Waking up in the City that never sleeps

I first traveled to New York City fresh out of high school, way after the 9/11 terrorist attacks and just over a year after Friends called it quits. I didn’t have any real reason to go there, I just wanted to be a tourist for a couple of days and see all of the things I'd already seen on the television in person. I went from the Financial District to the Fashion District, Second Street to 102nd Street, Queens to Brooklyn, Chinatown to Times Square and all that's in between. I saw homeless people, ate dirty water hotdogs, swiped my MetroCard, hailed a taxi and even bought a "designer" purse from a street vendor. I was annoyed with the sound of car horns beeping every second and I was offended by the smell of trash day on a hot summer afternoon. I went to Tiffany's and Bloomingdale's, Ground Zero and Central Park, the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building. I saw what I thought to be the entire city in just two days.

The city was just a tourist trap for me. I loved the action and the lights but I hated the lack of reality. It was just a giant fantasy – something I’d seen in movies and read about in magazines. I was obsessed with the city and the lifestyle I would one day lead if I lived there. However, rather than taking a glimpse into my future home, I felt as though I were at giant amusement park, walking around with a bunch of other people who had no idea what taking the F train to West Fourth Street and then hopping the A train to get downtown meant. I was fascinated with the City, but didn’t quite understand how the women in Sex and the City and the cast of Seinfeld lived such wonderful, exotic lives with all these tourists around.

I went back to New York just a few weeks ago as a brand new 21 year old. I intended to experience New York City in a new way by exploring what the nightlife had to offer. I went to a few bars and pubs, but none of them really tickled my fancy. I didn’t understand where all of the fanatical night life existed because all I saw were a bunch of amateurs going to happy hour and then heading home to watch the 11 o’clock news.

Nearly losing hope, I stumbled upon a wonderful little place that has karaoke on the weekends. I’m an old choir hero, so I was ecstatic to get a few drinks and sing a few tunes on stage. I had a great time that night and ended up going back the next night for another round of ridiculous karaoke. Much to my surprise, I wasn’t carded at the door. The doorman, Doc, said, “Don’t worry, I remember you from last night.” I couldn’t believe it. Here I was, in New York City, one of the largest cities in the world, and the bouncer remembered me. The bartender called me by name and I nearly choked on my whiskey sour, which he made for me free of charge. I felt as though I were about to be a this-could-happen-to-you story about what not to do at a bar in New York.

Because I was too busy being freaked out at the recognition, I didn’t pay attention to the fact that, after another night at the place, most of the people in the bar had been there the night before and the night before that. They recognized me and I recognized them. I saw so many familiar faces those next few nights and had conversations with people I’d known for a few hours that I’d never had and probably never will have with people I’d known for years. The little pub reminded me so much of places at home. It wasn’t something you’d picture when you think of New York City bars. It was homey, cozy even. The candied smell of mixed drinks and wines and the faint smell of cigarettes from before the pub banned smoking trumped the smell of spilled beer on the shabby wooden floors. The bar stools were leather with the foam padding on the inside. I know this because some of them had the foam peaking through the seams. Sitting at the bar seemed like an old routine - kind of like plopping down on your parent’s comfy, worn-in sofa. There were thousands of liquor bottles, pretty much anything you could think of, piled behind the bar like an elite army. The bartender flipped and tipped the bottles and glasses concocting drinks and brews the best way he knew how. He put it on your tab without asking for a name – somehow just knowing. “Shaken, not stirred,” a man joked while ordering his dry martini with two olives that he quickly swallowed before ordering another. The taste of alcohol and fried food lingered on my breath after inhaling my fried cod and chips and pint of Guinness in my tipsy stupor.

Karaoke performances, beginning at 9pm Thursday through Saturday, turn the pub into a miniature concert hall for those who have consumed enough alcohol to appreciate a rousing performance of the B-52’s ‘Love Shack’ by Miss Cassandra, the girl who has knocked back enough Cosmos for all of the ladies in the bar. She stumbles through the verses but nails the ‘Bang Bang’s’ before the last chorus. The bar-goers shout the “TIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNN ROOF….rusted,” because Cassandra doesn’t seem to remember where she is. I take the stage to rap a played out 90’s rap song that everyone, despite their age, seems to know. The microphone, as Billy Joel once said, smelled like a beer, but that was the last of my worries. Watching those quick words fly across the screen kept my heart pounding. I nailed every word and exited the stage hugging and slapping high-fives with people who seemed to realize the song I just performed was the song I’d be remembered by.

It was strange to find a place in such a large, melting pot of a city where there were locals. Real locals. Not those people who are in town for business or visiting friends. The people who stop by for a drink after work and then continue down to 51st and 3rd to call it a night at their own apartment. What was even stranger was to find people like this who accepted us outsiders and invited us back for a couple more crazy nights. It was the kind of place I’ll go back to for the rest of my life, every time I visit the city, just to see if the barstools still look the same and the bartender still remembers the time we performed a duet the second night of karaoke and that my name is spelled with a ‘d’ rather than a ‘t’. It was the kind of place I hope to be a real regular at someday. Maybe even the exact place.