A Love Letter to the City That Never Sleeps

The Never-Ending Buildup (Because That’s How All Stories Start)

Proof I survived NYC winter without looking like a marshmallow (barely). This was my almost blogger-approved fit—sadly, no pics exist because I hadn’t unlocked my ‘main character’ era yet in regards to taking pictures of myself. Lesson learned: always dress like the paparazzi might show up.

There’s something hilariously on-brand about starting a New York City adventure by going exactly nowhere on a NJ Transit train. The air hums with the scent of stale coffee and crushed dreams as the conductor’s voice crackles overhead: “Ladies and gentlemen, we are… still waiting for signal clearance.” Translation: “Sit tight and contemplate your life choices.” Outside, rust flakes off the tracks like metallic snow—a fitting metaphor for our dwindling patience.

My cousin—let’s just say she’s no stranger to a selfie stick—sighs and tilts her phone to catch the “golden hour” light (it’s 5:00 PM). It was clear as day that her mind wat itching to get the best photos of the day, as she was swiping through filters. I adore her, but her commitment to aesthetic consistency borders on heroic. Meanwhile, the rest of our crew—a symphony of chaos in street style overachievers —are already turning this delay into an improv show. In my head, I lament that the train seats were designed by someone who’s “never met a human spine,” while also beginning to theorize that “signal issues” is NJ Transit code for “the conductor found a better podcast.” The energy is somewhere between a sleepover and a mutiny.

But let’s rewind to how this mission launched. Our neighbor, saint that she is, had extra train tickets because The Rocket Scientist (my best friend, who builds drones for Amazon Prime Air) was visiting from Texas. When the group chat erupted with “NYC today??”, I replied with the fervor of a wartime general:

1. Yes, but we take the first train out (because I’m a “sunrise enthusiast” who hates sleep).
2. Hard pass if my sister joins.

I love my sister, but traveling with her is like being the handler for a celebrity who only signed up for the craft services and photo ops. Ask her to walk more than three blocks? She’ll emit a frequency of complaints usually reserved for dental drills. Navigating the subway? She’d rather be teleported. So when someone floated her name, I vetoed it with the intensity of someone spotting a rat on the platform. “I will fake my own death,” I declared (such a drama queen I know). And thus, the universe blessed us with a sister-free excursion—proof that prayer works.

By the time the train lurches forward, me and The Rocket Scientist bonded over shared trauma, deep in that rare, electric kind of conversation that only happens between people who recognize their own origin story in someone else’s eyes. Between the screech of metal and the conductor’s staticky announcements, we trade stories about growing up in neighborhoods where “financial insecurity” wasn’t just a buzzword but the wallpaper of your childhood. There’s an unspoken understanding between us – the kind forged in empathizing with others in apartment complexes with peeling paint and school cafeterias where free lunch tickets felt like both a lifeline and a scarlet letter.

We laugh about the absurdity of staying in this vacation neighborhood where every perfectly manicured lawn seems to whisper “you don’t belong.” The way neighbors here discuss their other homes with the casualness of someone ordering coffee, while we exchange knowing glances – my childhood summers were spent at deteriorating at home under no watchful eye (latckey gang, am I right?). The Rocket Scientist jokes about how we’re like anthropologists studying some strange, gilded tribe as we watch women in Lululemon outfits power-walk past with strollers that cost more than our first cars.

There’s something darkly funny about how out of place we feel in this upper-middle-class wonderland, with its organic farmers markets and yoga studios on every corner. We grew up in the real mixed bag of America – neighborhoods where you could find a doctor, a dishwasher, and a day laborer all on the same block. Where diversity wasn’t a corporate initiative but just… life. And as the train finally picks up speed, I realize this connection – this shared understanding of moving between worlds – is more valuable than any destination.

But here’s the essential truth about New York: the city doesn’t begin at Penn Station – it starts the moment your train stalls in East Bumblefuck, New Jersey. That’s when you’re initiated into the sacred rituals of NYC anticipation: the symphony of impatient toe-tapping, the olfactory cocktail of Axe body spray and stale bagels, the existential debate happening beside you about whether it’s too late to sprint back for that bacon-egg-and-cheese (pro tip: it’s never too late, and yes, Gary, you absolutely should’ve gotten two). This isn’t just a delay – it’s a hazing ritual. Welcome to the club.

Armed with nothing but Dad’s tragic $50 ‘budget’ (more like a cruel joke), a phone battery hemorrhaging power, and the delusional optimism of someone who knows Blue Bottle’s chocolate croissant awaits, I embraced the struggle. My backpack – stocked with the sad, crumpled snacks of the financially constrained – became my lifeline. Every rustle of the granola bar wrapper drew envious glances from fellow passengers, their own stomachs growling in harmony with the train’s metallic whines. This, my friends, is how New York weeds out the weak before you even see the skyline.

First stop: NYC’s underrated cousin- Chinatown—a tiny, no-frills Chinese restaurant in NYC where the menus are laminated, the tea is free, and the prices make you question why anyone pays $25 for avocado toast.

Let’s get one thing straight: if your idea of NYC dining involves $25 avocado toast served on a slab of reclaimed barn wood, you’re doing it wrong. We beelined to Chinatown’s underbelly—a hole-in-the-wall where the menus are laminated with the sticky residue of a thousand satisfied customers, the tea flows like a judgment-free therapist, and the prices hit so low you’ll wonder if inflation forgot this address.

We ordered the soft tofu soup—a steaming, silken miracle that could heal broken hearts and hangovers in equal measure—and a rice dish so fragrant, it practically composed its own love song. One bite and I had an existential crisis: Why don’t I eat like this every day? (Answer: Because I live in a Wawa wasteland where “gourmet” means remembering to toast the hoagie roll. Convenience is a cruel, delicious mistress.)

The soup wobbled accusingly as I slurped, as if to say, “You’ve been wasting your life on sad deli sandwiches.” Fair. But in this moment, chopsticks in hand, inhaling garlic-laced steam like it was oxygen, I understood the truth: real NYC magic isn’t in trendy brunch spots—it’s in these unapologetic, fluorescent-lit temples of flavor where the only influencer is the grandma yelling at the kitchen to hurry up.”

As we slurped steaming spoonfuls, my friend—let’s call her The Rocket Scientist—checked her watch. She had to head to her Amazon Prime Air internship soon, because apparently, some people are out here engineering the future of aerospace delivery drones while the rest of us are just trying to remember to drink enough water.

Coffee, Croissants, and Career Envy

As The Rocket Scientist jetted off to ensure your next Prime package doesn’t plummet from the stratosphere, I fulfilled my crucial role as Moral Support™ at Blue Bottle. My weapons of choice? A hot chocolate so rich it could fund a small nation, and a chocolate croissant so flaky, so decadently buttery, the FDA should’ve required a prescription. (I ate it in three unhinged bites. No regrets.)

Between sips, I did what any self-respecting GenZ’er does when avoiding existential dread: LinkedIn stalking. Sipping my drink, I scrolled through LinkedIn (as one does when they’re surrounded by overachievers) and marveled at her resume:

• Amazon Prime Air Intern (because why not revolutionize shipping?)
• Former Relativity Space employee (you know, just building rockets in her spare time)
• Generally being the kind of person who makes you question if you’re doing enough with your life

Here’s the kicker: we both came from neighborhoods where ‘venture capital’ meant scraping together bus fare. Yet there she was—turning ‘low-income background’ into a footnote rather than a fate. And yet, here’s the thing about ambition—it’s contagious. Watching her hustle from a low-income background to literally working on space tech made my own goals—Siemens Energy internship, blog grind, startup applications—feel a little less impossible.

So yeah, maybe I was just sitting in a coffee shop eating carbs, but sometimes, that’s step one of world domination.

When The Rocket Scientist clocked out from engineering the future, we did what any responsible adults with STEM degrees and impulse control issues would do: we unleashed our inner goblins at Muji.

Let me paint the scene: walls of pens so pristine they could’ve been displayed in the MoMA, acrylic organizers that promised to transform my chaotic existence into a Marie Kondo wet dream, and the intoxicating smell of washi tape and poor financial decisions. I emerged with approximately 37 Muji pens (a steal at $1 each! …until you do the math). Five years later, those pens still haunt my desk—their ink somehow both permanent and eternally wet, like the tears of my budgeting conscience.

Next stop: The Strand Bookstore, where the scent of yellowed pages and pretentious literary hot takes slapped us in the face upon entry. Eighteen miles of shelves towered like a labyrinth built by Kafka on an Adderall bender. We caressed $75 art books we’d never buy, scoffed at the “As Seen On BookTok” table, and I nearly cried when I found a dog-eared Joan Didion with someone else’s coffee stains on it—proof that real love leaves marks.

Our grand finale was supposed to be the Empire State Building, because you can’t go to NYC and not pretend you’re Our grand finale was meant to be the Empire State Building (because what says “I heart NY” like overpaying to stand in line behind 400 people for a 90-second view?). But Dad’s infamous $50 budget—the same man who once argued that tolls are “optional”—meant choosing between:

• A skyline photo op
• Not being stranded in Penn Station like a Victorian orphan

Reader, I chose survival. As the train doors hissed shut behind us, I pressed my forehead against the grimy window like some tragic indie film protagonist, watching the Manhattan skyline dissolve into the twilight. The Chrysler Building winked at me mockingly as we pulled away – ‘Better luck next time, kid.’

Just when I thought I’d be stranded at Penn Station holding nothing but my dignity and a Target bag full of nonsense (who needs three travel-sized lint rollers?), my cousin performed a modern miracle: the Venmo Rescue. With a single notification ping, she transformed from mere relative to financial guardian angel. The Empire State Building may have won this round, but this isn’t over. I’ll be back – next time with a budget that doesn’t resemble a college student’s ramen fund and the unshakable confidence of someone who definitely won’t cry when she sees the observation deck prices.