🗽 NYC Part 1: The Steak Knife Scandal, a Prius Pile-Up, and a Broadway Twist I Never Saw Coming

🛫 A Sharp Start: NYC, Here We Come (Minus One Steak Knife)

Every good adventure begins with a little drama. Ours? Involved airport security and unexpected cutlery.

It was a late afternoon flight; me, my mom, and my niece, ready to hit the skies and take a bite out of the Big Apple. We strolled into Pittsburgh International Airport with that early-evening, slightly-overpacked-but-still-confident energy. All was smooth sailing… Until it wasn’t.

My book bag was flagged for “additional screening,” which sounds far more glamorous than it is.

“Do you have anything sharp or dangerous in here?” the agent asked, suspiciously polite.

Of course not! Who packs weapons for a weekend trip?

…Apparently I do.

Buried deep in a forgotten zipper pocket: one rogue steak knife. A full-sized, stainless steel, "I-might-be-cooking-later" kind of situation. I’d completely forgotten it was in there—left over from who-knows-what, probably a picnic that never happened.

I waited for alarms. Handcuffs. A very dramatic scene.

Instead, the TSA agents just… laughed. They confiscated it like it was a mildly rebellious water bottle and sent us on our way like we weren’t just one accidental slice away from making headlines, told me to enjoy my trip, and waved me on.

And that’s how we began our NYC adventure. One bag lighter, one steak knife shorter, and one step closer to chaos.

The city was calling. And we were almost ready.

Almost. 🗽🍕💼

🗽 Welcome to New York: Where Dreams Begin… in the Trunk of a Prius

Landing in New York City feels like being dropped into the middle of a movie—except you don’t know the genre yet. Drama? Thriller? Tragicomedy? Our descent into the Big Apple hinted at all three.

The plan was simple. Land in New York. Call an Uber. Slide into our sleek hotel in Times Square. Toss our bags onto fluffy hotel beds. Step outside just in time to be swallowed by the neon chaos of the city that never sleeps. Maybe even catch golden hour on a rooftop if the travel gods were feeling generous.

Easy. Breezy. Fabulous.Too fabulous.

Because as we all know, when a plan seems that perfect, like a rom-com montage waiting to happen, it’s usually just the opening scene… of a beautifully chaotic, slightly cursed adventure.

Reality had other plans.

After touching down at JFK in the dusky glow of a late afternoon sky, we were riding high…figuratively of course. My mom, my niece, and I were buzzing with the kind of excitement only a girls’ trip to Manhattan can ignite. Until, of course, the Uber confusion began. It started innocently: a few texts, some vague directions, and a mysterious message from our driver claiming he was “near the terminal.” Which terminal? Which level? Past security? Near the sign that says “not the right place”? We didn’t know. And neither did he, apparently.

The tension grew. Every ping of our phones only added to the fog. We paced. We peered. We texted like women on the verge. Finally, after a mini Odyssey through the arrivals zone, we spotted him; Daniel, our noble steed, waiting curbside in…

A Prius.

Let me be clear: this was not Prius-shaming. This was physics. We had three women, three overstuffed suitcases, carry-ons, emotional baggage, and exactly zero cubic feet of free space. Our driver, to his credit, loaded our luggage with the precision of a Tetris grandmaster. One suitcase ended up riding shotgun. Another partially crushed my niece in the backseat. The third? Wedged so tightly against the rear door, it probably now has abandonment issues.

We squeezed into the back like human ravioli, unable to move, breathe, or question our life choices. The car door shut with a sound that felt oddly final. And then, we rolled forward, slowly. Painfully. As if the city were actively resisting our entry.

Sixteen miles. One hour. Let me repeat… SIXTEEN MILES… ONE HOUR. The drive was a symphony of sensory overload. Honking horns, impatient pedestrians, sirens that came and went like jump scares. A man outside our window argued with a pigeon. Another tried to sell us a hat through the glass. Our driver? Silent. Stoic. Possibly disassociating. The sky darkened. The neon glow of Manhattan crept closer. And there we were, pinned beneath luggage, drenched in sweat, contemplating if we’d ever walk again. My suitcase had a better view of the skyline than we did.

At long last, we pulled up to the Motto by Hilton Times Square. We were sweaty, starving, and slightly unsure if we still had kneecaps. Nothing screams “New York welcome” like gridlock, luggage-induced claustrophobia, and a Prius that worked way too hard. We unfolded ourselves from the Prius like origami swans gone rogue, gasping for air and spiritual clarity. But hey! We made it!

Kind of.

New York didn’t roll out a red carpet. It hurled a traffic cone at our heads and whispered, "Prove yourself."

Challenge accepted, because this trip? Oh, it was just getting started.

Next stop: the chaos of Times Square, if we can still feel our legs.

🗽 Hotel Hijinks, Times Square Teasers & the Brooklyn Diner Bill that Haunts Us Still: Welcome to NYC, Baby

We pulled up to our hotel… or so we thought. The GPS said we’d arrived. The street signs agreed. But as we looked up, there were three glowing hotel signs... and only two doors. A test? A trap? A tourist’s rite of passage?

Naturally, we followed the crowd. Through the sleek, modern, bright-lit lobby filled with the hum of chatty travelers and the scent of upscale hotel soap. It had to be the right place. This lobby was giving “New York moment” energy.

Plot twist: wrong hotel.

The front desk gently, but with that unmistakable "you clearly don’t go here" tone, informed us we were in the wrong building. Ours? Next door. The one with... significantly less fanfare. Dimmer lighting. Fewer people. Slight “are you sure this is safe?” vibes.

But oh, the deception of doors.Because the second we walked in, the scent hit us first; a heavenly mix of cedar and whatever luxury candles are made of. Chic, minimal decor. Warm lighting. Spotless. Quiet. Dare I say… cooler?

Elevator Selfies at Motto by Hilton, Times Square

Check-in was a breeze, the kind that makes you feel like a very efficient spy in a very sleek movie. And the elevator? Absolute sorcery. You tap your room key, press your floor number on a little screen, and suddenly you’re gliding silently to the 27th floor smoother than a ghost flying through walls in a haunted house. It took 15 seconds. Not a sound. Not a jolt. Just whoosh.

NYC, you sneaky minx. First confusion, then luxury. Keep us guessing.

After we ditched our luggage and admired our hotel room, which somehow managed to be both micro-sized and miraculously spacious, we hit the streets of Times Square, hungry and wide-eyed.

The lights? Blinding.The crowds? Pulsing.The food trucks? Practically begging us to cave and order a $6 pretzel. And the air? Thick with what we in Pittsburgh affectionately call city spice, a.k.a. weed. So potent, we were two whiffs away from forgetting our own names.

Starving and determined, we scoured Times Square for a dinner spot, but nothing screamed “eat here” louder than the neon signs screaming everything else. We were just about to give up when we turned onto the very last street and there it was. Like a mirage in the concrete jungle: Brooklyn Diner.

Classic. Cozy. Promising. We settled in, already dreaming of burgers and fries. What we weren’t dreaming of? The prices. Let’s just say when that bill hit the table, so did our jaws. Hard… and little did we know, this would be one of the cheapest overpriced meal of the entire trip. 😵‍💫💸🍽️

So what exactly did we order at this budget-breaking diner? Oh, just the basics.

🥗 Mom got a simple salad; green, leafy, not encrusted in gold.

🌯 I had a chicken wrap; solid, tasty, but not sprinkled with truffle dust.

🍔 And my niece went all-American with a classic hamburger; no diamonds, just beef.

The total? $80. Before. The. Tip. (We’re still emotionally processing this.)

But here’s the twist: the waiter was worth every penny. Kind, attentive, and fast… like, blink and your food is here fast. And thank God, because we were seconds away from gnawing on the laminated menu out of sheer desperation.

So yes, it was overpriced.Yes, we’re still mad about the salad situation.But at least we left fed, hydrated, and slightly financially humbled.

And honestly? That’s the real New York welcome. 🗽💁🏽‍♀️💸

🌧️ Storms, Subways & Something Ancient Lurking in the Dark

Day two began with an unspoken challenge: three humans. One bathroom. And a room that somehow defied the laws of physics by being both claustrophobically tiny and mysteriously spacious. The morning routine? A theatrical production of steam, screeches, and phantom thievery.

—“Who took my brush?!”

—“You’re sitting on it.”

—“Oh.”

Every step was a booby-trapped ballet of bumping elbows and strategic towel placement. Nothing was ever truly lost… just cleverly hidden beneath a rogue pair of leggings or someone's left butt cheek.

Once we emerged semi-put-together and only marginally traumatized, we set off on a cultural pilgrimage to the Museum of Natural History, but not before answering the primal call of our stomachs, which were louder than the Times Square billboards outside. We made a pit stop at the iconic Junior’s known for its cheesecake and, apparently, its unspoken mission to bankrupt tourists one pastrami sandwich at a time. We weren’t planning on spending a small fortune, but when the menu reads like a luxury tax form, you roll with it.

Lunch came and went, but the real showstopper? Enter: the brownie cheesecake.

Junior's NYC Brownie Cheescake

One bite. Silence. A single slice of decadent, chocolate-laced prophecy. Suddenly, all was forgiven. The overpriced entrées. The damp socks. The chaos of that bathroom. It was a dessert you’d betray kingdoms for. We shared it like it was a sacred relic, guarding each bite like dragons with treasure.

Then it was back into the concrete jungle. We navigated our very first NYC metro ride like seasoned locals, which is to say, we looked panicked but nobody got left behind. And just as we started feeling confident, the sky decided to smite us.

Rain. Not just rain. Biblical, vengeful, Noah-build-an-ark-level rain.

Umbrellas became performance art. Sidewalks turned into rivers. Our hair? A distant memory. But we were on a mission. Nothing, not even the wrath of the weather gods, could keep us from ancient fossils, a giant squid, and that blue whale that haunts every natural history museum dream. Soaked but stubborn, we marched forward. After all, nothing screams “New York adventure” like cheesecake-induced euphoria, a near-drowning on the Upper West Side, and the determination to see some dusty bones.

Finally, after dodging the diabolical side eye of an elderly man who seemed like he knew too much, we arrived at the main event: A little date with science, fossils, and possibly a T. rex at the iconic American Museum of Natural History. We were feeling cultured, cosmopolitan, and ready to flex our CityPASS, which we naively believed would make us part of an elite, line-skipping society.

Spoiler Alert: it did not.

Instead, we stood in a queue so long it felt like we were waiting to audition for “Night at the Museum 4: CityPASS Scams.” All just to receive... a printed ticket. Like, a physical one. Paper. Ink. The betrayal.

But hope wasn’t lost. We still had our one exhibit add-on, like choosing a single topping on a $30 pizza. Naturally, we went for the most mysterious-sounding one: “Hidden Worlds.” Immersive! Exclusive! Sounds like something you can’t talk about at dinner parties! We were ready to have our minds blown. Instead, we were welcomed into... a touchscreen hallway. Glorified iPads quizzed us on plankton, jellyfish, and marine bacteria while glowing walls offered fun facts that no one asked for. Tap here, learn a thing, squint at a fun fact. It was giving science fair, not sci-fi. Was this the immersive magic? Because it felt more like a pop quiz. We looked at each other with faces that asked, “Did we just get played by a museum?”

But then… the twist.

Hidden Worlds Immersive Experience

Past the techie trivia zone was a theater. And not just any theater. This one moved. The walls came alive. Creatures of the deep floated above our heads. Planets twirled around us. It was gorgeous, surreal, oddly emotional. We would’ve had a spiritual awakening if not for the stampede of toddlers using the immersive experience as a racetrack. One kid even made eye contact with us like he dared us to say something. We did not. Despite the chaos, the show delivered. For a moment, we were floating in space, diving in oceans, lost in the cosmos.

And then as the video replayed, it was back to dodging juice-sticky fingers and rogue strollers.

Mystery? ✅

Wonder? ✅

Mild panic from unsupervised youth? ✅✅✅ 

Still… totally worth it.

🦓 Taxidermy & Time Travel: From Manhattan to the Maasai Mara 🐘

Just when we thought we’d seen it all, swarms of children, surprise iPad quizzes, and an existential planetarium journey, we stumbled into a dimly lit corridor… and instantly, I was back in Kenya.

Flashback to Kenya

Lions lounged on fake rocks, zebras froze mid-gallop, and elephants stood proudly with an air of “I was majestic once.” The animal displays were eerily lifelike, down to the judgmental side-eye of the antelope. It was like walking through a museum of moments from our safari, except this time no one was growling and the only threat of attack came from baby strollers with no regard for ankles.

It was all very "Night at the Museum" meets National Geographic vibes. Every corner we turned was another flashback: giraffes peering down like skyscrapers wanting a selfie, cheetahs mid-hunt (forever), hippos just vibing in their fake riverbeds. I half expected David Attenborough to start narrating from the ceiling.

But despite the fact these animals hadn’t twitched in decades, they still held their power. It was awe-inspiring… and also a little creepy. Some eyes followed you. I’m convinced one warthog knew me personally.

Was it real? Was it a memory? Was it the faint smell of museum air mixed with haunting nostalgia? Who knows. But for a moment, Times Square disappeared, and the rhythmic drumbeat of the savannah filled the halls.

Then a kid screamed, someone spilled juice, and we were back in New York.

Still... magic.

T Rex at American Museum of Natural History

Next up: dinosaurs. The real New Yorkers. They've been here longer, seen more, and somehow still have better posture. The second we stepped into the hall, we were hit with the bone-chilling stare of a T. rex, jaw dropped, arms still useless, looking like he was in the middle of a dramatic gasp that’s lasted 65 million years. Honestly, same.

Towering skeletons surrounded us, each one looking like it was about to come alive and demand identification. The triceratops looked ready to charge if we took one more photo with flash, and the long-necked sauropods stretched across the room like they were trying to reach for a reasonably priced snack in New York City. No luck there either, buddy.

Every fossil came with a plaque full of words like "Pleistocene," "Jurassic," and "good luck pronouncing this." We nodded like we understood. We didn’t. But we felt smarter just being near them. The whole place smelled faintly of dust, ancient secrets, and science fairs gone wrong.

Somewhere between the stegosaurus spine and a wall of fossilized fish, we had a moment: Are we just slightly evolved dinosaurs walking around in overpriced sneakers? Mystery. Wonder. Existential dread. It was all there. Wrapped neatly in bones and dramatic lighting.

🎭 Rain, Romance, and Rigatoni: A Broadway Prelude

We left the museum gift shop empty-handed because unless that snow globe doubles as a rent payment, it’s not coming home with us. Still, we walked away rich in pixelated photos, damp hair, and the quiet confidence that only comes from surviving a downpour in Manhattan.

Next mission: prep for &Juliet. But before Broadway drama, we needed one thing: dinner. Good dinner. Non-diner dinner. The kind that soothes your soggy soul and doesn't leave you wondering if your wrap had trust issues. Wandering the neon chaos of Times Square, we stumbled upon a little glow across from the theater. Not flashy, not famous. Just warm lights, dry shelter, and the faint promise of real food. We walked in. Instantly, the vibe was different; cozy, welcoming, almost too nice for a place so close to the tourist vortex.

Chicken Parmesan at Anthony's

Now, here’s the twist: it was an Italian restaurant, but everyone who worked there? International. However, the moment we ordered the chicken parmesan, it was like we’d been transported straight to Naples. Burrata melted on top like a silk duvet of dairy. Each bite was a religious experience. We’re talking edible forgiveness. Culinary therapy. Chicken parm as personality. And the staff? Angels disguised as servers. Our waiter from Mexico treated us like family, while another from Peru delivered our food like it was his own grandmother’s recipe. Genuine kindness, warm smiles, actual interest in our existence: what is this place?

Then, just when we thought it couldn’t get any more delightfully bizarre, our waiter reappeared, not with just the check, but a shot of limoncello and a business card for his self-published novel. Because in New York, even your chicken parm comes with a plot twist. We toasted him. We toasted ourselves. And we floated out of that restaurant like we’d just unlocked a secret level of the city.

Next stop: Broadway. Lights up. Game on.

🎶 Purse Chicken & Pop Bangers: Entering the World of &Juliet

With bellies full of burrata and hearts high on limoncello, we strutted (okay, shuffled slightly damp and overly full) across the street to the Stephen Sondheim Theatre, tickets in hand... and yes, one small piece of leftover chicken parmesan riding quietly in my purse like a secret stowaway. I held my breath through security, fully prepared to lose the chicken, or worse, be judged. But New York does not flinch at rogue poultry. They didn’t bat an eye.

We made it to our seats with time to spare, row W, three rows from the back. And yet, somehow, it felt like front row center of the universe. That’s the beauty of Broadway: no matter where you sit, you’re part of the magic. And &Juliet? From the moment the curtain rose, we knew we’d stepped into something bold, glittery, and gloriously off-script. The set looked like a teenage dream exploded inside a Renaissance Instagram filter; glowing neon balconies, heart-shaped LED lights, floating windows, and a rotating stage that spun like Juliet’s destiny was on a DJ’s turntable.

Oh buckle up, because this wasn’t just a Broadway show, this was a pop culture multiverse collision so deliciously bizarre and brilliant, I half expected a portal to open mid-stage and pull us all into a musical dimension run by former boybanders and TikTok queens. With the purse chicken safely undetected, we settled in for what would become an unforgettable night of confetti, remixed fate, and the kind of music that makes you question everything you knew about Shakespeare... and Backstreet Boys.

Let’s begin with the obvious: Shakespeare is rolling in his grave. Not out of horror, but because he’s mad he didn’t think of it first.

From the first beat of &Juliet, we were hooked like teenage girls at a boy band reunion tour. The plot flips the script, literally. Instead of ending with Juliet’s tragic demise, the show opens with William Shakespeare’s wife, Anne Hathaway (no, not that one... or is it?), crashing his writing sesh and demanding he give Juliet some agency, for once. Girl power, quills out. What follows is Juliet’s gloriously over-the-top resurrection from the tomb and her subsequent journey to Paris (obviously), where she tries to reclaim her life, her choices, and her very dramatic diary.

But here's the twist: it's all told through the biggest early 2000s pop bangers you forgot you knew every word to. Backstreet Boys. Britney. Katy Perry. Celine. *NSYNC. All weaponized into Shakespearean empowerment anthems. When Juliet belts "Since U Been Gone" after ghosting Romeo (yes, he comes back), I swear the floor shook. When the entire cast breaks into "Larger Than Life" in full Renaissance pop concert attire, you could feel the teenage spirit of 2001 rising from everyone’s middle school lockers. It was camp. It was chaos. It was everything.

Juliet in &Juliet

The cast? Electric. Juliet wasn’t just a character, she was a movement. The nonbinary character May had the audience audibly sobbing one moment and cackling the next, and Anne Hathaway (the character, not the actress... maybe) nearly stole the entire show with her witty banter and spicy marriage commentary. Shakespeare? A drama queen with a God complex. Obviously. But this was only the beginning… Superstars I never imagined I’d see were cast in this show… hold on tight, folks, because I was NOT prepared.

Let’s start with the man, the myth, the NSYNC legend himself: Joey Fatone. Yes, that Joey. As in “I had his poster in my locker and pretended I was the sixth member of the group” Joey. He appeared on stage like a theatrical phoenix rising from the flames of the early 2000s sporting charisma, dad-joke energy, and enough stage presence to eclipse the disco ball above the set. He was cheeky. He was hilarious. He delivered his lines with the comedic timing of someone who has definitely hosted a game show or two and absolutely knew he was stealing every scene he stepped into. At one point, I swear he looked directly into the audience and winked at my soul.

And then, as if the Millennial-fantasy-come-true wasn’t enough, out floated Charlie D’Amelio, TikTok’s reigning dance duchess, looking like she’d just pirouetted off a ring light and into a Shakespearean remix. She wasn’t just good, she was shockingly good. Like, "excuse me, are you a Broadway plant sent to punk us?" good. Her dancing crisp and she had this Gen Z sparkle that screamed, “I may have 150 million followers, but I also have talent, thank you very much.” You could practically hear the teenagers in the back row clutching their Stanley cups and whisper-sobbing, “She’s so real.”

Together, they were havoc and charm personified. Joey, full dad energy. Charlie, cool as ice, floating through musical numbers with the confidence of someone who’s survived internet fame and still shows up hydrated.

Honestly? It was like watching your childhood crush and your niece’s internet obsession join forces in a glitter-fueled musical delirium and it somehow worked. It didn’t just work, it slayed.

Between the spinning set pieces, glitter storms, and the musical mashups that made your inner 13-year-old scream, it was impossible to look away. And frankly, why would you want to? By the end, when the entire cast sang "Roar" with so much passion we thought Times Square might spontaneously combust, we were on our feet. Not because the ushers told us to. Because our souls demanded it. We laughed. We danced. We healed something deep in our pop-loving hearts.

And as the lights came up, purse chicken forgotten, mascara slightly smudged, we turned to each other and whispered the only possible review:“Juliet could literally stab us and we’d apologize for bleeding too loud. But only if she gives us the go-ahead first. Queen’s orders.” 👑🩷

I went in expecting a fun show.

I left wondering if I had just hallucinated Broadway’s weirdest, most wonderful crossover event ever. A glitter-bombed delusion where breakup anthems become battle cries, and Juliet rewrites her own ending with sequins, sass, and a whole lot of Max Martin bangers. It’s like your favorite Spotify playlist put on a corset, broke up with Romeo, and went full pop diva. 10/10 would rewrite history again.

And just when we thought the night had offered all its surprises, Broadway curtain down, Times Square buzzing, stomachs full and spirits high, something shifted.

A moment unfolded. Brief. Electric. Impossible to explain. Like the city itself was holding its breath.

What happened next? Let’s just say… New York looked me dead in the eye, smirked, and whispered, “Oh honey, I’m just getting started.”

Part Two drops Saturday! You’re not ready.