone who passed him, and for only the most special of persons, standing up, pointing at them, and yelling "Ah-ha! It's you!" My 12-year-old son thought this guy was the greatest, funniest person he had ever seen, and begged us to let him go talk to him.
"No." That answer ends this part of the travelogue.
Instead of talking to Professor Hobo, my son settled for swinging in the park with his mother. Again, I cannot stress how nice the weather was, 60 degrees, clear, and no rain, even though the forecast had called for it all day. My son and I also decided to climb on some of the exposed rock on this end of the park, something I watched people do the last time I was here, nearly seven years ago. 



My wife and son then decided to ride the park carousel, while I downloaded the New York Knicks app on my phone and played around on it because I am obsessed with them again, which as I said before, is for a future post. I also decided to walk over to a creepy hut I'd seen the last time I was here, a café in an old European style, like where the Hansel and Gretel witch lives, or maybe Santa Muerte from the subway. Either way, I dare you to break into it in the middle of the night, and sit on the floor with your eyes closed for 90 seconds.



Also, I should note that the kid in the glasses at the forefront of the carousel picture thought I was his dad.
Dumb kid.
I am not your dad.
Allimony schmalimony, I ain't payin.
Anyway, we had been talking about going to Brooklyn the entire trip up to this point, and decided, with our time in New York dwindling, it was either now or never. We walked by the famous Central Park fountain, which was working great in 2015, but having mechanical difficulties in 2022, hey don't worry about it buddy, it happens to everybody, try Fiagra, we left the park and took the subway to Brooklyn.

We got off at Gentrifying Neighborhood station, then took a left on Gentrification Street. Eventually, we ended up on 5th Avenue because my wife wanted us to go to The Bagel Store. She could have suggested we go to any place with food in the title because of how hungry I was, actually that's not true, I'm not going to The Cucumber Store because cucumbers are of their father the devil, and their will is to do their father's desires. He was a murderer from the beginning, and does not stand in the truth, because there is no truth in him. When he lies, he speaks out of his own character, for he is a liar and the father of lies and cucumbers. Also, The Bagel Store was really good.
I guess "rainbow" bagels are a thing here, where the baker meticulous dyes layer after layer of dough, then swirls those layers together to create a beautiful, tie-dyed concoction that might be a better metaphor for America than a melting pot or a mosaic. America: The Rainbow Bagel of the World.
The Bagel Store says they invented the rainbow bagel, and to celebrate their colorful doughy concoction, dammit, I just used "concoction," how about "creation?" they've come up with the monstrously delicious diabetes bomb, the Over the Rainbow, which their menu describes as a "rainbow bagel with rainbow-fetti sprinkles and cake-cream cream cheese." My wife and son both ordered puny little normie bagels with cream cheese on them, but not me. I got the Over the Rainbow, whose flavors are forever seared into my memory and which I want another of right now, as it tastes like the very essence of a cream cheese-frosted funfetti cake you ate when you were six and swear was the best thing you'd ever eaten, yet whose taste and vibe you could never recapture by eating another one, unless you indeed eat this bagel as I did, and also wash it down with a bacon, egg, and cheese bagel because I ate one of those too because I am the Nicsperiment. Also, my son thought The Bagel Store's street address was hilarious.





We then went to this bougie gift store my wife had been wanting to visit, I can't remember the name, let's just call it White Girl Trust Fund Gift Store, and while my wife might not be white, I sure as hell wish she had a trust fund, but she doesn't, and we left quickly, though I did get my kid a fidget toy White Girl Trust Fund Gift Store had at the cash register. Speaking of my wife, as we were walking, she said, "Hey, do you want to go in there?" and I said "Right now? In public, with our kid here? Oh you mean this store," "this store" being Galaxy Comics, and I said, "yes I said yes I will Yes." Galaxy Comics is an absolutely great store, and I bought a Batman and a Superman comic, and some Star Wars trading cards, and I would have bought a lot more if I just had a damn trust fund or a wife who had a trust fund, come on, babe. The employees were incredibly kind and helpful, and they discount all the graphic novels you buy, or maybe they just did it for me because they felt bad about my lack of trust fund situation.



My wife then wanted some coffee, so we went to a place that was even better than Starbucks and Dunkin Donuts, and they had a funny bathroom sign, and weird antlers on the wall that I had to photograph myself in front of, and then my son googled that there was yet another damn Walgreens nearby, and my wife's feet were hurting, maybe because she wasn't used to walking 500 miles a day, so we walked another few blocks to the drug store that seems to be on every single damn corner of every single damn street in America, the damn Walgreens, and my wife took off her shoe to see that her tiny Persian pinky toe was as black as a cucumber's heart, explaining her excruciating pain, but not literally, because that would be weird if her toe talked, and we bought some stuff to patch it up, along with some chocolate covered Peeps my son needed, yes needed, and then headed for the nearest subway station in a bit of a haze, knowing the trip was coming to a close and not wanting that to be true, but also very tired from consecutive days of said trip, and on the subway car, my son had to sit by a stranger, and he pulled his mask to the side to eat chocolate-covered peeps while scrolling on his phone, and I said, "Son, you are a man now."

We decided to take care of some unfinished business in Manhattan at that point, so first we went to the M&M store, which is a magical land where you can spend 35 American dollars making your own beautiful bag of assorted, candy-shelled chocolate, just as colorful as a rainbow bagel, and also a t-shirt, and a keychain, and an M&M-handled handgun, and then we went to Tiffany's New York because my mother-in-law and wife have some special thing with a Tiffany's bracelet I won't get into here, but she got her bracelet, and then we split up for a minute so that she could go to H&M and we could go to Nintendo New York again because my son wanted to give it another shot now that he was full on bagels and Peeps and had realistic expectations, and this time he loved Nintendo New York and made me buy him a bunch of stuff, and I was fine with that because that was one of the reasons he'd wanted to come to this city for the last seven years, so here's a picture of him not being a turd, and also that ice-skating rink you're always seeing on TV, and some other ones at least tangentially related to this long and rambling sentence and in no particular order.





We met back up, more exhausted than ever, but determined to honor a blood pact, yes, a swear upon our very lives, that we would visit TESO LIFE, which is a Japanese grocery store right around the corner from our AirBnb, meaning it is also right around the corner from the Empire State Building. We hit up TESO LIFE and it is an incredible and visually stimulating store, and we bought a bunch of trinkets, and a couple of cool blind bag toys for my nieces, who were watching my dog with some help from their parents, as my nieces are four and seven years old, and we also bought a bunch of food, including some interesting flavors of Pringles, some Strawberry and Milk Kit Kat's for me, and a bunch of Pocky for my Pocky-loving son.




With the sun nearly set, we hit up our AirBnB for a refresh, but I went back down to the front desk to try to acquire some towels. Sure enough, while I was waiting for the towels, I chatted up the old guy working the desk and the cop standing next to him. They asked me if I thought anything was different about the city between my trip in 2015 and now.
"Weed," I said. "Everything smells like weed."
"Yeah, after they legalized it, it's everywhere."
"Yeah, but you can't just stand in the middle of the street and smoke it, right? And you have to have a license to sell it, right?"
"Yes to both," the police officer said, "but you have these operations set up on the street where one guy will be smoking it so people passing will know he has it, with one guy close by holding, and another taking the cash. We're not enforcing anything right now...anything..."
"That's exactly what I told my family the other day!"
"YOU WERE RIGHT!"
"Thank you!"
"You're a genius! A genius, the Nicsperiment! New York is lucky to have you! So is your wife! Does she ever tell you how lucky she is to be with you? Does she ever tell you how incredibly good-looking and intelligent you are? Does she ever tell you that any mortal being in your presence's consciousness is elevated simply by being near you? Does she ever tell you that you are a transcendent being who has ascended the shallow title of humanity, who deserves to be bowed down before and worshipped? Is there anyone you want me to put a hit on? I'll do it, right now, for free. Your wish is my command."
"Thanks," I said, got my towels, and went back upstairs.
By this point, the trip was essentially done but for dinner...but not just any dinner. The next day was Nowruz, aka, the Iranian New Year, and my wife wanted to celebrate it that night by revisiting Ravagh Persian Grill. She invited another friend of hers who lived in New York to come meet us because she has more friends than me for some reason, and we limped over to Ravagh, which, like the Empire State Building, was just two blocks from our AirBnb. Of course, Nowruz was packed to the Persian gills, but after the doorman told me the wait was three to four hours, I pointed outside to my wife and said, "My wife is Persian, and this is her favorite restaurant. She wants to celebrate Nowruz here. Is there anything you can do?"
"Yes, my friend," he said pointing toward a nice, occupied table by the window, "You see that table right there? As soon as that family finishes, I am going to get you in and seat you there."
And he did. I love New York.
We ate another 50 gallons of Persian food, had a great time, my wife and her friend caught up, and then we limped back to the AirBnb even worse than before, as we were several pounds heavier.
I kept gazing lovingly at the Empire State Building every time it came into view, then stopped as we reached the AirBnb building. If you want to be some kind of creep and smell the pillow where the Nicsperiment's hair touched, it's at 38 West 31st Street, in one of the oldest buildings in New York City, just a few blocks from the Empire State Building, Madison Square Garden, and Ravagh, among many other great places. The room is small, but it is clean, has a full kitchen and its own bathroom, and is incredibly cheap for the location, call Henry. This building is a charming, beautiful place, great for families, and I don't care how many liquor stores and sex shops it is next to.





Now came the not so fun part, where the Nicsperiment family was exhausted, yet still had to somehow cram all the new stuff they had acquired into the same full bags they arrived with. Now my son had about 20 cubic feet more of Squishmallows, and I had several pounds more of t-shirts, and my wife had more wife stuff, but through some miracle, thank the Lord and all the weight I gained from overeating on the trip that allowed me to sit on the suitcase to smash everything down while I zipped it, we packed successfully, though at a very late hour in the City that Never Sleeps, and slept very little, and woke up at 4 am, grabbed all the bags, headed downstairs, and called an Uber. My son made the comment that if we ended up with a talkative driver, we shouldn't tip him, as it was so early, and we reminded him that none of the drivers we'd had during the whole trip up to this point had said more than a sentence or two to us, and then this driver talked my ear off the whole hour-long ride to the airport, and I loved it.
The talkative driver hailed from Indonesia, but had been in New York for 20 years, started out working in restaurants, but had been driving full time for a decade. He had a kid in high school, and another in college, and he was very worried about the uptick in crime in the city. I told him that I noticed the city felt a little meaner and more dangerous than before, and he said it had started trending that way right before the pandemic began, and blamed weak city leadership, and I told him the same thing had been going on in Baton Rouge, and nearby cities *cough*cough*gunshot*NewOrleans, and for the same reasons...and I'll let this take me to the travelogue's conclusion.
The first time I went to New York, seven years ago, I was either alone or with a group of large, physically fit men for most of my trip. I never felt threatened even once--I felt at home. This time, I travelled with my wife and child, and naturally, I felt like I was protecting something, so this put me on guard more than last time. However, seven years ago, I don't think I'd found my place here in Louisiana like I have now. I was lost, looking for direction, and New York felt like nirvana. The Big Apple felt more like home than my actual home, where it's so hot, we can't even grow apples. This time, though, New York felt like a great place to visit and vacation to, before returning to my real home in South Louisiana. New York and I, we both changed.
I titled my travelogue entries for that 2015 trip, the last of which I monikered "If You Hate New York, Then You Hate Humanity." I don't exactly feel that way now. The trash smells, the endless hustle and bustle, the New York attitude, the terrifying strangers with debilitating mental illness who should be brought somewhere they can be helped instead of left to wander and scream threateningly, and in several cases this year, to murder other people, all of it on its own or especially together and especially the murder can be too much, yet at the same time, what a beautiful place, what a beautiful, beautiful, great, great place, with art and architecture, and beautiful, beautiful people of every thought and appearance, and the food, any kind of food you want, and everything so real, the good and the bad and the hideous and the beautiful, and I love it so much, but it is not home, not for me. I love New York City, and I'd like to visit there periodically for the rest of my life, and I feel like the places I love in New York are places I'll always carry with me, but it's not cypress knees in a swamp, or rice fields red-dotted with crawfish traps, or Capital Heights on a lonely autumn night, or kingcake and crawfish and Mardi Gras, and jazz, and swamp pop, and zydeco, and Tiger Stadium, and beads of every color thrown through the air because those things are in the Greater Baton Rouge area, and Pointe Coupee Parish, and Lafayette, and even, good God in Heaven I can't believe I am saying this, and even New Orleans, because those things are South Louisiana, and for me, South Louisiana is home. I might carry the places I love in New York with me, but South Louisiana is me, and just ask anyone who has moved from here to Seattle or Houston or any other place, and still wears their LSU or Saints cap "Where do you come from?" and they'll tell you with pride because for all our worst at school and crime and infrastructure, we have so much inherent goodness here, we kind of just let all that other stuff go because how can you worry about that when you have everything else that is here, and there's a reason that any study that goes by the actual opinion of the people who live in a place and not by cold statistics like crime rate always ranks Louisiana as happiest and New York at dead last, yes these two locations from this very paragraph as polar opposites, the place with all the wealth and art and innovation making its people the most miserable, while the muddy, barely and sometimes not even over sea-level land of swamp-dwelling coonasses bringing its denizens peace and happiness and eternal, zen-kissing Earthly bliss, because South Louisiana is home and we take it with us wherever we go, and we can be happy anywhere, but you better believe all three of us were ready to kiss the marshy dirt the second our plane landed down on the Louisiana ground and we went home and slept, and slept, and slept, and slept, and then ordered Chimes and ate crawfish étouffée and roast beef po-boys and boudin eggrolls and everything was right with the world.