Latest superawesomefuntime vacation was NYC last weekend to celebrate “my roommate’s birthday.” (I tried saying more accurate things like “my ex-roommate’s birthday” and “this girl I used to live with, it’s her birthday” and “I went to college in this magical place called St. Bonaventure and there I met and lived with and made spaghetti for this girl and it’s now her birthday,” but they all sucked. I don’t care if it’s been a year and I should just move on with my life, I’m going to refer to her as my roommate, damnit.)

Ahem. So tiny little college reunion in the Big Grapple¹ for Tara’s birthday. It was really fun and, as almost every trip is when you have zero vacation time, way too short. Some high and low points:

Low Point. Trying to catch a cab in rush hour on Park Ave.

Two thumbs way down. Especially when you have a gabillion bags.

High Point. Finding a pub and spending the entire day in it.

There’s absolutely nothing better for a hangover than spending an afternoon in a bar sucking down bloody marys (maries? both look wrong) and shoving fried food in your face like you’ve never seen partially hydrogenated vegetable oil before.

Low Point. Running out of money within 24 hours.

I really, really, really don’t suggest this at all.

High Point. Not doing any obligatory sight-seeing.

I never realized how much time sight-seeing sucks out of a weekend trip until I didn’t do it. It’s much more fun to run around pretending you’re as super successful and awesome as your East Side of Manhattan-dwelling host and not really impressed by anything you see. (Another really tall building? Ho hum. See those every day. Oh, look, another movie trailer. I bet there are celebrities just crawling all over the inside of that thing. Whatevs.)

Low Point. Eating an entire container of hummus in one 15-minute sitting.

This is a low point I hit pretty much once a month, but what makes it unique to New York is the fact that I did it unapologetically and in front of complete strangers.

High Point. Rubbing elbows with the young and pretty.

Went to the Public House for the big party, where the decor was chic, the liquor was expensive, and there were so many douchebags pumping their fists on the dancefloor I couldn’t even count them all. Something about being young, hot, and rich apparently renders many men incapable of behaving themselves. But aside from having a few two many coifs tossled and asses shaken in my direction, it was a blast. In fact, I think I had a little too much fun. Which brings me to…

Low Point. Getting from Manhattan to Buffalo on two hours of sleep with one doozy of a hangover.

OK. So first of all, it’s 8 a.m. I don’t even know what time we went to bed, but I can assure you that it was not early and we were not sober. We have to pack, because (of course) we didn’t do that ahead of time like smart girls. We walk 10 blocks in (of course) the dullest, coldest, rainiest weather you could ask for to the subway, where I promptly start to feel nauseous. Super.

The ride is extra long because (of course) it’s Sunday and there are no express trains. For 50 minutes I try to find things to stare at inside the subway car because looking out the window and closing my eyes are the equivilent to riding the teacups at the fair. Problem is the inside of the car is plastered with advertisements of (of course) beer. Beer beer and more beer and only beer. Do we get off at the right stop, you say? Of course we don’t, and, of course, we have to back-track.

Upon arriving at JFK, none of our Metrocards are working (of course) and we all have to spend a few minutes fighting to the death with the machines. The airtrain is overcrowded (of course) and we have to stand the entire way to our terminal, which is (of course) the furthest away. At the terminal, I bee-line for Dunkin Donuts, where I purchase and stubbornly consume the coldest, stalest, hardest, most expensive bagel I have ever seen.

The plane ride is fine until it becomes turbulent and I have to spend the landing hunched over in my seat saying hail marys (maries?) to keep from regurgitating all the cashews I just devoured. In Buffalo, it seems to take 6 months for us to get our checked bags, which (of course) are covered in some kind of mystery water. We step onto the shuttle bus, which is (of course) driven by the oldest man in Western New York. We stop and start and screech to a halt and stop and start and do u-turns and brake fast and speed up and at one point I almost get up to ask him if he’s kidding. Finally, we get to the car, which is (of course) the last on the list and the furthest away.

Lesson learned: Don’t drink and travel.

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1. Grāpple (pronounced /ˈgreɪpəl/) is the registered brand name for a commercially marketed apple that is supposed to taste like a grape. The product is created by soaking a Fuji apple in artificial grape flavoring (according to the ingredients listed on the label). (Source: Wikipedia.org) If you’ve ever had a grapple, your experience is probably similar to mine: “Oh! I love grapes! And I love apples! This is new and innovative and exciting and come to think of it this may be the thing I’ve been waiting for all my life.” And then you bite into it, and you realize that considering all the pandering the produce lady had to do to get you to try this fruit, and considering all the excitement that built up to this once-in-a-lifetime moment, and considering all the things you thought it would be, the thing really isn’t all that great. It’s pretty cool, and if you hadn’t been hearing ”Did you try the grapple? They’re giving away free grapples in produce today. Cool fruit. Try the grapple!” buzzing all over the supermarket, you might have liked it more. But all in all? Kinda… eh. Anyway, this is kind of how I feel about New York. If people hadn’t been treating it all my life as if it was some kind of Mecca, I probably wouldn’t have been as disappointed when I got there for the first time and realized it’s kind of dirty and smelly and self-absorbed and almost completely devoid of plant life. There are a lot of people who would gladly punch me in the gut for saying that, but nonetheless.