NYNY Day 3

Disclaimer: long day ahead

While Soy went t'werq once again, Elizabeth and I slept in. We had no concrete plans and were fully prepared to spend the day as slowly and lethargically as we desired. As a testament to our weak, muscle-less bodies (we typically resume exercising like heathens once school starts), yesterday's exploring had completely  w i p e d  us out. Still, we teased each other out of bed, ready to satisfy my curiosity to see the acclaimed SoHo district.

Both fully pimped out, ready to show SoHo who baws, we walked to the front door and I casually reaffirmed, "hey, you have the spare key, right?"


"No? I never got them..?"

"Well, I never got them."

"Then.... does Soy have them?"

.......................................................................

"AAAAHHHHHHH!"
"AAAAHHHHHHH!"

In defeat, believing we were in the world's greatest city only to be stuck at home cooking Bisquick, we took this Dailybooth picture. Minutes later, Soy texted us, saying the keys were in the apartment, and we instantly saw them hanging in Soy's mail bin. In retrospect, it's happenstance, dumbass moments like this that truly become remembered as "good times."

For lunch, there was one dish I undoubtedly needed to try while in New York; and I knew this afternoon was the afternoon to do so. Despite her adamant protest, I dragged Elizabeth's butt to Chinatown in search of chef Guy Fieri's highly recommended hand-pulled noodles from Tasty Hand-Pulled Noodles Inc.

Now, let me have your undivided attention to tell you that if you're ever in New York City, and are a fan of noodles, you simply must try this dish. Five dollars will be your ticket into thick, succulent, doughy, noodle nirvana. My meager words only brush the skin of the pleasure that awaits you.

Then, finally, we finally trekked to SoHo. Finally. To my surprise, SoHo was rather... um... NYC-ish? I had always pictured SoHo as a Parisian paradise: narrow streets, cobblestone roads and ivory pillars, perhaps? Unfortunately, all that surrounded me were asphalt roads and corporate stores like H&M or Uniqlo. Yes, yes, it was likely my fault for not venturing past Broadway, I know.

SoHo did, however, provide a thrilling experience at Muji. I thought Muji only specialized in stationary, but their minimalist clothing is BEAUTIFULLY crafted. Yohji Yamamoto on a budget, made especially for those who appreciate baggy silhouettes (like me). I will go back and afford everything for myself, my mom and my best friend. I WILL.

After more walking around, it dawned on Elizabeth and me that we were doing exactly what we set out not to do: walk around. I grabbed another Doughnut Plant doughnut (just because I could) and Ms. Elite used her dandy Yelp app to navigate us towards Think Coffee, a highly recommended coffee house on Mercer.

Think Coffee is a stereotypical hipster cafe irl, imo, but idm. A physical reincarnation of a Nora Ephron novel. Brown everything. Ironic eyeglasses, ironic tuxedos, ironic hair buns, ironic Indian music. Elizabeth and I decided to play along by having pretentious conversations about vocabulary and debating the concepts of dating. We were surely the most obnoxious pair in a cafe for solos, shamelessly aiming our deadly cameras at everything that surrounded us.

To the surprise of many, I much prefer the simple things: cheap food, a heater, a pretty doughnut and company over coffee. Though I hate to admit it, this is indeed to say that I don't fare well with the opposite.

While immaturely giggling at inside jokes, Soy invited us to dinner at, once again, Saint Marks. We again revisited Asia, this time at Kenka: an underground joint that can only be described as an authentic, trashy, sick (in a good way), Japanese bar/fast-food-restaurant. Neither Elizabeth nor I were hungry, but we somehow found ourselves sharing a horrifyingly thick bottle of shoyu...

After three shots, I, already buzzed, thought "to hell with it!" and decided to get schwasted. Elizabeth, refusing to drink drink, was eventually tricked into joining me by the likes of my spiking of her soda. The details of what followed remains a blur. Unconsciously picking at Soy's truly unappealing but intoxicatingly delicious octopus/mayonnaise concoction. Wobbling on my chair, jerkingly stomping to the bathroom, cackling in laughter. A slew of silly pictures. An argument with Soy, yelling at her to head home while we searched for a sanitary location wherein classy Elizabeth could puke. A tipsy subway ride, jamming to Oracular Spectacular. A sprint to Soy's apartment, in belief that running would assist in the sobering process.

They say a night spent drinking is a night wasted. "They" must never have drank during a New York City vacation. There's something to be said about running through the Manhattan streets a spongey mess, soaking up the city's abrasive rush rather than fighting back. Alcohol didn't (and shouldn't) define the night, but it was quite an amusing detail.

Did I mention that all of this happened around 7/8 PM?

By 11:30 PM, completely washed up and sober, my stomach began complaining. "Oh yeah, you idiot," I thought to myself. "You didn't eat anything after your tasty hand-pulled lunch and six shots of shoyu." Naturally, Elizabeth was hungry as well: so, like we did so many times this past summer in Denver, we re-dressed and confidently headed out to brave the night in search of yummies. I decided to wear a suit jacket over my pajamas, just for kicks and giggles, while Elizabeth went out looking uncommonly busted. Unaware of where we were trying to go, we randomly selected a subway stop to exit at and, upon exiting the terminal, found ourselves here:

I was in disbelief. Shock! How funny! I was finally standing in the most famous location in America. On accident. A suit jacket over pajamas. In search for a midnight snack. I mean... traveling just doesn't get much better than that.

My 24-hour celebration of gluttony ended with "chicken and rice:" a street corner secret found only on 53rd and 6th. Simply from the name of the dish, one would have no idea what "chicken and rice" truly entails. For the sake of honoring the local favorite, I will refrain from disclosing too many details. I will, however, officially declare it as the single most delicious meal I had in NYC. Soft pita, piping-hot meat, spicy rice, mysteriously addictive flavor, sauce overload, lights of Times Square: you'd be best advised to try it for yourself.

Before heading back to our quiet Astoria apartment, Elizabeth and I ventured to McDonald's to both warm up and have a relaxing chat. Likely induced by the contagious New York air, we discussed our dreams, aspirations, (not so) future endeavors and the overall excitement that surrounds us both at this point in our undergraduate lives.

We swore to "make it." To match our personal definitions of success and never forget the days and nights spent running around the city eating chicken and rice in Times Square, wearing our pajamas.

, Henry