I last left off on Christmas Eve in New York City. By then I had already spent two full days exploring the city, and I was completely enthralled. Christmas Day itself began at a slower pace. I had one more specific sightseeing objective in mind, and this was the day to finally do it — reaching the Brooklyn side of the East River, and possibly crossing the legendary Brooklyn Bridge.
Toward the South Side
I headed once more toward Manhattan’s southern neighborhoods.
This was now the third consecutive day of grueling long-distance walking across the vast urban landscape. Each morning I would wake up feeling relatively fresh, but it took less and less time for my lower back to begin aching again — the inevitable cost of solo travel on foot. From experience, I knew that after four or five days the body usually adapts, and the soreness gradually fades, but until then every step came with a reminder that cities like New York are best explored with stamina.
Beneath the grand arch and colonnade of the Manhattan Bridge approach in Chinatown, Lower Manhattan
My goal for the day was to cross over and do some sightseeing in Brooklyn Heights. I still wasn’t sure whether I would actually walk across the bridge or simply take the subway both ways.
As I mentioned earlier, I have an on-and-off irrational fear of heights, and tall bridges tend to give me the sweats. The Brooklyn Bridge, towering over the East River, certainly qualified. The more I thought about it, the more nervous I became — which is exactly how these phobias tend to work. The more attention you give them, the stronger they feel.
Chinatown and an Unexpected Historical Encounter
About half an hour later, I found myself back in Chinatown — though in a different section from the day before. Surrounded by Chinese storefronts, open street markets, and the towering Manhattan skyline in the background, I came across a monument dedicated to an important historical Chinese figure: Lin Zexu.
Chinatown hustle on Division Street under the Manhattan Bridge approach
Lin Zexu was a 19th-century Chinese scholar and official best known for his opposition to the opium trade during the Qing dynasty. Determined to combat the widespread addiction devastating Chinese society, he ordered the confiscation and destruction of large quantities of foreign opium in 1839. This decisive action contributed to the outbreak of the First Opium War between China and Britain.
Statue of Lin Zexu in Chatham Square in Chinatown, New York City
Today, Lin Zexu is remembered in China as a symbol of resistance against foreign exploitation and the fight against narcotics. His statue in New York’s Chinatown stands both as a tribute to his historical legacy and as a reminder of the Chinese community’s cultural heritage within the city.
A Brief Detour
As I continued walking, I found myself drifting toward the Lower East Side.
I’m not entirely sure what drew me there — perhaps curiosity sparked by its reputation as a once-grittier neighborhood. I didn’t stay long, but it was enough to see one of the distinctive cross-shaped public housing buildings up close.
Manhattan Bridge approach on Manhattan’s Lower East Side
I’m not sure what I expected — maybe something rougher or more intimidating — yet the area looked perfectly ordinary, even pleasant in places. Compared to some worn-down districts I had seen in Romanian cities, it felt surprisingly well kept. Perhaps the old stereotypes about dangerous New York neighborhoods had simply lingered longer than the reality, or maybe the holiday season had added an extra layer of calm to the streets.
After the short detour, I returned to the Two Bridges neighborhood.
Winter Wonderland at the Seaport
From this closer vantage point, the Brooklyn Bridge appeared even more imposing. If I was going to walk across it, I decided, it would be better to start from the Brooklyn side, with the Manhattan skyline stretching out in front of me. But before committing to the crossing, I made my way toward the Seaport District, curious to see what awaited along the waterfront.
The Seaport District
The Seaport District was a completely different version of Lower Manhattan. In contrast to the densely packed towers of the nearby Financial District, the waterfront opened into a broad, airy space stretching out toward the East River. The area was like a breath of fresh air from the shaded urban canyons right next to it.
A slice of New York City’s maritime past that helped build the financial powerhouse it became today
In the 19th century, this waterfront was one of the busiest ports in the world, serving as a crucial gateway for trade and immigration into the rapidly growing United States. Many of the surrounding streets still preserve restored mercantile buildings from that era, reminders that long before Wall Street’s dominance, maritime commerce was the engine that powered Lower Manhattan’s rise.
The soaring Manhattan skyline from the rooftop at Pier 17
Today, the neighborhood balances that historical identity with modern redevelopment, turning former shipping piers into cultural and entertainment spaces without losing the character of the old harbor.
Pier 17
The holiday centerpiece of the area was Pier 17, a redeveloped waterfront complex that blends restaurants, event spaces, and public gathering areas with sweeping panoramic views. Throughout the year, the rooftop hosts concerts and cultural events, but during the winter season it transforms into Winterland, New York City’s only outdoor rooftop ice-skating rink. Warming stations, seasonal drinks, and cozy seating areas create a festive atmosphere that continues well beyond the Christmas holidays, drawing both locals and visitors who want to enjoy the skyline from an unusual vantage point.
Pier 17’s outdoor rooftop ice rink with some of the best views in the city
From the steps near Pier 17, the views were easily among the best in the city. The Brooklyn Bridge stretched across the East River in full profile, framed by the Manhattan skyline on one side and Downtown Brooklyn rising on the other. Prices at the rooftop venues were, unsurprisingly, steep, so I settled for something simpler — finding a comfortable spot along the steps, unpacking my sandwich, and letting the skyline provide the scenery for lunch. Honestly, some of the best experiences in New York are the ones that cost nothing at all.
An exceptional view of the stone tower of the Brooklyn Bridge from Pier 17
This was to get a good overall feel of the Brooklyn Bridge. The proximity made the decision I had been postponing impossible to ignore. Watching the pedestrian walkway suspended high above the traffic below stirred my unease more than I expected. I zoomed in with my camera, capturing people calmly crossing — tiny silhouettes against the cables and towers — and realized that I was unintentionally feeding my own anxiety. The longer I stood there observing, the more my thoughts began to spiral, turning a simple walk across the river into a mental challenge far larger than it needed to be.
A close-up of the Williamsburg Bridge’s, once the longest suspension bridge in the world
Just southwest of Pier 17, helicopters rose and descended in a steady rhythm from the nearby heliport, carrying visitors on aerial tours of the city. Strangely, the idea of flying in one of those enclosed cabins didn’t trigger the same reaction; it was open elevated spaces that unsettled me, not height itself — an odd quirk of the mind. In the end, however, the decision was made easier by the steep ticket prices, and I was content to remain firmly on the ground, watching the aircraft circle above the skyline.
The towering One World Trade Center catching the light like a beacon
After resting for a while and enjoying the waterfront views, it was finally time to continue the journey. Brooklyn awaited on the other side of the river, and I made my way toward the nearest subway station, still undecided about how — or whether — I would eventually face the bridge itself.
Brooklyn Heights Promenade
A short subway ride later, I emerged in Brooklyn. I hadn’t planned an extensive itinerary for this side of the river; my main goal was simple — to see the Manhattan skyline from across the water. Brooklyn offers no shortage of neighborhoods worth exploring, but with the afternoon already slipping away, I decided to focus on one destination I knew wouldn’t disappoint: the Brooklyn Heights Promenade.
The panoramic view of Downtown Manhattan from Brooklyn Heights
Somewhere in the back of my mind I also remembered the famous photo location where the Manhattan Bridge is perfectly framed between rows of buildings — though, at the time, I had mixed up my bridges and assumed the shot featured the Brooklyn Bridge instead. Realizing I was in the wrong neighborhood, I chose not to “cheat” by immediately looking it up online and instead followed instinct, heading toward the promenade. I may not have found the Instagram-famous street, but what I discovered instead proved far more rewarding.
The soaring Neo-Gothic crown of the Woolworth Building
The elevated walkway of the Brooklyn Heights Promenade offered what were easily 10-out-of-10 panoramic views of Lower Manhattan. From this distance, the skyscrapers appeared almost at eye level, allowing me to capture some of my favorite zoomed-in skyline photographs of the entire trip — a rare treat without having to purchase yet another expensive ticket to a skyscraper observation deck.
A 25-foot-tall Roman goddess figure holding a five-pointed mural crown symbolizing New York City’s five boroughs crowns the Municipal Building’s lantern-like top
A persistent winter wind swept along the waterfront, but the cold hardly mattered. I lingered there for quite some time, resting my sore back while watching the late-afternoon light settle over the city.
A slightly tired windswept look from Brooklyn Heights
It was also here that I finally made peace with my decision not to walk the Brooklyn Bridge that day. Had I been traveling with someone, or even surrounded by a larger group, the anxiety might have faded. Crowds often create a strange sense of security, but alone, the idea of being halfway across the bridge with no easy escape if panic set in felt unnecessarily daunting. Combined with the miles already walked and the growing fatigue in my legs, the choice became simple: the crossing would wait for another visit. Some landmarks, it seems, are best left as unfinished business — a reason to return.
A Night on Broadway
For the evening of December 25, however, I had planned something special. While researching things to do in New York, I had repeatedly encountered one unmistakable recommendation: see a Broadway show. Theater had never been a major part of my life — aside from a few opera visits, I wasn’t much of a theatergoer, and certainly not a musical enthusiast. Ticket prices were also steep, as expected in New York. Still, I felt that if there was anywhere in the world to give musical theater a genuine chance, this was it.
An extraordinary show awaits at the Majestic Theater
Looking through the available performances, one title stood above all others: The Phantom of the Opera. I knew the musical only through its iconic main theme, which I had first discovered through a cover by a Finnish metal band I followed, and I had never even seen the film adaptation. Yet the music had always fascinated me, and nearly every recommendation I encountered described the show as a must-see Broadway classic. That was enough — I bought a ticket, setting the stage for my first-ever Broadway musical.
The elegant interior of the Majestic, with show just about ready to start
From the moment the overture thundered through the theater, I knew I had made the right decision. Even seated far toward the back, unable to catch every visual detail, the scale of the performance, the staging, and the powerful music completely captivated me. Songs such as Think of Me, Music of the Night, All I Ask of You, and The Point of No Return instantly became favorites.
The Show Must Go On
Leaving the theater that night, I found myself unexpectedly moved. While strolling back to my hotel, taking in the nightly splendor of the city the melodies from the show kept playing in my mind. I’d later spend hours reading about the story, the performers, and the history of the production.
Midtown holiday glow on the 25th of December
That evening did more than entertain me — it opened the door to an entirely new appreciation for musical theater and quietly started a tradition I still follow today: revisiting the remarkable 25th Anniversary performance featuring Ramin Karimloo and Sierra Boggess each holiday season.
New York had done it again. This time it wasn’t the towering architecture or the dramatic skyline that left the strongest impression, but the city’s artistic soul — its ability to tell stories on a grand stage and leave visitors carrying those emotions long after the curtain falls.
Museums Days
With only a couple of days remaining in New York, I decided to dedicate them to museums. The real challenge wasn’t finding something interesting to visit — it was narrowing down the overwhelming number of world-class options the city offers. As a geologist and lifelong enthusiast of natural history, the American Museum of Natural History was a mandatory choice. The second museum would require more thought, but one thing was certain: this day belonged entirely to the natural world.
The American Museum of Natural History
Before heading out on the morning of December 26, I made one practical decision — eat a serious breakfast. I had a feeling I would spend most of the day inside the museum and might not stop for lunch, so I searched for a nearby breakfast spot and ended up at a familiar American name: IHOP. I couldn’t quite remember where I had first heard of it — probably movies or television — but curiosity was enough to draw me in.
American breakfast breaking the carbs-o-meter
What followed was a lesson in American portion sizes. I ordered a bacon-cheese-vegetable omelet, accompanied by pancakes and a hot chocolate, expecting a modest meal. Instead, I was presented with what felt like a feast: a fully loaded omelet that could easily have been a complete meal on its own, followed by a towering stack of pancakes topped off with butter, and a mug of hot chocolate closer in size to a soup bowl than a cup. It was undeniably tasty and satisfying, but absolutely overwhelming. By the time I stepped back onto the street, I felt as though I needed a short walk just to recover from the sheer caloric impact before continuing toward the subway.
The American Museum of Natural History
Located along Central Park West, directly across from the park itself, the American Museum of Natural History (AMNH) is one of the largest and most influential scientific museums in the world. Founded in 1869, it has grown into a vast complex of exhibition halls, research facilities, and collections numbering in the tens of millions of specimens.
Eyes on the stars, feet on the ground: Theodore Roosevelt’s enduring wisdom to youth inscribed on the wall of the American Museum of Natural History
From the moment I arrived, the scale of the institution was clear: long ticket lines, guided tour groups gathering near the entrance, and a steady stream of visitors flowing through the historic halls.
The large crowd of visitors beneath the mighty Apatosaurus in the Theodore Roosevelt Rotunda
Stepping into the Theodore Roosevelt Rotunda, I was immediately greeted by towering displays, including the enormous Apatosaurus skeleton — a fitting welcome into a museum where deep time and natural history unfold on a monumental scale. As a geologist, I felt an almost childlike excitement from the very first moments. Dinosaur fossils alone would have justified the visit, yet they were only one part of an immense journey that would stretch across the entire day.
From Wildlife to Civilizations
My journey started in the halls dedicated to the wildlife and cultures of Africa, where carefully crafted dioramas displayed animals in lifelike environments — meticulously preserved taxidermy scenes designed to represent ecosystems in remarkable detail.
African wildlife diorama presenting a family of lions
Beyond the wildlife halls, the museum gradually transitioned into the story of humanity itself. The Hall of African Peoples explored the diversity of societies across the continent. Intricately carved masks, ceremonial garments, musical instruments, and everyday objects illustrated how art, spirituality, and daily survival were deeply intertwined across different African cultures.
Ceremonial beaded figure, possibly a bird or animal effigy used in rituals
Moving onward, the journey shifted to the civilizations of Mesoamerica, where the Olmec, Maya, and Aztec cultures were presented not merely as ancient societies, but as sophisticated centers of knowledge and innovation. Monumental stone sculptures, most strikingly the colossal Olmec heads, hinted at powerful rulers and complex ceremonial traditions.
The colossal Olmec head replica in the AMNH’s Mesoamerican hall
Exhibits described how these civilizations developed advanced calendrical systems, astronomy, urban planning, and large-scale architecture long before European contact, achievements that reshaped my understanding of what “Stone Age” classifications actually mean in a cultural sense. Technologically they lacked widespread metal tools, yet intellectually and artistically they were extraordinarily advanced.
A magnificent Plains Indian war bonnet
Among the most recognizable pieces in this section was the Aztec Stone of the Sun, whose famous original is housed in Mexico City; the museum displays an accurate replica that allows visitors to study the intricate carvings representing cosmology, mythological cycles, and ritual symbolism.
The legendary Aztec Sun Stone replica in the AMNH
Nearby, smaller artifacts like jade carvings, ritual tools, jewelry, and ceremonial masks, revealed the refined craftsmanship of these societies, emphasizing that daily life, religion, and political power were often inseparable.
Origins of Humanity and Geology Time
I continued through the paleoanthropology halls, where the exhibits trace the long evolutionary pathway of our species. Reconstructions of early hominins, alongside casts of landmark fossil discoveries — including the famous Australopithecus afarensis specimen “Lucy” — place human history within a vast biological continuum stretching back millions of years.
Lucy’s legacy: The famous 3.2-million-year-old Australopithecus afarensis cast stands as a bridge between apes and humans, showcasing upright walking in AMNH’s Hall of Human Origins
Moving onward into the geological collections, the focus shifts from biological evolution to the processes that shaped the Earth itself. One of the immediate centerpieces was the massive iron meteorite — a multi-ton remnant of early solar system formation. Standing beside it, I couldn’t help but imagine a rock like that impacting the planet. It happened plenty of times in the past and still does occasionally in our times.
Ahnighito (Cape York meteorite fragment) in the Arthur Ross Hall of Meteorites
Among the museum impressive ore samples, and polished crystal displays one piece that particularly caught my attention was the huge stibnite display — an unmistakable mineral due to its elongated metallic crystal habit. Having grown up in a historic mining town where such sulfide minerals were once extensively extracted, I had seen many smaller examples in private collections — a small slice of familiarity.
This half-ton stibnite specimen, with hundreds of sword-like antimony crystals, is one of the world’s largest on public display in AMNH’s gem halls
The section concluded with a return to the living world and a striking visual reminder of time itself: the cross-section of a giant sequoia trunk. Each growth ring marks a single year, with historical events labeled across the centuries, turning the tree into a living chronological record.
Dinosaur Halls: Childhood Awe Revisited
Hours passed almost unnoticed as I navigated the museum’s maze-like corridors, eventually realizing it was already afternoon and I still hadn’t reached the dinosaur halls. Once there, the crowds alone made it clear I had arrived at one of the museum’s most celebrated attractions.
The massive skeleton of the carnivorous Allosaurus
Towering skeletons of Tyrannosaurus rex, Triceratops, Stegosaurus, Styracosaurus, and numerous theropods filled the galleries, while nearby displays showcased prehistoric mammals such as mammoths and the armored Glyptodon. For anyone who grew up fascinated by prehistoric life, the experience was unforgettable — a moment where childhood curiosity and adult knowledge meet in the same sense of awe.
A childhood favorite: Stegosaurus, whose brain was roughly the size of a lime… but whose charm is absolutely enormous
Unsurprisingly, nearly everyone in the hall seemed determined to capture a photo with the legendary Tyrannosaurus rex, myself included. Watching the crowd pose beneath the massive jaws instantly brought back memories of childhood evenings spent glued to documentaries like Walking with Dinosaurs and, of course, the unforgettable original Jurassic Park — still the benchmark that modern cinema has struggled to surpass despite endless sequels.
Your boy together with big boy T-rex
Dinosaurs, however, were only part of the spectacle. Surrounding galleries displayed a wide array of prehistoric and more recent skeletons, illustrating the broader story of life across different eras. Massive Ice Age mammals such as mammoths and the armored Glyptodon stood alongside other striking specimens, while nearby displays featured long, coiling skeletons of giant reptiles such as large pythons and other vertebrates.
A colossal reticulated python skeleton. Quite impressive and slightly nightmare-inducing
By the time I finished exploring the final halls, the museum was already approaching closing hours. What I had expected to be a half-day visit had quietly expanded into a full-day immersion, morning to late afternoon, yet I wasn’t even sure if I’d visited all of the museum’s sections.
Evening Reflections
Leaving the museum, tired but deeply satisfied, I slowly made my way back across the city.
I found myself strolling passed landmarks such as Carnegie Hall and Radio City Music Hall, reflecting on how much the city had already come to mean to me. Somewhere along that evening walk, a quiet realization settled in: I didn’t just enjoy visiting New York — I wanted, at least for a time, to live there.
Radio City Music Hall with the towering Christmas tree
I began wondering how my career path might someday align with that dream, imagining the possibility of working in industries that could eventually allow me to spend several years in the city. Whether realistic or distant, the idea stayed with me, quietly motivating future ambitions.
By now, navigating Manhattan had started to feel natural. I had learned the subway system, discovered affordable places to eat, and grown comfortable moving through neighborhoods that only days earlier had seemed overwhelming. I felt less like a visitor and more like someone temporarily woven into the rhythm of the city — though the approaching final day reminded me that the journey was nearly over.
Giant red ornaments fountain at 1251 Avenue of the Americas
One full day remained, and it promised a surprise discovery that would once again reshape my awe of what this city had to offer.
Steel, Speed, and Storm Clouds: The Intrepid Surprise
On my last full day in New York, the weather began to shift. The warm, sunlit skies that had welcomed me and lingered faithfully throughout the week slowly gave way to a gathering front of murky clouds. Rain was forecast for the days ahead — the days following my departure. It felt almost poetic, as though the city itself sensed the approaching farewell. The brightness that had framed my arrival softened into grey, and I found myself matching the mood, reluctant to let the experience end.
Playful bronze cleaners from Tom Otterness’s ‘Life Underground’ at 14th Street/Eighth Avenue station, sweeping up giant coins in the NYC subway
I had already made my museum choice for the day, though it hadn’t been an easy decision. The Metropolitan Museum of Art would have been the natural follow-up to the American Museum of Natural History — another giant, another essential New York institution. But after immersing myself so deeply in natural history and human civilization the day before, I felt that doubling down on a similar historic-cultural theme might be too overwhelming and reduce the experience rather than enrich it.
While researching alternatives, another museum caught my attention. From the few online images I checked, it appeared to be a war museum — fighter jets, naval vessels, military hardware. That alone intrigued me; I’ve long had an appreciation for military engineering and history. But the true selling point was a single photograph: the SR-71 Blackbird. An absolute legend of aviation — a reconnaissance aircraft capable of exceeding Mach 3, still holding speed records decades after its retirement.
The Legendary SR-71 Blackbird. Honestly, a photo pretty much like this one was basically the only thing I knew about the Intrepid Museum before I actually showed up in person.
That image was enough. I didn’t read much further. I booked the ticket with only a vague idea of what awaited me, unaware that this choice would turn out to be one of the most memorable surprises of the entire trip.
A Floating Giant on the Hudson
After another big breakfast at IHOP — it had served me well the day before — I headed out toward the Intrepid Sea, Air & Space Museum, located along Manhattan’s western edge in the Hell’s Kitchen district. A curious name for a neighborhood. Contrary to what one might assume, it has nothing to do with fine dining gone wrong; the nickname likely dates back to the 19th century, when the area was known for overcrowded tenements, gang activity, and a rough reputation that made it seem, to some, like a “kitchen of hell.” Today, however, the streets feel far removed from that past — busy but orderly, framed by modern high-rises and river views.
Long line of visitors waiting to enter the Intrepid Sea, Air & Space Museum
It wasn’t until I reached the Hudson River and saw the museum up close that I realized what this place actually was. I had expected a building on a pier with aircraft displayed on the rooftop. Instead, I was greeted by a modest-sized entrance structure with museum signage — and beside it, an enormous aircraft carrier with the name Intrepid painted across its towering hull. Then I noticed the unmistakable silhouette of the SR-71 parked on its deck.
My eyes widened. My jaw may very well have followed.
Welcome aboard the USS Intrepid
I hadn’t realized that “Intrepid” wasn’t just the name of the museum. It was the USS Intrepid, a World War II–era aircraft carrier that had been transformed into the museum itself.
Steel, Supersonic Icons, and Cold War Titans
I’ve come to appreciate visiting places with only minimal prior research — just enough to spark curiosity, but not so much that the experience feels pre-digested. Discovering things in person, rather than through a screen beforehand, often makes them more vivid and memorable. In the case of the Intrepid, that approach paid off in droves, with one major surprise following another.
Flight deck panorama on USS Intrepid. From left to right: AV-8C Harrier, UH-1 Huey, T-28 Trojan, and HH-52A Seaguard, with the NYC skyline across the Hudson.
As I passed through ticket control and entered the courtyard, the magnitude of the place began to sink in. The USS Intrepid (CV-11) an Essex-class aircraft carrier commissioned in 1943 had served in World War II, the Cold War, Vietnam, and as a NASA recovery ship. After decommissioning in 1974 and facing scrapping, it was saved through a public campaign and opened as the centerpiece of the Intrepid Sea, Air & Space Museum in New York City in 1982.
But that wasn’t all. As mind-blowing as it already was to explore a real WWII-era warship turned museum, I quickly realized Intrepid had even more legendary icons on display.
Hangar deck aboard Intrepid Featuring a Grumman F6F Hellcat
Moored alongside the pier stood another legend of engineering: one of the few remaining Concorde jets on public display anywhere in the world. Sleek, impossibly elegant, and once capable of carrying passengers across the Atlantic at twice the speed of sound. The museum offered an interior tour for an additional fee. Tempting — very tempting — but for the moment I was content admiring its aerodynamic perfection from the outside.
The Concorde — the only supersonic passenger airplane to date that saw service from 1976 until its retirement in 2003
On the opposite side of the carrier rested yet another surprise: the USS Growler, the only American nuclear missile submarine open to the public. Like the Concorde, it offered interior tours for an extra charge. The idea of stepping inside a Cold War submarine was undeniably appealing.
The USS Growler, one of the first US cruise missile submarines used as a nuclear deterrent
But first things first. I had an aircraft carrier to explore.
A short climb up a flight of stairs later, I found myself stepping aboard something I had never truly imagined I would enter in my lifetime. I was grinning like a kid.
Life Below Deck
My tour began in the Mess Deck. Informational panels detailed the complex logistics of feeding thousands of sailors during extended deployments at sea — a delicate balance between ensuring sufficient provisions and avoiding waste. It was a reminder that beyond combat operations, an aircraft carrier is also a floating city that must sustain itself.
Stacked pipe-berth bunks in the enlisted sleeping quarters
Narrow metal corridors branched into compact dining spaces and tightly arranged sleeping quarters. Every square meter had a purpose; efficiency dictated the architecture. Function over comfort. Steel over softness.
The Optical Landing System (OLS) lights, used for signaling aircraft during carrier landings
Eventually the passageways opened into a larger exhibition area filled with displays, models, and multimedia presentations. Military aircraft components, signaling equipment, naval guns, massive propellers, space capsules — and even a meticulously constructed LEGO replica of the Intrepid. I couldn’t help but think how satisfying it must have been to be part of the team that built it.
Massive 250,000-piece brick replica of the carrier, complete with flight deck details and crew figures
One display board listed confirmed wartime achievements: over five dozen enemy ships sunk during World War II, with many more damaged. Across the room, in striking contrast, an exhibit titled “Navy Cakes: A Slice of History” explored the tradition of baking aboard naval vessels — complete with recipes, photographs, and stories. According to the exhibit, cakes were baked on the USS Intrepid both regularly and for special occasions.
Intrepid’s tally of Japanese planes and ships damaged or sunk during Pacific campaigns
War and cake. Destruction and celebration. An oddly human juxtaposition.
Holt mixer and period ingredients from Intrepid’s cake-baking history (part of the ‘Navy Cakes: A Slice of History’ display)
Interactive exhibits, including flight simulators, filled other corners of the hall. The atmosphere felt almost like a busy convention center, people flowing from station to station. And yet, every so often, it would hit me again:
I was inside an actual aircraft carrier.
How absurdly cool is that?
Guns, Steel, and a Sudden Vertigo
After thoroughly exploring the interior, I stepped outside onto one of the lower exterior decks along the starboard side, beneath the overhang of the flight deck above. From there, I made my way upward along the ship’s structure, passing preserved anti-aircraft guns — single and multi-barreled mounts still fixed in position.
Boys, I think aiming in the wrong direction here
Now they pointed toward Manhattan. Oh, how the guns have turned.
Eventually I reached the flight deck. And that’s when the vertigo hit.
Double-barrel anti-aircraft guns
In all the excitement, I hadn’t fully registered how high up I had climbed. Suddenly I was standing on an open, elevated platform with minimal visual barriers, almost at eye level with surrounding skyscrapers. The openness of the deck amplified everything. My irrational fear kicked in hard.
Legs went weak and palms started sweating. For the first few minutes, I stuck close to the island structure — the carrier’s central tower — trying to appear casual while moving in a way that probably made it look like I had shat myself.
Setting foot on the USS Intrepid’s flight deck, one shaky foot at a time
As amusing as it is to write about now, it was deeply frustrating in the moment. Anxiety has a way of hijacking reason. But slowly, minute by minute, I regulated my breathing. The fight-or-flight response eased. The deck stopped feeling like a cliff edge and started feeling like a museum again.
And then I could finally look up.
An Aviator’s Dream
The flight deck was an aircraft enthusiast’s banquet.
The collection spanned decades of U.S. naval aviation, from World War II through Korea and Vietnam. Highlights included the Grumman E-1B Tracer — an early carrier-based airborne early warning aircraft — the Grumman F11F Tiger, once flown by the Blue Angels, and the iconic Grumman F-14 Tomcat, forever immortalized by Top Gun.
Grumman F11F Tiger, used by the Blue Angels — the US Navy’s famous demonstration team
There were also international icons: the British AV-8C Harrier and the Israeli IAI F-21A Kfir.
And then — the reason I had come. The SR-71 Blackbird.
It was far larger than I had imagined. Significantly larger than the surrounding aircraft. Its elongated fuselage, sharp chines, and twin engine nacelles gave it an almost alien silhouette. Even standing still, it radiated speed. This machine had cruised above Mach 3. It had outrun missiles.
The Blackbird was so large it was impossible to frame it well in any one photo
Seeing the SR-71 in person was deeply satisfying. A marvel of engineering born from Cold War necessity, now resting peacefully atop a retired warship.
On the far end of the deck stood a large canopy structure, almost resembling a temporary hangar. From the outside, it revealed nothing of what lay within.
Grumman F-14 Tomcat, an iconic variable-sweep fighter
I didn’t yet know what awaited me there. But I was about to discover the final, and perhaps greatest, surprise of the day.
An Unexpected Journey into Orbit
I stepped inside the canopy structure and was immediately enveloped in a dim, almost reverent atmosphere. The lighting was low, deliberate — as if encouraging silence. And there, housed within the darkness, stood one of the greatest achievements of modern aeronautical and space engineering.
Enterprise. The first prototype Space Shuttle orbiter ever built.
Enterprise — the cherry on top of the cake at the Intrepid Museum
At that moment, the Intrepid Museum had officially claimed the title of my best museum experience to date.
Rolled out in 1976 and named after the iconic Star Trek starship following a fan letter-writing campaign to President Gerald Ford, Enterprise was constructed as a test vehicle. Lacking heat shielding and full engines, it was never intended for orbital flight. Instead, it played a critical role in the Shuttle program’s development by conducting the Approach and Landing Tests in 1977. Released unpowered from a modified Boeing 747 carrier aircraft, the orbiter validated aerodynamic performance, handling characteristics, and landing procedures — proving that the revolutionary concept of a reusable winged spacecraft could function safely within Earth’s atmosphere.
The data gathered from those flights provided the confidence necessary to proceed with the operational fleet, beginning with Columbia’s first orbital mission in 1981. Without Enterprise, the Space Shuttle program as we know it would not have been possible.
RICOH IMAGING
Standing beneath it, I was struck by how beautiful it truly was. I had grown up seeing its sister orbiters in documentaries, textbooks, and news broadcasts. But seeing one in person is an entirely different experience. Even though Enterprise itself never reached space, it represented the gateway to an era when shuttles routinely carried astronauts to orbit and back. That realization was unexpectedly moving.
Its sheer size was impressive enough, but what fascinated me most up close was the underside. The black, plate-like surface was covered in high-temperature reusable insulation tiles coated in borosilicate glass. These tiles were engineered to withstand the extreme heat of atmospheric reentry, radiating absorbed heat away and protecting the aluminum structure beneath. Roughly 90% of the intense thermal energy encountered during reentry would be reflected or dissipated back into the atmosphere.
The black insulation tiles on the bottom of the orbiter
It was an extraordinary feat of engineering — elegant, functional, ambitious. Knowing that the Shuttle program has since been retired made the moment feel even more significant.
From Bridge to Skyline
After marveling at Enterprise and the surrounding space exhibits, I stepped back out onto the flight deck. There was one final section of the carrier left to explore: the island structure — the ship’s command tower.
From the island’s exterior lookout mirror: a quirky, wide-eyed glimpse of Intrepid’s deck life with the Hudson and skyscrapers peeking in
Climbing several narrow staircases, I moved through various control and operations rooms. From the Combat Information Center to the navigation bridge, the spaces were filled with original equipment and interpretive displays. Classic green radar scopes glowed behind glass, alongside navigation systems and communication panels that once coordinated real operations at sea.
Classic PPI radar scope displaying surface or air contacts
A small, modest cabin marked the chief of staff’s quarters — compact, functional, unadorned. Higher up was the captain’s bridge. There, visitors had the opportunity to speak briefly with a senior staff member and veteran who had once served aboard the Intrepid. Listening to him recount stories from his service days felt surreal, as though I had momentarily stepped into a living documentary. It was a genuine privilege to meet him and exchange a few words.
Weird architecture alert! Captured from USS Intrepid, VIA 57 West rises as a gleaming, angled tetrahedron amid the Manhattan skyline
Stepping out onto the top of the island offered sweeping panoramic views of the Hudson and the Manhattan skyline. No vertigo this time, thankfully. I could simply stand there, steady and present, taking in both the city and the realization that this museum visit had far exceeded every expectation.
Back on the hangar deck, I lingered as closing time approached. With the crowds thinning, I finally had the chance to try some of the interactive exhibits I had missed earlier. When I disembarked the aircraft carrier — a sentence I still can’t quite believe I get to write — dusk had begun settling over the river.
The Bell H-13 Sioux famously depicted in the MASH* TV series, on display as an interactive exhibit at Intrepid
There was just enough time left for one more tour.
I would have gladly done both the Concorde and submarine tours, but time forced a choice. I chose the Growler.
Steel Beneath the Surface: USS Growler
Commissioned in 1958 and active during the height of the Cold War, the USS Growler (SSG-577) was a guided missile submarine designed to carry and launch the Regulus I nuclear cruise missile. Unlike later ballistic missile submarines, Growler had to surface to fire its payload, making its missions both complex and perilous. As the Navy transitioned to more advanced nuclear-powered ballistic missile submarines armed with Polaris missiles, Growler was decommissioned in 1964 after only six years of service.
Heart of the sub: USS Growler’s control room periscope column
After decades in reserve and facing possible scrapping, the submarine was ultimately preserved thanks to the efforts of Zachary Fisher, founder of the Intrepid Museum. It opened to the public in 1989 and remains the only American guided missile submarine accessible for tours — a rare and sobering Cold War artifact.
Moving through its compartments was an entirely different experience from touring the carrier above. If the Intrepid felt efficient, the Growler felt compressed. Every inch of space served a purpose. From the torpedo room to the engine room, from sonar stations to crew quarters, the submarine was a masterclass in spatial economy.
The forward torpedo room deep inside the USS Growler
The bunks were tiny, built directly into the superstructure and easy to miss at first glance. Fold-out boards doubled as tables. Storage was integrated into every possible corner. Even on a brief walkthrough, the claustrophobic intensity of life aboard became palpable.
Ironically, the confined space did not bother me in the slightest. While open heights trigger my vertigo, enclosed steel corridors felt oddly comfortable. Crawling through the narrow passageways and even stepping inside the missile compartment felt more fascinating than intimidating.
The Regulus I, the first US submarine-launched nuclear-warhead cruise missile
The Regulus I missile itself, the submarine’s nuclear payload, was mounted on top of the submarine. Resembling a small unmanned aircraft, the turbojet-powered cruise missile carried a nuclear warhead with a yield measured in megatons. It was the U.S. Navy’s first operational nuclear cruise missile, a technological bridge between World War II’s V-1 concept and modern cruise missile systems.
Standing inside the vessel that once carried such weapons was sobering. This was not just engineering — it was the physical embodiment of Cold War deterrence.
A Museum That Surprised Me at Every Turn
With my tour of the Growler complete, the museum day came to an end. As much as I try, it’s difficult to fully express how much I enjoyed my visit to the Intrepid Sea, Air & Space Museum.
What began as a simple decision based on a photograph of the SR-71 and a high rating turned into an entire day of escalating discoveries. An aircraft carrier. A Concorde. A nuclear submarine. The Space Shuttle Enterprise. A conversation with a veteran who had served aboard the very ship I was standing on.
One final look at the USS Intrepid towering over the Hudson at Pier 86
Some might raise an eyebrow at calling it my favorite museum experience to date. But for someone deeply fascinated by aviation, spaceflight, and military history, this was peak alignment between interest and experience. It wasn’t just the scale of the exhibits — it was the way they were presented, layered, and preserved with care.
So I want to close this chapter with a simple and sincere thank you to the people who made and continue to maintain this museum. Preserving a World War II carrier, a Cold War submarine, a Concorde, and a prototype Space Shuttle in one accessible space is no small undertaking. For visitors like myself, curious, enthusiastic, and perhaps slightly overwhelmed, the Intrepid offers not just artifacts, but perspective.
Walking back to the hotel on my last night in New York City
As a foreign visitor and admirer of American innovation and history, I left with genuine respect. And a salute.
One Last Walk
The day had come to leave New York City behind. I knew with certainty that I would return; the city had left a deeply positive impression on me. Even so, the moment of departure carried a quiet sadness. With an evening flight still ahead, I decided to top off my visit with one final stroll across Manhattan.
The final stroll across the city on the day of my departure
Baggage in hand, I set out toward some of the Midtown locations that had become so familiar by now. Starting at Madison Square Park, my default sanctuary from the very first day, I bid farewell to the park’s energetic squirrels before continuing toward the Empire State Building.
A close-up of the New York Life Building’s dazzling gilded pyramid roof towering over Madison Square
Checking my route along the way, I decided to head east to catch one final landmark: the United Nations Headquarters on First Avenue. As if offering a parting gift, the weather cleared for one last bright afternoon, allowing me to fully enjoy these final hours walking the streets of New York.
The United Nations Secretariat Building rising over the East River
Once satisfied, I took the subway for the last time, heading back toward Queens and then to LaGuardia Airport. And so ended one of my favorite Christmas holidays to date — a week-long adventure filled with discoveries, excitement, and moments that crowned 2019 as one of the best years of my life.
Enjoying the East River skyline one last time before heading home
It was time to return to the frozen north and resume my academic life as a PhD student in Chicoutimi, Quebec — already carrying the quiet certainty that this would not be my last chapter with New York City.
December 2019. Four months after moving to Canada, I was reaching the end of my first semester as a PhD student. Everything culminated in the research proposal exam — a final test of worthiness, and the last hurdle before I could continue the remaining three years as a PhD candidate without anything hanging over my head.
I had promised myself a reward if I passed.
The day finally came. I dressed up properly, delivered my presentation smoothly, and endured the intense heat of the examiners’ questions — coming out of it medium-rare, but successful. With the exam passed and the weight finally lifted, the realization hit me all at once.
Holy crap… I was going to New York City!
Planning Nothing, Going Everywhere
As with my trip to Greece earlier that year, I didn’t plan much in advance. I booked my flights, found a place to stay, and figured I’d improvise the rest once I got there.
The journey itself came in two legs: from Bagotville–Saguenay to Montreal, and then from Montreal to New York City.
A sleepy December’s morning in Chicoutimi, Quebec
Finding accommodation took longer. I spent a good while scrolling through Booking.com before stumbling upon a small gem: Seafarers International House. An odd hotel–asylum hybrid (run by a nonprofit for seafarers, of all people), it came with two massive advantages. First, it was cheap by New York standards—715 Canadian dollars for six nights. Second, it was central. Not “sort of central.” Manhattan-central.
My next step was confirming, via a quick online search, that I could buy a local SIM card. Then I figured out how to get from LaGuardia to the hotel and took a few screenshots of the route on Google Maps—just in case the SIM refused to cooperate at the airport.
Every small act of preparation made me a little giddier. With each detail sorted, the realization of where I was going sank in deeper, bit by bit.
Getting There
I woke up on departure day with my backpack and carry-on already packed—and a low-grade stress humming in the background about one simple question: how was I actually getting to the airport?
The Saguenay airport wasn’t in Chicoutimi, the small town I lived in, but in Bagotville, a neighborhood of La Baie. There was an airport bus in theory, but the schedule didn’t line up. And after a few months in Saguenay, I didn’t exactly trust the buses anyway.
You might say: just take a taxi. Or Uber. Uber wasn’t a reliable thing there and calling a taxi service in French over the phone was… not appealing. So I left early and walked to the bus terminal, where taxis were supposed to be waiting.
The Bagotville airport runway on the day of my departure
Of course, there wasn’t a single one in sight. I wasn’t even sure where they were meant to park. Anxiety creeping back in, I found someone at the counter who spoke some broken English. They assured me a taxi would come. A few minutes later, one did.
Once I arrived at Bagotville airport, I finally relaxed. One short flight later, I was in Montreal, heading straight for my next gate.
The US “enclave” in the Montreal Airport
To my surprise, U.S. border control was inside the Montreal airport. I was used to immigration happening after landing—not before even boarding. But the signs and security doors made it clear: this was the border.
As a Hungarian citizen, I didn’t need a visa—just an electronic travel authorization, which I’d filled out the day before. Still, the officer ran me through what felt like a full interview: residency, student status, intent, income.
In the end, everything checked out. I was waved through with a smile. New York City awaited.
First Sight
The skies over the East Coast were clear, and the forecast promised a full week of crisp, sunny winter weather. No snow—unfortunately. I would’ve loved snow.
The flight from Montreal was short. Just over an hour, on a small 2–2 seater plane. I stayed glued to the window, music playing through my headphones. I’d made a playlist specifically for this trip—songs that whispered New York to me. Old jazz, 80s Al Jarreau, tracks straight out of movies, shows, and video games I grew up with. That was how I imagined the city. Classically.
“Prepare for landing.”
In the low afternoon sun, the urban sprawl began to materialize below. I switched songs—New York, New York. Then the Bronx appeared, its unmistakable grid and cross-shaped buildings. And then a glimpse of Manhattan.
The iconic cross-shaped projects of the Bronx
At that point, I completely lost it. It was so familiar. So recognizable. Like a dream—except it wasn’t. I was really landing in New York City. The perfect finale to an already unbelievable year.
Everyone around me sat quietly, faces bored and blank. Meanwhile, I was internally bouncing like a kid heading to a theme park for the first time.
We touched down and I could hardly contain my excitement!
Living a Movie
Grinning like an idiot, I made my way through LaGuardia in search of a SIM card. After some asking around, I found a vending machine that sold them.
There was just one problem. I needed a SIM ejector pin—the tiny needle you use to open the tray—and of course I didn’t have one. Good thing I’d taken screenshots of my public transport route ahead of time.
My first hazy glimpse of the New York City skyline
Stepping outside the airport, the first thing I saw was an NYPD patrol. Internally: OH MY GOD, just like in the movies!!! Externally: calm, composed, casual walk-by with a smile.
I eventually found the Q70 airport bus and rode it to Roosevelt Avenue in Jackson Heights, where I’d need to transfer to the subway. By then, the sun was sinking fast, and my mind started spiraling: Which neighborhoods are dangerous? Is the subway safe?
TV had taught me to watch people’s hands. To look for guns. This was America, after all.
As I later learned, the infamous danger of New York subways belonged mostly to the past. But in that moment, my imagination was running wild.
Into the New York Subway
Then the train arrived.
Flat-fronted, gray metal. Two big round headlights like eyes. Screeching to a halt exactly as I’d seen in old media. Somehow, they’d kept the classic design alive into modern times—and I loved it instantly.
The classic old grey NYC subway trains still running today
The atmosphere inside the car was surprisingly calm. Everyone minded their own business, faces locked into that unmistakable commuter neutrality—until a group of subway performers showed up and launched into their routine.
The reaction from the New Yorkers was almost funnier than the act itself. Absolute stone faces. Completely unbothered. The look of people who had seen it all and were deeply unimpressed by yet another performance between stops.
I took my cue from them. Blank stare. Neutral posture. When in Rome…
The train plunged underground and crossed into Manhattan. My hotel was near Union Square, but I decided to get off at Madison Square instead. It looked like a short walk on my map screenshot—a famously deceptive illusion in New York.
It didn’t matter. I needed to see the city. I couldn’t contain myself anymore.
Madison Square
The instant I reached street level, my gaze shot upward and my mouth fell open at the sprawling metropolis around me. By my reaction, you’d think I’d never seen a city before. Of course I had — Athens, Budapest, Copenhagen — but those were older European cities with lower skylines and a very different rhythm. Even Calgary, the only North American city I’d visited, with its compact downtown core, felt like a mere sketch compared to New York City. This was scale on another level entirely.
Awe-struck after surfacing in Manhattan
Madison Square itself was gorgeous. A small green oasis carved into a sea of ornate concrete and steel. Christmas lights wrapped the trees and pathways, bathing the park in a warm, welcoming glow that softened the surrounding verticality. It felt oddly intimate for such a massive city — like a quiet pause before plunging back into the chaos.
Before heading toward Union Square, there was one essential New York ritual I absolutely had to complete: buying my first hot dog from a street stand. Thankfully, Manhattan is practically saturated with them, so it took all of ten seconds to find one. As I stood there, wallet in hand, a man approached me asking for money, specifying that it was for food. I offered to share my hot dog instead. He recoiled instantly, scowled, and snapped back that he didn’t want my hot dog. The absurdity of the exchange caught me off guard and made me laugh as I walked away.
The shining Clock Tower in Madison Square
It was my first small, unfiltered interaction with the city — messy, uncomfortable, strangely funny, and unmistakably New York.
With a surprisingly good hot dog in hand, I finally set off toward my hotel near Union Square. Right then, I noticed something unexpected on my phone: a free Wi-Fi network. To my genuine shock and amazement, the city actually had public Wi-Fi. In Manhattan at least — a bit spotty, sure, but still. I called my mom and gave her a live, shaky first-impression video tour of New York City.
A Quick Stop at the Hotel
Just a few minutes’ walk from Union Square, I reached the Seafarers International House. I was greeted by a surprisingly elegant lobby, followed by a modest room with a shared washroom down the hallway. Nothing spectacular — but more than fine for the price and location. And unlike a hostel in the same price range, I had peace, quiet, and privacy.
Arriving at Union Square
The receptionist was kind enough to lend me a needle so I could finally swap my SIM card. A few minutes later, I had mobile data — and with it, the most important tool of all: navigation. I was officially set for a week of exploration. And what better time to start than right then and there?
Despite the fatigue creeping in, I couldn’t resist going out for an evening walk. After a quick look at the map, I decided to head east along 14th Street toward the river.
An Evening Stroll
As I passed tall apartment blocks, I found myself gazing up at the lit windows, wondering about the lives unfolding behind them. What was it like to grow up in a city so famous, so mythologized? Probably filled with the same struggles and routines as anywhere else — yet perhaps oblivious to the magic of the place they inhabited. A magic that, in my case, had been carefully constructed and exported through decades of films, music, and games. And it worked.
The Union Square Metronome showing the time in 24-hour format on the left (the first 7 digits) and the time remaining until midnight on the right
New York felt shockingly familiar. Not just the landmarks, but the everyday details — the rooftop water towers, the accents drifting past, the streets and facades, even the small fire hydrants. Everything was iconic, recognizable, almost cozy. To my surprise, it felt less like visiting somewhere new and more like arriving somewhere I already knew. It felt… like home.
I eventually reached a narrow park on Manhattan’s east side, where I was greeted by a spectacular nighttime view of Brooklyn, glowing across the water. The quiet, dimly lit surroundings briefly put me on edge, my awareness dialing up instinctively. But as joggers and couples passed by, I relaxed again. I realized I loved the emotional ebb and flow the city provoked — comfort, tension, release — all within the span of a single walk. It felt like I had pressed my ear against the heart of the city and was listening to its rhythm.
The sparkling evening silhouette of Brooklyn
After an hour of walking around I was famished. On my way back to the hotel, I stopped at Artichoke Basille’s Pizza, just a few minutes from Seafarers. A small, unassuming place — and completely unknown to me as one of the city’s most famous pizza joints. The sheer size of the slices and the obscene amount of cheese were enough to instantly win my loyalty.
With that, Day One quietly came to a close. Full and exhausted, I loosely planned out a few key spots for the next day before finally falling asleep.
December 23rd
I woke up to a beautiful, sunny morning. Outside, the city was already loud and in motion — people rushing in every direction. On their way to work, or maybe scrambling through last-minute errands and shopping before Christmas.
I had a rough outline for the day: the Diamond District, Central Park, and a sunset from the Empire State Building. Fortunately, I still had some leftover Artichoke pizza from the night before, so breakfast was sorted. After a quick wash, I grabbed my backpack and stepped out, ready for a long day of walking.
I couldn’t resist the awkward selfies
Retracing my steps from the previous evening, I followed Broadway north from Union Square toward Madison Square, the Empire State Building guiding me like a beacon the entire way. I had admired it the night before too, but my nighttime photos were embarrassingly shaky, so I spared you the evidence.
Still, if I had to choose a single landmark to represent New York — like most non-New Yorkers — it would be this one. From a distance, it looked absolutely majestic, and I couldn’t wait to see it up close.
And now an actual good shot without my face in the way
Back in Madison Square, I once again found myself marveling at the elegant buildings surrounding the park. The Flatiron Building, with its iconic triangular shape, looked like a ship slicing through the city streets — one of the earliest skyscrapers in the world and an unmistakable symbol of old New York ambition.
The uniquely shaped Flatiron Building—scaffolding and all
Nearby stood One Madison, a modern glass tower rising from the historic MetLife Clock Tower at its base, where one of the largest clock faces in the world still keeps time over the city. And then there was that building — the one with the golden, pointy roof — which I later learned was the New York Life Building, its gilded pyramid inspired by classical mausoleums and meant to symbolize permanence and stability.
An Unexpected Encounter
The park itself was teeming with life — specifically squirrels. I couldn’t help pulling out my camera and trying to get the best shot. While I was crouched there, fully focused, a well-dressed man approached me with a friendly smile, and we struck up some casual small talk.
The squirrels of Madison Square
Out of nowhere, he asked if I’d be willing to model for him. For a watch.
I was completely taken aback. Me? Model? I laughed, but agreed. I had barely arrived in New York, and already it was offering me the kind of surreal, spontaneous encounters I couldn’t imagine happening anywhere else.
The General Worth Monument (left) and New York Life Building (center)
He fastened an elegant Swiss watch around my wrist and told me to just act naturally — keep photographing the squirrels while he took pictures of my wrist. When he was done, we chatted a bit more. I mentioned I was from Romania, and he surprised me by saying he’d visited in the 90s, shortly after the fall of communism.
Naturally, I couldn’t resist making a self-burn joke about Romanians and how shiny watches tend to mysteriously disappear around us. We both laughed.
He showed me the company’s website and social media, saying the photos might end up there. (Sadly, I no longer remember the brand — I followed them for a while, eagerly checking for my wrist, but eventually unfollowed and forgot the name.) He even offered to drive me around the city if he hadn’t had another appointment coming up.
We parted with warm farewells — and yes, I made sure I didn’t accidentally walk off with his watch.
The Met life Clock Tower and One Madison condominiums to the right
The whole encounter was so unexpected and genuinely heartwarming that from that moment on, Madison Square became my personal little sanctuary in the city — a place I instinctively wanted to return to after long days of exploration. Me and my sanctuaries.
Souvenirs and Icons
Still riding that high, I ducked into a nearby souvenir shop. I wanted something tangible — a small memento from a day that had barely even begun and was already unforgettable. I ended up buying a simple white scarf with New York printed all over it. Still adore it to this day.
The Empire State Building up close and personal
Leaving Madison Square behind, I continued toward Bryant Park, passing the Empire State Building along the way. I couldn’t help it — I reached out and gave it a quick tap as I walked past. Like touching a celebrity. I’d be back later to truly appreciate it.
At Bryant Park, another architectural giant demanded attention: the Stephen A. Schwarzman Building, home to the New York Public Library. With its grand Beaux-Arts façade, marble lions guarding the entrance, and vast reading rooms inside, it felt less like a library and more like a temple to knowledge — one of those places where even silence feels important.
Toward Central Park
I continued north toward Central Park, passing one iconic landmark after another.
First came Rockefeller Center, originally built during the Great Depression as part of an ambitious urban renewal project. The massive complex buzzed with energy, anchored by its famous sculpture and the plaza that behind that hosted the world-famous Christmas tree.
The statue of Prometheus in front of the Rockefeller Center
Just across the street stood St. Patrick’s Cathedral — a breathtaking neo-Gothic masterpiece, rising defiantly between towering skyscrapers, as if reminding the city that not everything bends to steel and glass.
The opulent, neo-Gothic St. Patrick’s Cathedral
All along the way, I was surrounded by architectural contrasts. Ornate stone buildings from the late 19th and early 20th centuries — many in Beaux-Arts or early Art Deco styles — stood shoulder to shoulder with sleek modern towers. One building in particular caught my eye: Charles Scribner’s Sons Publishers and Booksellers, founded in 1846, its name still proudly etched into the stone like a quiet declaration of cultural permanence.
The elegant old Scribner Building
Then, of course, there were modern giants too — including the unmistakable Trump Tower, all reflective glass and vertical confidence.
Trump Tower in New York City
The walk itself was a spectacle. Holiday decorations everywhere. People flowing endlessly in every direction. Cars begrudgingly waiting as pedestrians crossed streets whenever and wherever they pleased. This fascinated me. Where I came from, drivers ruled and pedestrians hesitated. In New York? Absolutely not. Pedestrians moved with total authority. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see someone casually walk over a car without either party batting an eye.
Oh… I loved this city.
Central Park
After more than an hour of walking — with a few pauses along the way — I finally reached the southeastern entrance to Central Park. Like everything else in New York, it was enormous. You can see its size on Google Maps, of course, but maps in this city are wildly deceptive. Distances here simply feel different. Not that I was complaining.
The William Tecumseh Sherman Monument, located at the southeastern entrance to Central Park
I spent some time near The Pond, where the skyline of ultra-luxury apartment towers framed the park in dramatic contrast. It made for some incredible photos, and I eventually asked a stranger to take one of me as well — the small tax you pay for solo travel.
Loitering around The Pond in Central Park
East Drive ran nearby, busy with activity: horse-drawn carriages, joggers, dog walkers, cyclists, and casual wanderers like myself. The park was alive, yet somehow calming — a deep breath in the middle of an immeasurable urban jungle.
One of the many horse-drawn carriages pauses along East Drive
As I wandered deeper, I passed Wollman Rink, the Dairy Visitor Center, and the Central Park Carousel. Paths twisted and dipped, crossing under quaint bridges, flanked by long rows of Art Deco buildings stretching north and south along the park’s edges.
A Bench and a Pause
By around noon, my feet were starting to complain, so I found a bench and sat down to eat the sandwich I’d picked up earlier. That’s when I noticed the small plaque on the bench — a marriage proposal from 2015, immortalized in metal.
A heartfelt dedication plaque on a bench in Central Park capturing a romantic marriage proposal from June 2015
Curious, I started checking other benches nearby. Each had its own message: dedications, memorials, quiet declarations of love.
Sunlight bursts through bare winter branches in, silhouetting the iconic Midtown Manhattan skyline against a glowing sky
A quick search revealed that these plaques were part of a donation program — a way for individuals to support the park and leave a personal message behind. I loved the idea. What a romantic way to propose, and to preserve that moment forever.
Hopefully she said yes… otherwise I imagine that plaque wouldn’t last long.
The Bow Bridge arching gracefully over The Lake
I continued wandering north through the park, eventually crossing Bow Bridge and passing The Lake. The bridge itself is often cited as one of the most romantic spots in Central Park. It’s been featured in countless films and photos over the decades, and standing there, watching the skyline peek through bare winter branches, I understood why. The Lake below reflected the muted winter light, calm and glassy, a rare pocket of stillness in the middle of Manhattan.
Belvedere Castle atop Vista Rock
As I pressed on, something unexpected caught my eye — what looked like a small castle rising from the landscape. It turned out to be Belvedere Castle, a Victorian-style folly perched atop Vista Rock, one of the highest natural points in the park. Built in the late 19th century, it was originally meant purely as an ornamental structure — a romantic nod to old European castles — though today it also houses a weather station and offers sweeping views over the park. It felt delightfully out of place, like a fragment of another world quietly embedded in the city.
Just How Big This Place Really Is
By this point, it felt like I had been wandering the park for at least an hour. With the added lunch break, it was actually more. Yet I was still barely halfway through Central Park — just to give you a sense of its scale.
Turtle Pond at the base of Belvadore Castle
Past Belvedere Castle, I came upon Turtle Pond, one of the park’s smaller bodies of water, followed by The Great Lawn — a vast, open stretch of grass flanked by baseball fields and framed by the surrounding skyline. My feet were starting to protest, and time was quietly turning against me. It became clear that there was no way I’d make it across the entire park and still reach the Empire State Building before sunset.
Sun-dappled hollows invite quiet wonder in the park’s wooded embrace
Still, I wanted to make it at least to the “big blue” I’d been eyeing on the map: the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir — the largest body of water in Central Park and one of the largest in Manhattan. Originally constructed as part of the city’s water supply system, it now serves as a scenic centerpiece, encircled by a popular running track and uninterrupted views of the skyline.
The Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir
Another ten or fifteen minutes later, I reached it.
The reservoir was vast — calm water stretching out before me, dotted with ducks gliding effortlessly across its surface. A fountain sent arcs of water into the air, and the low winter sun bathed the distant cityscape in warm light. Though it feels timeless, the reservoir is entirely man-made — a carefully engineered contrast to the organic chaos of the city that surrounds it.
The Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir
It was serene. The sheer presence of such a massive park at the heart of this dense urban jungle felt like a triumph of civic vision and design.
I circled the reservoir for a while until I noticed the sun hanging low in the sky. Time to move. There was no chance I’d make it back to Midtown on foot without missing sunset — and besides, I didn’t want to completely destroy my legs on what was essentially my first full day.
Across the glassy Reservoir, arched gatehouses whisper tales of old New York amid winter’s quiet flock
So I compromised.
I took the subway from 69th Street to Columbus Circle, shaving off a large chunk of distance and buying myself precious time. From there, I walked briskly back toward the Empire State Building, trying to time it just right.
The Empire State Building
With a hurried pace, I moved down Broadway, passed through Times Square, and continued on toward the Empire State Building. I’d have plenty of days to return and explore the area properly — right now, I was racing the sun.
Golden afternoon light bathes the towering giants of Columbus Circle— a glowing timer reminding me to hurry, lest I miss the sunset
The building was, unsurprisingly, teeming with tourists. Long lines snaked through the interior as people waited to buy tickets. Thankfully, I’d had the foresight to book an e-ticket in advance, allowing me to skip the worst of it. From there, I was funneled into another line, where groups waited their turn to board the elevators.
Along the way, the walls were lined with sculptures, photographs, and displays detailing the construction of the building — an astonishing feat completed in just over a year during the early 1930s, at the height of the Great Depression. At the time of its completion, it was the tallest building in the world — a bold, almost defiant symbol of ambition in a struggling city.
Lifelike bronze ironworkers pause mid-task in the Empire State Building’s observatory exhibit
I’d always wondered what such a massive building actually contained. Beyond the observation decks, most of the Empire State Building is made up of office spaces, housing companies from media, finance, fashion, and technology — a vertical city within the city.
Once inside the elevator, we were greeted with a short video presentation about the building’s history. Just behind me, I overheard a Romanian couple muttering in Romanian about how it “wasn’t as impressive as people made it out to be,” instantly pulling me out of my bliss.
I sighed and rolled my eyes. Thanks, countrymen.
Seconds later, we arrived.
The 86’th floor
The observation deck — located on the 86th floor — opened up to a breathtaking 360-degree view of New York City. I had never been that high in a building before. Ever. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows wrapped around the deck, revealing the city stretching endlessly in every direction. As expected, everyone had phones and cameras pressed against the glass, documenting every possible angle.
I was no different.
Golden hour fades into dusk over Lower Manhattan, the Hudson River catching the last light while One World Trade Center stands sentinel in the distance
The sunset unfolded perfectly, washing the city in gold and orange before slowly giving way to blue and then night. It didn’t feel rushed. I took my time, soaking it in, trying to capture the moment — though no photo could ever really do it justice.
Only after nightfall did I realize there was an outdoor observation terrace above.
Manhattan’s glittering grid stretches endlessly under a velvet sky
Now came the real test.
I’ve always had a somewhat irrational relationship with heights — not constant, but unpredictable. Sometimes it surfaced on mountain ridges, sometimes near the edges of tall buildings or bridges, and sometimes even in reverse, just from standing too close to a towering structure and looking up, triggering vertigo and unease.
A sea of twinkling lights blanketing New Jersey and the Hudson
To my surprise — and relief — stepping outside onto the Empire State Building’s open-air terrace triggered none of that. Whether it was the thick concrete walls, the protective fencing, or simply the fact that I was riding an emotional high, my fear stayed silent. Even the strong wind whipping across the deck didn’t bother me.
I was simply… happy.
After taking more photos than I care to admit and lingering as long as I reasonably could, it was finally time to head back to the hotel.
The crowning spire of the Empire State Building from up close
Full, exhausted, and quietly exhilarated, I made my way back — knowing I had just lived through a day I’d carry with me for a very long time.
December 24th
Just like before, I had a rough plan for the day — sketched out the night before. This time, I wanted to tackle what is arguably the second most iconic landmark of New York City: the Statue of Liberty. Somehow, my hotel’s location near Union Square felt like the perfect hub for exploration — a natural starting point no matter which direction I chose.
If on the first day I had marched north as far as my legs would take me, today I’d do the opposite. Southbound. Thanks to Manhattan’s grid layout, navigation was simple in theory — just long in practice. Distance was the real challenge. My main constraint was time: I needed to reach the ferry terminal before the last departures, which — given it was December 24th — I suspected would be earlier than usual, sometime around mid-afternoon.
Even the firehouse gets into the Christmas spirit in New York City
First things first, though: breakfast. With Google’s help, I located a nearby Whole Foods Market and picked up a few things I could eat on the move. Efficiency mattered today. I knew I was in for another long, pedestrian-heavy day.
Washington Square & The Soul of Manhattan’s Squares
My first stop was Washington Square Park.
“Let us raise a standard to which the wise and honest can repair. The event is in the hand of God.” — Washington
The park immediately struck me as different from the others I’d seen so far. Anchored by its iconic marble arch — built to commemorate George Washington’s inauguration — the square felt less like a tourist attraction and more like a lived-in cultural space. Street musicians played casually and small groups gathered on benches, giving the area a youthful, creative energy.
Chess players, dog walkers, and the unchanging skyline of Washington Square North
Manhattan’s squares — Union Square, Madison Square, Bryant Park, and Washington Square — all serve different roles, almost like distinct social ecosystems. Union Square feels transitional and energetic, a crossroads of movement and commerce. Madison Square carries a quieter elegance, framed by iconic architecture and softened by greenery. Bryant Park, tucked behind the public library, feels curated and refined — almost European in its symmetry. And Washington Square? That one felt expressive. Intellectual. Bohemian.
Ford trucks, yellow taxis, construction cranes, and a giant Gucci stare-down. Just another block in lower Manhattan
The surrounding neighborhood reinforced that feeling. The buildings here were noticeably lower, more human-scaled than Midtown’s towering walls of glass and steel. Fire escapes zigzagged down brick façades, and the streets felt calmer, more residential. This wasn’t the New York of postcards — this was the New York people actually lived in.
It felt slower. Softer. And deeply authentic.
Shifting Gears: Bowery, Chrystie Street & The Edge of the City
From Washington Square, I continued toward Bowery, then down Chrystie Street, walking alongside Sara D. Roosevelt Park. The transition was immediate — and striking.
The city’s tone shifted. The streets grew rougher around the edges. Trash was more visible. A handful of shadier-looking figures lingered around the park, some stretched out on benches or directly on the ground. Whether they were struggling with addiction, homelessness, or simply exhaustion, it was impossible to say. It was still broad daylight, so I wasn’t particularly worried — but my situational awareness definitely dialed up a notch.
Red brick, fire escapes, and winter sun on a quiet block. Pure old-school NYC charm
What fascinated me most was how abrupt the change felt. Within the span of maybe a dozen meters, the vibe flipped — from cozy and relaxed to keep your guard up. It was my first real, unfiltered glimpse into the city’s sharper contrasts.
That morning, I’d looked up which areas of Manhattan were considered rougher. The Lower East Side and parts of Chinatown had come up. They were now very much on my mental radar. I wasn’t actively seeking danger — quite the opposite — but I’d be lying if I said the proximity to these edges didn’t add a subtle dose of adrenaline to the walk.
Holiday lights twinkling over Mulberry Street. Little Italy glowing at blue hour
As I continued south, a new skyline began to emerge ahead of me — denser, more angular, unmistakably modern. Glass towers rose higher with every block. I was approaching the Financial District.
But first… I had to pass through Little Italy.
Little Italy, Chinatown & the Weight of History
Speaking of adrenaline — nothing stirred it quite like Little Italy.
I have to admit, I got a little giddy walking through that neighborhood. Italian flags hung overhead, red-white-green everywhere, restaurants packed shoulder to shoulder, menus boasting dishes that sounded like they were ripped straight out of a Scorsese script. Growing up on The Godfather and similar mafia mythology, it was impossible not to let my imagination run wild. I half-expected a black sedan to slow down beside me at any moment, some sharply dressed guy leaning out the window to size me up.
One place immediately caught my eye: Umberto’s Clam House. Famous — not because it appeared in The Godfather, as I initially thought — but because it was the site of the 1972 mob hit on “Crazy Joe” Gallo, a real-life New York mafia figure. The place has since become a pop-culture landmark, referenced endlessly in books, documentaries, and crime lore. Standing there, knowing its history, I couldn’t help but grin at how deep in my own head I’d gotten. New York has that effect — it turns memory, media, and reality into one tangled narrative.
Pagoda eaves, dragon-scale patterns, and red columns — I was not in Bella Italia anymore
From Little Italy, I continued along Centre Street and slipped into Chinatown — and the shift was immediate. Architecturally and atmospherically, it felt like crossing an invisible border. Neon signs, tighter streets, older façades. The main streets were lively enough, but the side streets told a different story.
One in particular stopped me in my tracks — a narrow, dim dead-end with boarded-up windows, graffiti-tagged walls, and scattered trash. It looked like a set piece straight out of a gritty crime film. The kind of place where, in movies, someone gets stabbed in an alley at night and the camera cuts away before help arrives. Maximum grit. I didn’t linger.
Civic Center, Power & Elegance
Continuing south, I entered the Civic Center, and just like that, the grandeur returned.
The return of the Beaux-Arts architectural style
Towering municipal buildings rose around me — heavy, imposing structures built to project authority and permanence. Among them stood the Woolworth Building, its elegant stepped tower rising confidently above the surrounding streets. Nearby, the Manhattan Municipal Building completely caught me off guard. I remember zigzagging through the streets, turning my head left — and stopping dead.
The colossal curved façade of the Municipal Building, one of the most monumental buildings up close in New York
From that angle, it looked like an immense concrete wall, almost sealing off part of the city. Only a grand central archway broke the façade, allowing traffic and people to pass beneath it. Built in the early 20th century in the Beaux-Arts architectural style, the building embodies the era’s obsession with monumentality, symmetry, and civic pride. Awe and intimidation hit me at the same time.
Instinctively, I pulled out my phone to look it up — I just had to know what I was staring at.
The Brooklyn Bridge with scores of people embarking on the long crossing
As I continued, another unmistakable structure rose in the distance: the Brooklyn Bridge, its stone towers framing the skyline beyond. And with that, I knew I was nearing one of my main destinations for the day.
The World Trade Center Memorial.
Ground Zero
As I skimmed the edges of the Financial District, sleek modern glass skyscrapers reappeared — interwoven with the older Beaux-Arts and Art Deco municipal buildings of the Civic Center. The effect was striking. Old and new mirrored each other in reflective façades, as if quietly measuring time, loss, and progress.
Oculus rising like a white dove amid the glass giants, while Civic Center’s limestone towers quietly reflect in the modern steel and blue.
And then I reached it.
One World Trade Center and the 9/11 Memorial.
I hadn’t looked up any images beforehand, and nothing prepared me for the impact. The memorial is best described with a single word: powerful. Two massive square voids sit where the Twin Towers once stood — deep, sunken pools with water cascading endlessly downward into a central abyss. Around their edges, the names of the victims are etched into metal panels.
Reflecting Absence: names etched forever around the pools. The 9/11 Memorial—quiet, powerful, eternal
I was thirteen years old when 9/11 happened.
Even as a kid growing up in Romania, far removed from the event geographically, the shock hit hard. I had grown up immersed in American movies, music, and ideals. To see such a brutal, unprovoked act of terrorism strike the heart of a country I admired felt like a punch to the chest. I remember feeling outrage, helplessness — a strange, naive desire to do something, even though I didn’t know what that could possibly be.
Glass reflecting sky and memory.
Standing there now, after everything that had brought me across continents and through years of upheaval, finding myself at Ground Zero of all places… those old emotions surged back. Stronger than I expected.
I took my time. Reading names. Standing silently. Paying respect — not just to those who lost their lives in the attack, but to those who gave theirs trying to save others in the aftermath.
One World Trade Center dominating the sky
My final thought, as I looked up at One World Trade Center, was of the American spirit rising from the ashes — rebuilding defiantly what was destroyed. Different in form, reflective of a changed world. Not all of that change was good. But the act of rebuilding itself mattered.
With a heavy heart, I turned and continued walking — toward Battery Park.
The Maze of the Financial District
I continued zigzagging through narrow streets beneath the towering giants of Lower Manhattan. In some places it genuinely felt like walking through a canyon — sheer rock walls replaced by sky-high, man-made cliffs. The buildings closed in from every side, blocking out chunks of sky, amplifying sound, scale, and movement. Some were sleek and reflective, others heavy and ornate, each fighting for attention in their own way.
One building in particular stopped me in my tracks. I instinctively raised my camera and snapped a photo. It was an enormous archway — possibly twenty floors tall — wedged tightly between two impossibly narrow skyscrapers. Elegant, imposing, unmistakably Beaux-Arts in style. At the time, I had no idea what it was called or even exactly where I’d seen it.
Kimball & Thompson’s 1898 Renaissance Revival masterpiece: massive arch, eagle overhead, granite glow. Champs Deli awnings keeping the ground floor alive. Pure downtown history
It wasn’t until at the time of writing — after an almost embarrassing hour of AI image recognition, obsessive Google Maps sleuthing, and street-by-street comparisons — that I finally identified it as 71 Broadway, also known as the Empire Building. A quiet architectural heavyweight hiding in plain sight. Just one more reminder of how many incredible, easily overlooked gems New York City tucks away in the folds of its skyline.
Cross & Cross’s 1931 gem: vertical brick piers, setbacks, and that iconic pyramidal top. A brick sentinel standing tall amid glass and steel
By mid-afternoon, I finally reached the ferry terminal.
The line was massive. I knew it was peak holiday season and that the Statue of Liberty ranked among the city’s most visited attractions — but still, the scale of the crowd was insane. I waited well over an hour, inching forward with a mix of excitement and increasing fatigue.
No bald eagles here, just the squawking New York City seagulls
Fortunately, ferries were still running by the time I reached the front — though by then, service had been limited to Liberty Island only, with no stop at Ellis Island. A small disappointment, sure, but at that point, I was just glad I could get on a boat and sit down for a few minutes.
Toward Liberty
We sailed off from the shores of Manhattan toward Liberty Island.
The entire passenger deck was a teeming swarm of people, everyone up on their feet, arms stretched high over each other’s heads, all trying to claim their own little slice of the view through a phone screen. And honestly, I couldn’t blame them. The panorama was genuinely breathtaking. On one side stood Liberty Island, with the Statue of Liberty rising calmly above the chaos, then the Jersey shoreline on one side, Brooklyn on the opposite side, and—my personal favorite—Manhattan itself, unfolding behind us in all its jagged, vertical glory.
A lucky shot amid the tourist chaos on the ferry
The only real drawback was that unless you were a skyscraper of a person yourself, it was almost impossible to get a clean shot without someone else’s head, hand, or phone photobombing the frame. Still, even half-blocked views couldn’t take away from the sheer scale of it all.
As the boat cut through the water, my mind drifted back in time. I couldn’t help thinking about the refugees who arrived here roughly a century ago, fleeing war-torn Europe in search of a better life. They, too, would have approached New York by boat, their first glimpse of the New World framed by the Statue of Liberty. What an overwhelming, chaotic, and hopeful moment that must have been—to see that towering figure as a promise of freedom, opportunity, and safety.
Landfall on Liberty Island
A few minutes later, we disembarked on Liberty Island.
Liberty Island
Once on the island, I realized I wasn’t in any hurry. While many people rushed straight toward the statue, eager to climb inside and tick another iconic landmark off their lists, I chose to slow down. Part of it was practical—the entrance fee to the statue was, as with many things in New York, not exactly cheap—but mostly I just wanted to be present.
A hard zoom in on my favorite iconic skyscraper amid the Manhattan skyline
Instead of joining the queues, I found a bench, unpacked a modest afternoon lunch, and enjoyed one of the best dining views I’ve ever had. Manhattan shimmered in the distance, and the cold winter air somehow made everything feel sharper, more vivid.
And finally a wide unobstructed view of Downtown New York City
The Statue of Liberty itself needs little introduction, yet standing there, it felt worth reflecting on its story. Designed by French sculptor Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi and engineered internally by Gustave Eiffel, the statue was a gift from France to the United States, symbolizing liberty, democracy, and the shared values between the two nations. Shipped across the Atlantic in pieces and assembled here in the late 19th century, it became one of the most enduring symbols of hope in the modern world.
Lady Liberty standing very tall
What fascinated me was knowing that Lady Liberty isn’t entirely alone—she has sisters. Smaller replicas exist in Paris and elsewhere, echoes of the same idea carried across continents. Funnily enough, I may have visited one of them in more recent times, but that’s a story for another day.
Back to Manhattan – The Battery & Financial District
After returning from Liberty Island, I wandered through The Battery. I stopped by the East Coast Memorial, dominated by its striking bronze eagle sculpture, wings outstretched in solemn remembrance. The memorial honors American servicemen who were lost at sea during World War II in the Atlantic Ocean, a quiet and dignified counterpoint to the surrounding city’s relentless motion.
East Coast Memorial eagle in Battery Park
Across the street, the towering giants of the Financial District loomed overhead, dwarfing a small, almost forgotten structure nestled among them: the St. Elizabeth Ann Seton Shrine. The contrast was startling. This modest church, rooted firmly in early American history, seemed to exist in quiet defiance of the glass and steel pressing in from all sides. Somehow, it had survived the onslaught of modern architecture, refusing to be erased, even as the skyline rose higher and higher around it.
St. Elizabeth Ann Seton Shrine at Battery Park’s edge
Leaving the park behind, I continued north along the East River, passing Cipriani South Street—a grand, old-world event venue—before turning left once more into the narrow canyon of skyscrapers.
It was here that the vertigo finally hit me.
Looking straight up at those monstrous buildings, my sense of scale completely collapsed. The ground felt unsteady, my heart rate spiked, and for a moment I genuinely thought I might lose my footing. Cold sweats, dizziness, that unmistakable rush of irrational fear—it all came flooding in. I powered through it, quickened my pace, and forced myself forward until my senses finally caught up with my surroundings.
Getting a little dizzy over here…
Strangely, even in that uneasy moment, there was still awe. The fear and the wonder existed side by side, canceling and amplifying each other at the same time. My brain didn’t quite know what to do with itself.
When I checked Google Maps shortly afterward, I realized I was either on—or very near—Wall Street.
Wall Street & the NYSE
Somehow, without planning it, I had stumbled into yet another iconic location. Wall Street. Given that I had recently begun experimenting with trading and learning about financial markets—mostly through crypto—it felt oddly fitting, almost destined, that I ended up here on foot.
The NYSE’s Corinthian columns wrapped in red bows and evergreen
The New York Stock Exchange soon came into view, and it didn’t disappoint. The neoclassical façade, with its imposing columns and symmetrical design, radiated power, tradition, and authority. It felt almost Greek in spirit—a temple dedicated not to gods, but to capital and commerce.
Giant tree sparkling with multicolored lights in the NYSE plaza
In stark contrast, standing nearby was a cheerfully decorated, multi-story Christmas tree, glowing with festive lights. The clash between old financial might and seasonal joy was both surreal and oddly charming. A few selfies later, I finally admitted defeat—my legs were absolutely cooked.
Trinity Church
Before heading underground at the Wall Street subway station, one last sight stopped me in my tracks: Trinity Church on Broadway.
Trinity Church — the lighting and tight space really wasn’t on my side when trying to capture it
Built in 1846, this Gothic Revival church stands at the intersection of Broadway and Wall Street, its spire once the tallest point in New York City. Figures such as Alexander Hamilton and other early American leaders are buried in its cemetery, anchoring it deeply in the nation’s history.
I didn’t have the strength—or honestly the willpower—to go inside. Instead, I stood outside, craning my neck, trying and failing to capture a decent photo. The scale was impossible. What struck me most was how the church seemed permanently condemned to shadow, surrounded on all sides by the immense skyscrapers of the Financial District. Yet despite that, it endured—solemn, dignified, and quietly defiant.
Francis H. Kimball’s 1905 Trinity Building with intricate terra-cotta and limestone details. Once a skyline star, now framed by modern neighbors
And with that, half of Day Two was done.
Christmas Eve — Evening
I spent the next couple of hours back at the hotel, stretched out on the bed, giving my legs and lower back a much-needed break. It was also the first real pause I’d had since arriving—time to think ahead. Until now, I’d mostly experienced New York from the outside: streets, skylines, architecture. But I knew that couldn’t be all of it.
I opened my phone and began loosely planning the coming days. Museums, definitely. A show, maybe. There was an almost overwhelming amount to choose from, so I made a few tentative decisions and left the rest deliberately open. Some things, I figured, were better experienced without too much expectation. For now, that could wait. This evening was about Christmas.
Christmas Eve Midtown hustle
Around 5 p.m., I finally peeled myself off the bed and headed back out. It was Christmas Eve, after all—and if there was ever a place to experience it properly, this was it.
Midtown on Christmas Eve
I took the subway straight to Midtown. Packed didn’t begin to cover it. The trains were shoulder-to-shoulder, rush-hour levels of crowded, and when I surfaced back onto the streets, it somehow got worse.
Midtown was absolutely jammed. Sidewalks overflowing. People spilling into the streets just to move forward. And these weren’t narrow sidewalks either—this was prime Manhattan real estate. The sheer density of people was mind-blowing. Everyone seemed to be moving in the same direction, pulled by some invisible gravity. I honestly pitied anyone who had to drive through that chaos.
My destination was obvious: Rockefeller Center.
Back in front of the Rockefeller Center
Judging by the tidal wave of humanity flowing that way, everyone else had the same idea. When I finally reached the plaza, it felt like a festival crowd. Shoulder to shoulder, phones in the air, people cheering and laughing. And then I saw it.
The Rockefeller Christmas tree rising from an ocean of people
he Christmas tree was enormous—easily the biggest I’d ever seen. That year’s tree stood about 77 feet tall, weighing roughly 14 tons, and it absolutely dominated the space. Below it, the famous Rockefeller skating rink was alive with motion: a swirling mass of skaters looping endlessly beneath the lights. It was mesmerizing. For a moment, I even considered joining them… and then immediately remembered I’d never ice-skated in my life. Probably not the place to start.
St. Patrick’s Cathedral
From Rockefeller Plaza, I crossed over to St. Patrick’s Cathedral. The Christmas Eve service was already underway. The massive glass doors were closed, and every bench inside was filled. Whether it was crowd control or some kind of ticketed system for the holiday mass, I couldn’t say—but it made sense. This was the cathedral, on the night.
A glimpse of Christmas Service, straight from St. Patrick’s Cathedral
I stood outside for a while, watching through the glass as the service unfolded. There was something strangely powerful about it—being just outside, yet still part of it. TV news vans were parked nearby, quietly broadcasting the event to millions. Christmas Eve at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, live from New York City. It felt… big. Historic. Almost unreal.
NBC News van ready to beam the holiday spirits worldwide
Eventually, my back protested. Standing still after such a long day just wasn’t happening. I either had to move or sit—and movement won.
So I left the cathedral and the crowds behind and made my way toward Central Park.
Central Park — Night
Don’t worry—I wasn’t about to attempt another two-hour trek across the park. I just wanted something quieter. A short loop along the southern edge.
A calm and quiet Christmas evening in Central Park
Inside the park, the atmosphere shifted instantly. The noise dropped. The crowds thinned. Billionaires’ Row glittered along the skyline, towering above the dark tree line. Wollman Rink was still buzzing in the distance, but the paths themselves were dimly lit and mostly empty.
As I wandered westward, I passed beneath a small bridge underpass. And that’s when New York delivered one of those… moments.
A lively, but much smaller crowd in Wollman Rink
From the opposite side, a man approached, pushing a cart piled high with belongings. Homeless, by the look of it. He was muttering as he walked straight toward me.
“Mah phone, man… I can’t fin’ mah phone… you seen mah phone?”
It was nearly pitch dark. No one else around. He was getting uncomfortably close. I kept my distance, eyes locked on his hands, and replied calmly—in what I felt was a surprisingly decent New York accent:
“I ain’t got yo phone, man.”
And I kept walking. I won’t lie—my anxiety shot up. I half-expected something to come out of his pockets. But nothing did. A few minutes later, I emerged near Columbus Circle… and straight into a heavy NYPD presence. The relief was immediate.
Christmas Eve: full spectrum edition.
Times Square, Dinner, and Reflection
Soon enough, I found myself back in Times Square—once again swallowed by an ocean of people. Street musicians belted out Christmas songs and New York classics. Pedicabs fought a losing battle against pedestrian tides. Massive LED screens flickered overhead, bathing everything in artificial daylight.
Welcome to advertisement central, aka Times Square
The center of capitalism, indeed.
By now it was late, and my stomach had started staging a protest. Finding a place to eat on Christmas Eve—without reservations, without breaking the bank—was not going to be easy. But this was one night I wanted to sit down somewhere nice. Just once.
After some wandering, I spotted an Italian restaurant that didn’t look completely full: Naples 45, tucked into the MetLife Building. They had space. They also had prices. Serious ones.
So I compromised. Pizza and a glass of wine—the least expensive option on the menu.
Christmas dinner ova heeya, let’s go!
And honestly? It was perfect.
It turned out to be one of the best Christmases I’d had in a long time. I know that sounds strange—to be alone, in a foreign city, foreign land—but for me, the excitement of travel, discovery, and atmosphere more than made up for it. I didn’t mind being solo at all. If anything, it let me sink fully into the experience.
I felt tired, but happy and grateful for the past days. I had fulfilled yet another big travel dream of mine
Sure, a like-minded partner would’ve been nice. It always is. But I wasn’t missing anything either. This felt complete.
Grand Central & A Final Goodbye to the Night
After dinner, it was time to slowly make my way back to the hotel. Somewhere along the way—whether by intention or distraction—I wandered into Grand Central Terminal.
Grand Central Station acting like the heartbeat of Manhattan
Another architectural masterpiece. Vast, elegant, almost hidden beneath the city. The arched windows, the celestial ceiling, the polished stone—it was all immaculate. The sheer level of civil engineering and design in New York was staggering.
Checking my map one last time, I realized I was close to one more icon.
So I surfaced once more—just in time to see the Chrysler Building, its stainless-steel crown glowing in the night like a Christmas ornament.
Expecting the Hobgoblin to fly out of it any second now
I stopped. Smiled. Took a deep breath. What a way to spend Christmas, I thought, as I finally turned back toward the hotel.
Christmas Eve was over—but more surprises awaited. That, however, is a story for another day.
