NYC Part III – Demogorgons, Disappointments & Dramatic Exits 🎭🗽🍝
- Tricia Kampert
- Jun 8, 2025
- 13 min read
Updated: Jul 11, 2025
Sunday Mass (With a Side of Stage Presence) ⛪🎬
Sunday. Mother’s Day. We started off the day with mass, although we didn’t end up at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral like most tourists with good shoes and grand plans. Instead, we made our way, somewhat unintentionally but not regrettably, to Saint Malachy’s, better known as the Actor’s Chapel. From our hotel window, it looked close. On foot? Let’s just say the path there made no spatial sense and involved more turns than a mystery novel.
But once inside, the chaos of the city quieted. The priest surprised us in the best way: witty, thoughtful, actually engaging. For once, Mass didn’t feel like a box to check. It felt meaningful. Personal, even. Like someone had rewritten the script just for us.
As for celebrity sightings? Technically, yes, we were surrounded by them. On posters. In stained glass. Broadway icons immortalized in their Sunday best. And for a fleeting moment, it felt like we’d stepped into something special, something bigger than us.
And deep down, we knew the day wasn’t done writing its surprises.
Pastries for Patience, Drama for Breakfast 🥐💤
After Mass, we made our way to Junior’s, a place that had unintentionally become a recurring character in our New York story. Cheesecake may be their claim to fame, but that morning, pastries were the mission. We grabbed a few to-go, knowing full well we’d need them. And oh, how right we were.
Back at the hotel, we attempted the age-old ritual of “getting ready on time,” only to be thwarted by our resident slow-motion tornado: my niece. At this point, her delay tactics were no longer a surprise; they were practically part of the itinerary. We silently thanked Junior’s for the emergency rations while she disappeared into the bathroom like it was a full-service spa.
Breakfast plans? Canceled. But morale? Still intact.
We had somewhere important to be, and if everything went as expected, what we were about to witness would flip the entire trip upside down.
Finally, miraculously, she was ready. We set off for the Marquis Theatre, not knowing that what awaited us would quietly define the entire trip. You think you’re just going to see a play… and then suddenly the lights dim and reality gets rewritten.
Stranger Things and Stranger Theater Design 🏚️👀
Of course, the moment we arrived, my niece took off like she was being chased by Demogorgons; half a block ahead and already pretending she wasn’t with us. Classic. At that point, my mom and I had made peace with her dramatic solo act. We let her go. We had bigger things to focus on.
Like ascending into the unknown.
The Marquis Theatre isn’t like your typical Broadway experience where you duck into a cozy lobby off the sidewalk. No, this one makes you earn it. You enter the building and then take a series of elevators—yes, plural—up into what honestly felt like a secret level of Midtown. It was like the show didn’t even start at curtain rise; it started the second the doors slid closed and you left street level behind.
When the elevator opened, we were met with an entire floor wrapped in Stranger Things branding so bold and oversized it felt like Hawkins had consumed the place. Walls were decked with shadowy, high-contrast character art and creepy crimson lighting. And the entrance? A towering black silhouette of a house—the Creel House—looming ominously with backlit windows where vague, menacing shadows flickered behind the curtains.
Subtle? Not at all. Effective? Absolutely.
It didn’t feel like we were entering a theater. It felt like we were crossing over. And we hadn’t even handed over our tickets yet.
Once we got to our seats, dead last row, top floor, we braced for the usual: tiny people on a distant stage and a stiff neck by intermission. But somehow, impossibly, the Marquis defied the laws of theater geometry. We felt close. Pulled in. Like the curtain would lift and we’d be swallowed whole. No binoculars needed. Just wide eyes and a quickened pulse.
Then… darkness.
A slow, creeping dim that blanketed the crowd in silence. Not the polite kind; the thick, electric kind that tells you something is about to happen. Something you can’t stop.
Welcome to Hawkins, Please Abandon Reality 👾🔦
A soft hum rolled in, low and eerie, almost like static from a TV left on the wrong channel. Faint blue light flickered on the stage, mimicking the glow of a basement screen. Shadows danced across the floorboards—disjointed, too quick to follow. The kind of shadows that don’t match the bodies casting them.
The show didn’t ease us in, it yanked us straight into total and utter cinematic chaos.
It opened not in Hawkins, not in anyone’s basement, but on a cold, steel military ship somewhere in the vast unknown. The crew, sharp and alert, moved with precision until… everything stopped. Lights flickered. Power drained. Systems died without explanation. A metallic hum echoed louder than it should’ve. Something was off.
Then came the storm.
The stage twisted into violent waves and shouts; alarms blaring, bodies tossed, orders lost in static. The ship, massive and proud, was reduced to nothing but confusion and cold panic. And just when you thought the worst had passed.
It came.
From the darkness, crawling and screeching in a silhouette too monstrous to process; a Demogorgon. Not hinted at. Not teased. Just there, uninvited and unstoppable. The audience gasped as it tore through the scene like it had a grudge against everyone on board.
The wreckage set the tone. This wasn’t just a Stranger Things backstory. This was something deeper, darker, and far more unhinged than we ever could’ve expected. And it was only the beginning.
We were locked in from the second the lights dimmed. Every scene pulled us deeper; every line, every eerie sound effect was a breadcrumb leading us into the Upside Down. The way the story tied into the Netflix series? Brilliant. Not a lazy nod or surface reference in sight; just smart, subtle connections that made you lean in and whisper, “Wait… is that…?”
The special effects weren’t just impressive, they were immersive. Smoke rolled across the stage like something alive, lighting snapped between scenes like a warning, and the sound design had us genuinely flinching. It didn’t feel like watching a play... it felt like being dropped into the middle of a psychological thriller that kept getting darker.
And just when we thought we could catch our breath, right before intermission, they broke the fourth wall...hard. Actors in hazmat suits and flashlights came creeping through the audience, scanning rows and inspecting guests like we were part of the investigation. We weren’t just watching the story: we were the story.
The entire experience blurred the line between fiction and reality in the most exhilarating way. Every moment was sharp, unexpected, and magnetic, like being pulled into the pages of a story that refused to let go. We didn’t just watch the show… we lived it. And when the lights finally came back on, it took a second to remember where we actually were.
Intermission, Irritation, and More Flashlights Than Answers 🍿🔦
Intermission hit, and my mom made a beeline for the bathroom while I got assigned snack duty; specifically, pretzels and water, because our actual lunch plans had been derailed (again) by my niece’s glacial morning routine. I asked said niece to go with my mom to speed things up. Naturally, she gave me attitude but eventually dragged herself along.
Spoiler: they didn’t make it back in time for the start of Act II. Cue even more attitude. But five minutes in, the ushers let them sneak back to their seats, and all was forgiven… mostly.
Good thing too, because the second half? Absolute madness. The Mind Flayer took center stage (and most of the surrounding airspace), appearing so suddenly and so massively that the entire audience let out a collective gasp. The special effects somehow cranked up even higher. It wasn’t just a show anymore; it felt like we were in the Upside Down. Screaming. Holding our breath. Forgetting where we were.
And just like that... it ended.
We sat frozen, blinking at the closed curtain like it owed us an encore; just one more scene, one more scream, one more shadow creeping out of the Upside Down. But the lights came on, the illusion broke, and reality practically shoved us out of our seats with a broom and a glowing EXIT sign. We weren’t ready to leave… but reality had already started sweeping.
Signing Playbills and Processing Our Emotional Damage ✍️😵💫
We walked out of the Marquis Theater in total silence, not because we didn’t have anything to say, but because we didn’t even know where to start. My niece made her usual dramatic exit toward the cast line to get her Playbill signed, while my mom and I stood there, still processing everything we’d just seen.
It wasn’t your average Broadway experience. It was intense, cinematic, even a little unsettling in the best way. Every twist, every scene, every shadow stayed with us like it hadn’t quite finished telling its story.
People around us had the same wide-eyed look, like we’d all just watched something we shouldn’t have seen. And suddenly, even the bright lights outside felt different. Familiar, but… off. Like we’d crossed into something stranger than fiction, and weren’t entirely sure we’d crossed back.
After my niece finally completed her world tour with the cast of Stranger Things, we took what would be our next to last metro ride of the trip, heading downtown toward the 9/11 Memorial and Museum. The mood shifted the moment we stepped off the train. The city noise quieted; not literally, but in the way that something heavier starts to hum beneath it.
Emotional Whiplash at the 9/11 Memorial 🕊️🇺🇸
Inside the museum, the air shifted. It was heavy; thick with silence, reverence, and the kind of grief that doesn’t age. We moved slowly, almost unwilling to break the stillness, passing walls lined with photographs of people who never got to go home. Handwritten notes, faded and uneven, spoke of love, panic, hope. Bent steel beams stood like bones of a building that once held a world we knew. We didn’t talk much. There was nothing to add. The tears came freely, some falling without a sound, others held back just long enough to sting. It was impossible not to feel it. All of it. And yet, in the middle of all that pain, there was something oddly comforting. Letters from across the globe. Flags. Drawings. Gestures of love sent from every corner of the earth. For a moment, you remembered what it was like when the world paused to care. No politics. No sides. Just people.
We didn’t speak much as we left, but we didn’t need to. We all felt it. Something had changed again.
Outside, the stillness followed us. Where the towers once stood, now there are deep, endless pools; waterfalls pouring into silence. The noise of the city seemed to stop at the edge of the memorial. No honking, no shouting. Just the quiet hum of water and wind.
Names are etched into the black marble, row after row; so many, too many. We ran our fingers over the letters, not knowing the people but feeling the weight of their absence. It didn’t feel like just a memorial. It felt like a pause in time, as if the city had carved out this space to remember without distraction.
No one rushed. No one posed for selfies. Conversations dropped to whispers. Even the air felt heavier, like it knew better than to stir too loudly. Every step was deliberate, like the ground itself asked for quiet. For once, New York didn’t hustle; it held its breath.
When we finally stepped away from the memorial; still a little quiet, still blinking through the weight of it all; we made our way to the metro for what would be our final descent into the city’s underbelly. Just when we thought the emotional whiplash had ended, we passed a full-on bike gang showdown, complete with cops waving them off like they were pigeons in leather jackets. We didn’t even flinch, we just stared, silently agreeing: Yeah, that tracks.
Next stop: Little Italy.Where the carbs were cold, the disappointment was hot, and the betrayal? Personal.
Little Italy, Big Red Flags 🍝🚩
We stepped off the metro at Canal Street, full of hope, carbs on the brain, and one Italian mother ready to reconnect with her roots. Little Italy was her moment... the motherland within the motherland. But from the moment we passed under the famous sign, things started feeling… off.
First, we were greeted by a man who looked like he was cast from an off-brand mob movie: white shirt, black pants, and enough misplaced confidence to fill a gondola. He claimed to be Italian but wouldn’t say a single word in the language. Just smirked and insisted we eat at his restaurant like he was doing us the favor. Hard pass.
We walked deeper in, expecting to feel transported, like we’d stumbled into a pocket of Rome tucked away in Manhattan. Instead? It was restaurant after restaurant, Italian in name only. The staff? From everywhere but Italy. No nonnas kneading dough in doorways, no melodic Italian chatter floating through the air, no charming little shops brimming with handmade trinkets. It felt less like a cultural enclave and more like a themed food court with a really committed marketing team.
To add insult to injury, my niece ran into a friend and promptly abandoned us, vanishing into the faux-Italian abyss like she’d never met us. That left my mom and me to wander solo through the culinary catfish that was Little Italy. My mom? Silently heartbroken. She didn’t say much, but the look on her face said it all, like her entire heritage had RSVP’d ‘no’ to the reunion.
A Cannoli Can’t Fix Everything (But We Tried Anyway) 🍮😐
We eventually gave in and sat down at a place called Anthony’s. Google said it was one of the best. Google lied. The food wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t Italy. It barely passed as Jersey. We were clinging to the hope that maybe, just maybe, the food would redeem the day. My mom and I both ordered the “handmade” gnocchi, which sounded promising until it arrived looking suspiciously uniform… and tasting like it had been defrosted an hour ago behind a Sysco truck. My niece and her friend split a pizza that somehow managed to be both excessively greasy and completely flavorless; an overpriced, forgettable dish that felt more like a broken promise than a meal.
For dessert, my niece, her friend, and I split a tiramisu that was… fine. Not great, not terrible. Just enough espresso and cream to pretend we weren’t disappointed. My mom? She went full emotional support cannoli, hoping to channel Rome circa 2016. But one bite in, she knew. This wasn’t Rome. This was betrayal wrapped in a soggy shell.
And just like that, Little Italy became Little I-got-lied-to.
The $50 Uber and the Final Descent 🚕💸
We opted for an Uber for the 3-mile journey back to the hotel because apparently, the underground turns into a no-go zone after dark. The price? A casual $50. Painful, yes. But slightly less painful than becoming a cautionary tale on the subway.
My niece’s friend came along for the ride, and while the two of them held an impromptu gossip summit in the hotel lobby (topics unknown, but probably dramatic), my mom and I escaped to the 27th floor. There, with the city lights flickering below, we packed our bags, silently acknowledging that tomorrow, we’d be saying goodbye to the beautiful, exhausting beast that is New York City.
After packing and parting ways with the mysterious friend, we stepped back into the glow of Times Square one final time. Naturally, our farewell tour included the Hershey’s store because what says “closure” better than a Stuff-A-Cup of pure sugar? My niece and I indulged in our final sweet hurrah like true tourists: unashamed and on a chocolate high.
The Monday Morning Plot Twist 💎🎭
The next morning, with the city still stretching its limbs, my mom and I slipped out of the hotel room like a pair of seasoned jewel thieves; quiet, calculated, and determined. Our destination? Pandora. Not the streaming service, the one with the charms. We wanted something small, silver, and shiny to mark a weekend that had been anything but subtle.
As we wandered through the near-empty streets, New York felt different. Quieter. Like it was letting us go gently after three days of chaos and character. We made our picks; two delicate charms that somehow managed to hold the weight of memories we were still unpacking.
When we returned to the room, ready to gently shake my niece awake… we found her dressed, packed, and sitting on the edge of the bed like she was waiting for us. Plot twist. After three days of running on sloth mode, she had finally found the fast-forward button just in time for checkout. Figures.
We checked out, left our bags at the desk, and ventured out for one last round in Times Square, this time for food and souvenirs. We ended up at Connolly’s, an Irish pub with real Irish music and an even realer Irish waiter who was charming, hilarious, and, frankly, everything Little Italy wasn’t. We ate like locals; burgers and chicken sandwiches, full plates and fuller stomachs.
We took one final lap through the M&M’s store because nothing says "cultural immersion" like walls of color-coded chocolate. My mom, who had spent most of the trip rolling her eyes at tourist traps, suddenly transformed into a souvenir fairy, grabbing shirts, candy, and personalized goods like she was stocking up for an apocalypse… but make it cocoa-coated.
We wandered into a few more shops on the way out, each more unnecessary than the last. Snow globes, shot glasses, questionable “I ❤️ NY” socks; if it sparkled or had glitter on it, we paused. Did we need any of it? Absolutely not. Did that stop us? Not even close.
Then, mid-trinket temptation, the Uber alert buzzed on my phone. Just like that, it was over. No more browsing. No more Broadway. Just three travelers, weighed down by memories and a lot of chocolate heading back to reality.
Just like that, the trip was over. We were headed back to the manageable madness of Pittsburgh, where the air’s a little slower, the buildings don’t scrape the sky, and where we’ll never again take for granted how easy it is to cross the street without being nearly flattened by a cab.
Wrapping It Up, One Existential Crisis at a Time 🧠🎁
The curtain falls. The pizza cools. The subway screeches one last time.
From Broadway-level drama to bakeries that never existed, sketchy subway plot twists to historic heartbreaks (hi, Little Italy, we need to talk), New York threw everything at us. We didn’t ask for most of it… but somehow, it gave us exactly what we didn’t know we needed.
We laughed. We cried. We screamed during Stranger Things, which felt oddly more affordable than therapy. We grieved at the 9/11 museum and were emotionally betrayed by gnocchi that had clearly never met a handmade anything. Breakfast plans disappeared faster than subway etiquette, and a Hershey’s Stuff-a-Cup tried—bless its sugary heart—to fix it all. The mystery man was real, the charm shopping was necessary, and Little Italy? A masterclass in false advertising.
New York gave us everything we didn’t need but everything we’ll talk about forever.
My mom found a bit of Ireland tucked into Midtown, my niece cycled through personalities like subway lines, and I learned that yes, it's entirely possible to be emotionally undone by a shadow monster and a disappointing cannoli in the span of a single day.
Would we do it again? Probably.
Will we complain the whole time? Definitely.
Is it already one of our favorite stories ever? Without question.
So that’s the NYC Trilogy: dramatic, delicious, occasionally derailed, and totally unforgettable.
Until next time, New York. Maybe warn Little Italy we’re coming.
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