New York, New York

You left Boston at 11 a.m. It should only take two and a half hours to get to New York City from there. However, thanks to some unbearably fresh Bostonian Clam Chowder, your Pops has the barfs. You finally get to the City at 5 p.m.
Your hotel is cute, chic. The lobby is on the second floor, which is bizarre. The walls are purple and crystalline chandeliers hang above zebra print couches and chairs. An Indian baggage clerk takes your luggage and you follow him up the steep, creaky stairs. A highlighter-yellow/green color coats the third floor walls. One more flight, thankfully. You're out of breath, out of shape.
The room is small. Sunflower walls make you feel at home. Your father catches your eye and you two exchange a "this-is-a-double-bed-and-i'm/you're-barfy" look. A shrug of the shoulders later, your dad's half asleep on the bed and you're flipping through TV channels. One of your best guy friends that graduated last year calls you up when he hears you're in the City. You promise your dad a Gatorade if he's a good boy and set out to explore this place you've waited your life to see.
Chinatown was first. Block after block full of signs you can't read. Souvenir shops smaller than your hotel room have the same merchandise as the next. But it's cute there.
Then comes Little Italy. You halfway expect Don Vito Corleone to step out of the corner store, get shot, and start a giant car chase. Somewhat disappointingly, that doesn't happen. You walk into Joe's Pizza, order a slice, and stand. You just stand there. Overly tall tables of very small diameters fill the small eatery. You eat quickly so the line that swirls out the door can come inside. He takes you down to the subway.
You expect to see rats as big as your forearm and roaches longer than your fingers. Thankfully, none are found. A subway pass is purchased and you swipe it. You run into the gate. Twice. Your friend laughs at you as the New Yorkers behind you get irritated. Looking like a tourist makes you frustrated so you swipe the damn card furiously. It lets you in. "Yeah, you better," you mutter to yourself.
"Oh, yeah. It's rush hour, by the way," your friend mentions as if it's no big deal. Great. You have to stand in the subway, which you don't mind, really. The train starts suddenly, without warning. Falling over, you become acquainted with the businessman standing behind you. He's attractive, so it's okay, but you grin sheepishly and pull yourself together. The subway halts; it happens again. He laughs at you this time. So does your friend.
The Arts District is next.
Then the subway.
Then to Broadway, 32nd Street.
Then the subway.
Then to Times Square, the face of New York City. Hustle and bustle surrounds you and you feel a bit claustrophobic, but, hey, you're in the greatest city in the world, so you try to ignore it.
Next, Grand Central Station, Rockefeller Center, the place where they put the gigundous Christmas tree.
Then the subway, again.
Then the Brooklyn Bridge.
Then the subway.
Next thing you know, your feet are killing you and you have no idea where you are. You see your hotel in the distance and remember that you promise your sickly father a bottle of Gatorade. It's 11 pm and nothing is open. The two of you walk a 5 block radius with no luck. About an hour into your Epic Search for the Holy Gatorade, you see a convenience store across the street from your hotel. You roll your eyes and pay the 2 bucks for a bottle. A long, agonizing stair climb later, you're back in your room, pouring a glass of Gatorade for your sleeping dad. A quick shower, a change into pajamas, and you're asleep too.

The next day, you're up early. Pappy feels better, which is good, but you aren't in a good mood. Your feet hurt and so does your head. But you came to this city to look at NYU's "campus" and that's what you intend to do. Your generally directionally advanced fahjah gets south and north confused, somehow, so you're on a wild goose chase to find the Admissions Office. A cop helps you out and kinda snickers at the way you pronounce "Houston". You're late to the informational meeting, but your tour guide rocks and is a musical theatre major, which you can appreciate.
Nothing stands out here and you're sad. This is New York. You've been singing, talking, thinking about living in and visiting this city since you were 8. It's not bad and you don't hate it, but you can't see yourself here.
You get a bite to eat and return to your hotel for a nap. You wake up four hours later with the barfs. Thanking you father in your head with a few choice words for handing off the torch of sickness, you lay on the cold floor of the bathroom. Pappy leaves with your camera, feeling perfectly fine. It sucks to be cooped up, barfing, on St. Patty's Day in New York City. However, lying in bed watching reruns of 30 Rock, Seinfeld, Friends, and CSI:NY make you feel like you're really out exploring. You fall asleep.
You wake up and your father looks at you, a little green around the gills and says, "Let's get the hell outta this town."
You do.
And this is New York City.

Later Days
Peace
H

P.S. I'm sorry that this is soooo extremely late.