The Obligatory Vacation Recap - The Missing Friday Entry!

(I’m sure that, as it is now August, anyone who was interested what I did on my summer vacation has either given up on getting the missing Friday recap or has already heard it from me firsthand. But seeing as how I just found a printed copy of it on my desk at work – proof that I actually did write it! – I figured I’d post it for anyone who hadn’t heard the story of me having a panic attack in Hell’s Kitchen. Enjoy!)

We got a late start on Friday (no, really?) and decided to break the cardinal rule of traveling in New York (i.e., DON’T DRIVE). It was decided that it would be cheaper for us to park the car in the city than take the train (which it was), and in that way our time in Manhattan wouldn’t be as limited. (The last train to Tarrytown was at 1:00 am, which is a tad early when you’re in The City That Never Sleeps.)

We briefly got lost in the Bronx (note: I have now been lost in three out of five boroughs! Go me!)while looking for somewhere near a subway stop where we could park the car and not pay an arm and a leg. No dice, so we got back on the Henry Hudson Parkway, headed into Manhattan.

(I suppose now would be a good time to admit that I’m a very nervous passenger in unfamiliar territory. Driving in New York City makes me nervous; always has. Suffice to say that the next hour or so spent driving around Hell’s Kitchen in search of a place to park resulted in lots of nervous whimpering sounds from the back seat. And a lot of chain smoking.)

Having finally found a place to park the car, we went in search of immediate needs: alcohol, food, and a bathroom (not necessarily in that order). We stopped for dinner at Matt’s Grill, the first of many serendipitous choices of the weekend. Good food, good wine, and a perfectly mixed Captain Morgan and Diet Coke. (Yes, I had a cocktail in addition to the wine. Did I mention the panic attacks and the meeping sounds coming from the back seat?) We took turns stepping out to the Bloomberg Lounge for a smoke while watching the news report about a helicopter that had crashed into the East River, with camerawork from… another helicopter. Creepy.

(It was around this point where the two recurring themes – well, besides the “we got a late start” thing – emerged: the unending search for McLeary’s and the non-stop quoting of Team America: World Police. Well, just one line, really: MATT DAMON!)

We wandered around aimlessly for a while, cutting through Times Square and stopping for a map check and a very odd bathroom break in Bryant Park. While I was being accosted by a Brooklyn-accented bleached blonde (carrying a cell phone that had the theme from Sex and the City as a ringtone) about the Channel 11 news (she was fixated on it and was asking every woman in the bathroom if we watched it, but never mentioned why she wanted to know), Memnoch was trying to figure out why someone was mixing drinks in the men’s room.

There was still a little time to kill before Avenue Q, so we stopped in at Garvey’s Irish Pub, located next to the theater. (I’ve since found out that it was part of the Milford PlazaHotel, which was on the other side. Huh.) It wasn’t McLeary’s, but we were getting closer. Memnoch headed off to the bathroom to change into slightly dressier pants while zappagirl and I made ourselves pretty over a few pints.

Avenue Q rocked. Best puppet musical ever. Charming and crass, heartwarming and sweet with infinitely hummable songs. I could go on and on about it, but I don’t want to spoil anything for folks who haven’t seen it. After loading ourselves down with merchandise and getting autographs at the stage door, we returned to ambling around the city.

As we were passing through Times Square to catch a subway to the Bowery so we could scope out where we were headed the next night for the Richard Cheese show, we received a call that the wayward kitty had been found. There was much rejoicing in front on the TKTS booth – it was our own little New Years Eve in June.

By this point, we had decided that we were on the eating and drinking – but mostly drinking – tour of the city, and Zappagirl recalled a bar that her brother had taken her to. After unsuccessfully searching for it (we were in the wrong borough – oops), we randomly selected a small neighborhood pub in Soho called Toad Hall. Again, good choice – friendly staff and patrons, reasonable prices, and good music (provided by the bartender’s donated iPod channeled through the stereo). Memnoch chatted with one of our fellow drinkers, who recommended a few bars that might fit into our search for McLeary’s.

(Somewhere in the course of our wanderings – did I mention we were on the drinking tour? - we stumbled across a band playing in the Union Square subway station, part of the Music Under New York program. I happily dropped a dollar in the open guitar case, and made a mental note to check out the website when I got home. Susan Cagle, y’all. She rocks.)

Somewhere around 5:30 in the morning, we decided to call it a night. The sun was coming up as we pulled out of the parking garage and started the drive back. We said our farewells to the city (for that evening, at least) by rolling down our windows and cranking The Beastie Boys' “An Open Letter to New York” and happily singing along.