🎭Part 2: From Ellis Island to Broadway: A Hilariously Strange Day in New York City

🌙 A Curtain Call… and a Boyband Twist No One Saw Coming 🎭🕵️‍♀️

We spilled out of the theater riding an emotional high, not from the ever-present aroma of city spice, mind you, but from the sheer theatrical brilliance we’d just witnessed. Our minds? Blown. Our souls? Singing. Our stomachs? Still thinking about that chicken parm buried in my purse.

As we turned the corner, the night took on a new shimmer. The crowd. The whispers. The glowing light down a narrow alleyway that looked like a portal to Broadway's secret underbelly. My niece, our resident theater aficionado (and former high school drama queen… literally), spotted it immediately. “It’s the stage door,” she gasped, eyes already sparkling. “They’re coming.” They being the cast. As in, THE cast. Including the TikTok starlet with moves sharper than our TSA-confiscated steak knife, and yes, the frosted-tipped boy band heartthrob of every millennial dream.

The energy? Electric. The suspense? Palpable. The question? Were we about to meet a legend?

My niece? Gone. Bolted down the alley like it was opening night and she was the star, leaving me and my mom in the dust, baffled and annoyed (which, to be fair, became a recurring theme of the trip). Meanwhile, we were standing there like Ricky Bobby; unsure what to do with our hands, our lives, or this sudden surge of theater kid energy.

Then we heard it:"JOEY?!"

The crowd erupted. My heart flatlined.Joey Fatone?!The Joey Fatone? N*Sync royalty? 2000s heartthrob? One of the reasons middle school lockers were plastered in Tiger Beat cutouts?

Cue the lights, screams, iPhones in the air like lighters. Playbills were being flung like confetti. Chaos. Pure, nostalgic, sparkly boyband chaos. I was hopelessly far from the action; no plan, no wristband, no hope.

Then…

&Juliet and Joey Fatone

"TRICIA, GO!"

My mom morphed into a stage manager on a mission.

She grabbed me by the arm, shoved us through the sea of fans like Moses parting the Red Sea of nostalgia.

We made it.Just as he was leaving.Just as I was about to give up.

And then—He turned. He smiled.He signed my playbill.We took a selfie.

And somewhere in the distance, I swear I heard the faint beat of “Bye Bye Bye” and the sound of a glittery scrunchie snapping back into place.

Life wasn’t just good. It was iconic.

🕵️‍♀️ The Great Playbill Heist: A Signature Stolen, a Niece Exposed 🎭💔

Just when I thought the night couldn’t get any more dramatic—BAM. Out of thin air, like a Broadway ghost light flickering to life, my niece materialized.She snatched the playbill out of my hand like she’d been cast in Wicked and was auditioning for Elphaba mid-monologue.

“Give me my playbill,” she said. MY playbill. As in, the one Joey Fatone just signed.The one I almost risked my life, and definitely my dignity, for.

I blinked. Looked down.The signature? Gone. Just... gone. Vanished. Like the last slice of cheesecake at Junior’s.

I was FUMING. But then I remembered...I had the selfie. The proof. The moment.And honestly? Paper fades. But icons live forever.

📸 Stranger With a Camera: Who Was He? 🤳🕶️

After our brush with boy band royalty, we floated into Times Square like we were walking a red carpet. The night was gorgeous, the energy was electric, and our serotonin levels were peaking. Obviously, it was photo time because if you go to NYC and don’t post a Times Square photo, did you even go? So there we were, posing awkwardly on the glowing platforms like every other tourist when suddenly, he appeared.

Times Square, NYC

A stranger, camera in hand, smile in place, and not a single creep vibe in sight (a Manhattan miracle, honestly). He flashed his screen and boom! There we were, mid-laugh, mid-glow, mid-who even ARE we?! It was effortlessly perfect. No flash, no filter, just sorcery. Naturally, we said, “Okay, mysterious street wizard… do your thing.”

Before we knew it, we were in a full-blown Times Square photoshoot serving angles, smirks, and what we pretended was wind-blown hair (thank you, mysterious subway gust). But here’s the plot twist: it wasn’t just the pictures. Trevor was… different. The kind of person who feels less like a stranger and more like a cosmic glitch dropped into your night by the universe itself. In a city fueled by noise, neon, and unhinged energy, he was calm, magic, and proof that maybe… just maybe… not all New Yorkers are trying to scam you. We left with memories, stunning photos, and the kind of gratitude that sticks. And just when we thought the magic was winding down…

Let’s just say: The next day didn’t just turn the page, it flipped the whole genre.

🚇 Below the City: Olympic Fare Evasion & Silent Suit Men 🕴️🍌

The next morning, we woke up feeling like New York pros. Veterans. Subway whisperers. Nothing could stop us now, not after surviving Times Square, Joey Fatone, and one mysteriously kind, camera wielding soul in a chaotic backdrop.

It was Statue of Liberty day and we were ready to conquer public transit once again. Down we went into the depths of the NYC subway… where dreams go to die and oddities thrive. Round two on the subway, and New York did not disappoint.

First, we watched a man catapult himself over the turnstile, obviously practicing for Olympic trials for fare evasion. Not a single person blinked. Not even the MTA guy. Just another Saturday. Then there was the man in a full suit, briefcase in hand, shiny shoes, Wall Street aura, who passed us… once… then again… and again. He didn’t say a word, just paced with unsettling intention. My mom leaned in and whispered, “Is he following us?” and for a moment, we all questioned reality.

Subway train, NYC

And then, as we finally settled into our seats, the unspoken subway anxiety crept in: What crimes have these cushions witnessed?  Were we sitting on decades-old gum? Someone’s lunch spill? Pee? Probably all of the above. We committed, though, because Lady Liberty was calling. Or maybe laughing. Either way… we were on our way to Battery Park. No haunted subway stories could stop us. After all, this was New York: where reality is optional and your morning commute could double as performance art. And us? Just trying to make it to the ferry without becoming part of a TikTok compilation. But we made it.

🍦 Liberty, Lies & the Ice Cream Incident That Nearly Broke Us 😳👕

We emerged from the subway, looking like confused mole people, blinking in the sunlight and squinting at Apple Maps as If it were written in ancient runes. We had no idea where to go, but the vibe? Oh, it was undeniable. Music in the air, strangers screaming with joy (or rage: unclear), and crowds gathering around street performers like it was a scene from Step Up: Battery Park Edition.

We asked two different people where to find the ferry, got two completely different directions, and followed both simultaneously being the confused but enthusiastic adventurers we were. The walk to the dock felt like navigating a foreign bazaar: vendors selling knockoff sunglasses and bags, “authentic” Statue of Liberty crowns made of questionable foam, and hot dogs that definitely shouldn’t have been that color. Battery Park itself was beautiful in that gritty-New-York kind of way; trees, water, the distant shimmer of Lady Liberty, and approximately 75 people dressed as Spider-Man, each more committed than the last. The closer we got to the water, the louder the gulls screamed and the more certain we were that we were walking into something unforgettable.

Once we found the ferry line, we were immediately reminded that patience is not a virtue shared by tourists. We were elbowed, side-eyed, and cut in front of like we were invisible. At one point I genuinely thought I’d be issued a boarding pass and a black eye. Security, though, was shockingly easy. No rogue steak knives this time, no drama, no alarms… almost like they trusted us. Mistake.

The Statue of Liberty, Battery Park NYC

We marched onto the ferry pretending it was our private yacht, minus the luxury, and plus about 300 shivering strangers. Naturally, we chose the outdoor seats because what’s frostbite when there’s a skyline to romanticize? The wind? Let’s just say it wasn’t a breeze. It came at us like we had unfinished business with a very cold mafia boss. But we held our ground, phones out, teeth chattering, trying to look casual while slowly turning into popsicles. The sun really was deceiving.

Behind us: Manhattan playing hard to get. In front: Lady Liberty, standing tall with eyes narrowed seemingly annoyed and unimpressed by our dramatic selfie attempts. And there we were. Frozen. Fabulous. And definitely in the right place. People were being summoned by the unseen Instagram siren, jumping out of their seats to take pictures one by one to capture their very unique Statue of Liberty selfie. Before we knew it, we were docking at the island. The home of the one, the only, Miss Liberty herself.

But first? Ice cream. Because priorities. We hadn’t eaten all morning thanks to my niece’s glacial get-ready speed, and the Statue of Liberty felt like a good place to emotionally recover with a waffle cone. It was honestly some of the best ice cream we’ve ever had; creamy, cold, and unnecessarily perfect for a cold morning.

Everything was going smoothly; too smoothly, honestly. The kind of calm that makes you suspicious. And then… it happened. No one saw where it came from. A sudden splash of chocolate landed right on my mom’s shirt, posing as a warning shot from the universe. No witnesses, no culprits, just the wind, the cold, and the slow realization that something had shifted.

That was it. It was instant. One minute: sweet tourist mom. The next: full-blown Statue of Limitations, cue her Villain Era… We diverted to the gift shop on a secret mission. No time for browsing, just one aggressively American shirt grabbed off the rack and a dramatic quick-change in the nearest bathroom stall. She emerged seconds later, hair tousled by the elements, The Statue of Liberty blazing across her chest, and the kind of look that said, “Don’t test me. I’ve had dairy and I’m armed with a tote bag.” What happened in there? We may never fully know. But she came out in that brand new shirt, eyes narrowed, jaw set. Changed.

Statue of Liberty

We finally made our way to Lady Liberty herself, weaving between photo-happy crowds like it was an Olympic sport. Took our pics. Paid our respects. And just like that, we were back in line for ferry number two, destination: Ellis Island. Mission: uncover our ancestors and see if any of them had better luck with the ferry line than we did.

🛏️ Ellis Island: Hope, Cots, and the Haunting Familiarity 🌫️📜

We arrived at Ellis Island expecting... well, we weren’t exactly sure. A ghostly mist? A musical number from An American Tail? A spontaneous time-travel portal? Instead, we got something a little more grounded, but no less intriguing.

The museum building greeted us with the quiet hum of history and an unexpected left turn into a room full of computers. Ancestry-hunting central. We typed in names like we were cracking a decades-old code, and sure enough, there they were. Our people. Fresh off the boat with dreams in their pockets and absolutely no clue that we'd be Googling them a hundred years later.

Infirmary, Ellis Island Museum

The walk through Ellis Island’s Museum was more than just a history lesson; it felt as though we had stepped into the ghost of someone’s hope. The rooms were stark: rows of thin cots packed into shared quarters, personal space a fantasy, and privacy a luxury no one could afford. And yet, unlike the haunting images of Auschwitz where false promises led millions to horror, this place, for all its discomfort, held something real. Here, the dream wasn’t a lie. Yes, it was cold. Cramped. Clinical. Yes, the system was flawed. But unlike Auschwitz, where hope was a weapon used against the desperate, Ellis Island didn’t lure people with lies; it held out a hard-won truth: that freedom was possible, even if it came with a fever, a language barrier, and a cot shared with three coughing strangers.

Here, the light at the end of the tunnel wasn’t a trick. It was a job in a factory. A slice of bread that wasn’t rationed. A future that, while far from perfect, actually existed. And somehow, in those stiff beds and echoing hallways, the weight of that truth hit harder than any bronze plaque ever could.

Outside, we circled the big memorial wall like amateur detectives, fingers tracing rows of names in search of our own. But alas, no luck. Not a single familiar given name among the sea of engraved letters. It was giving ghosted-by-history vibes. A little disappointed, a lot windblown, we made our way back to the ferry. Ellis Island didn’t hand us a neatly tied family mystery to solve… but maybe that’s part of the charm. Some stories aren’t meant to be found all at once.

Some are still waiting.

🧀 The Collapse Was Imminent—Until Mac & Cheese Intervened 🫠➡️🧀

Ellis Island gave us answers, but what came next? Well, let’s just say it wasn’t on the itinerary…

We stepped off the ferry and back into Battery Park like returning heroes—windswept, hungry, and brimming with "core memory unlocked" energy. The crowd buzzed, street performers performed, bubbles floated past us for no reason, and pigeons continued to terrorize tourists. Classic.

Next mission? The Empire State Building. But first… survival.

The subway ride over was a blur of growling stomachs and silent resentment toward my niece, who, once again, took forever to get ready that morning—earning her the unofficial title of Time Thief of the Trip™. My mom was this close to fainting on the sidewalk, dramatically clutching her purse like she was about to write her final will and testament in Times New Roman.

But then…salvation.

Friedman's Mac'n'cheese

A glow appeared in the distance (or maybe that was just a reflection off a cab), and we stumbled into a cozy little spot called Friedman’s, a local haven where New Yorkers gathered to worship two things: Knicks basketball and really, really good mac and cheese. (10/10 recommend).

My niece? Pouting because we didn’t trek to the international street food fair. My mom? Praying over an iced tea. Me? Too busy inhaling cheese and hydration to care.

🏙️ Empire State of Confusion: Wrong Doors & King Kong Destinies 🔑🍫

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was perfect. Our energy? Restored. Our spirits? Lifted. Our blood sugar? Stable enough to face the next beast: the Empire State Building. Cue dramatic music.

Bellies full, attitudes slightly recalibrated, and blood sugar no longer in the danger zone, we strutted toward the Empire State Building. But in true New York fashion, the city was like, “Not so fast, tourists.” We tried to walk in all confident only to be intercepted by a security guard who looked like he was tired of saying the same thing every two seconds... and had zero time for our nonsense.

“Wrong entrance,” he deadpanned, gesturing like a bored bouncer at a club we clearly weren’t cool enough to be in. “You want the side near the chocolate place.” The what now?

So around the block we went, feet tired and spirits a little lower, until we found the elusive, Willy Wonka-adjacent doorway. This time, we entered correctly met with velvet ropes, glowing lights, and that intoxicating mix of excitement and overpriced gift shop air.

The building itself? A legend. But the journey up? Iconic.

Empire State Building King Kong

Before the elevator was the best tourist photo op: animated King Kong and his massive grippers. Of course we had to stop and pose with the iconic Instagram-worthy backdrop. But then even better... the elevator ride up.

The elevator doors closed, and suddenly we were in a full-on IMAX situation. The ceiling lit up with a cinematic, time-traveling video of the Empire State Building being constructed; steel beams rising, rivets flying, men with zero harnesses just casually walking across beams like it wasn’t horrifying. Meanwhile, the elevator itself was speeding upward so fast I half-expected to land in Oz.

Then—ding.

The doors opened, and there it was: the top of the city. Lights stretched out in every direction like New York itself was showing off just for us. You don’t realize how loud the city is until you're above it. And suddenly, you're floating in silence, wrapped in wind and wonder.

🏙️🌬️ Empire State of Attitude: She Ghosted Us at 1,250 Feet 🙄🚶‍♀️

It was one of those rare moments where everything slows down. No subway chaos. No niece-induced hunger meltdowns. Just us, the skyline, and the feeling that maybe—just maybe—the Empire State Building was worth all the detours.

Top of the Empire State Building NYC

Naturally, my mom and I stuck together. A dynamic duo. The dream team. We wandered around the observation deck, soaking in the skyline, snapping photos, narrating it all like we were in a documentary only we would ever watch. Meanwhile, my niece? Off in the distance, marching ahead with the attitude of a Disney villain on her solo redemption arc. She disappeared into the crowd like she was being followed by her own personal film crew. Probably was, but we didn’t mind. The air was crisp, the views unreal, and every turn gave us another postcard-worthy angle of the city. We took videos, tried not to drop our phones off the edge (a very real fear), and let the breeze mess with our hair just enough to pretend we were in a rom-com.

It was one of those rare nights where the chaos faded, the skyline glowed, and the silence between the stars felt oddly like close cousins, close enough to touch and share our deepest, darkest secrets with.

New York doesn’t always hand out magic. But when it does, it gives you a view so breathtaking, even the drama feels small.

🌀 Spiral Cakes: The Bakery That Never Was 🍰👻

Back on solid ground, our city saga continued—because why stop at one sky-high experience when you can double down? Destination: Top of the Rock. Because apparently, we like our buildings like we like our drama: tall, iconic, and full of unexpected twists.

On the way, we decided to hunt for a bakery we found online called Spiral Cakes, allegedly a sugary heaven tucked somewhere nearby. Spoiler alert: it was the ghost of a bakery. COVID had snatched it off the map, leaving only a haunting presence on Google like a pastry poltergeist. We wandered aimlessly, looking for a storefront that didn’t exist. Classic New York scavenger hunt, minus the prize.

🌸 Rockefeller Rejects & Flower-Covered Redemption 💐👑

With time to kill before our Top of the Rock reservation, we tried to enter fashionably early. The staff? Not having it. Rejected like we were trying to crash a royal gala. So, we retreated to the famous Rockefeller plaza—the very spot where the giant Christmas tree reigns supreme in December and skaters twirl in winter wonder. But today? It was springtime in full bloom. The court was transformed with flowers, fountains, and that breezy kind of peace that feels like New York’s way of saying “You survived another round, congrats.”

Top of the Rock, Rockefeller Center NYC

Then came our moment. We returned, scanned in, and ascended once more. And just like that, my niece shed her attitude like a snake in Central Park and decided we were, in fact, worthy of her time. A rare and cherished event. But the real crown jewel? The Skylift. Oh yes, we paid extra for that glassy, futuristic capsule that lifts you even higher above the observation deck. You step inside, and suddenly, you're floating above the city in a clear, glowing bubble. It feels like you’ve been abducted by a very chic alien species obsessed with architecture. 360-degree views, no walls, just sky and city and the tingling sense that you’ve stepped into the future. It’s like being inside a snow globe, only this time, you’re the magic.

And in that moment, sky above, city below, breeze in our hair, we all agreed: worth every penny. Even my niece. Miracles do happen.

🎁 TO BE CONTINUED... IN PART 3 🎉

We thought we had seen it all—Lady Liberty in the moonlight, skyline views that made us question reality, and a ghost bakery that led us on a wild goose chase through Midtown. But as night fell and the city buzzed beneath us, something was shifting. The air felt different. Mother's Day was just hours away, and with it came a final act we never could’ve scripted.  It arrived cloaked in mystery, with a plotline so unhinged it felt ghostwritten by a caffeinated screenwriter with unresolved family issues. Broadway illusions, a trip to ground zero that shook us to the core, and a visit to Little Italy so underwhelming my full-blooded Italian mother nearly revoked her heritage. (Spoiler: She coped by rage-eating cannoli.)

What does time travel, national grief, heritage betrayal, and edible glitter have in common?

Part 3. You’ll want to sit down for this.