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Nate, the arguably better half of our relationship and I headed to NYC for our 12 year anniversary this past weekend.
Of course, this was a spur(ish) of the moment thing, the intention being to check something off of our adult bucket lists before we’re too senile to remember enjoying it. Age has very little to do with the senility equation; trust me, I’m halfway to the looney bin most days already. For the record, our trip began with some educational reading (mine) and the Southwest Drink Coupon Breakfast of Champions:
Now, concerning the Herculean tasks; our first would be managing to escape Dallas, Love Field like a low rent Snake Plissken minus the weapons and the nifty eye patch Why? Because what was originally intended to be a brief staying on the plane kind of layover became one of those treasured “Hey everybody, y’all are getting kicked off the plane. Go wait for a few hours at some other gate with a finger up your nose,” moments. You know what I’m referring to, that classic move, the old Switcharoo. Admittedly, it might not have been Southwest Airlines, but if you’ve flown more than twice in your adult life, I can almost guarantee some airline out there has FUBARed your plans. Whether it was in some small way or a large one, it happens, and we all know it does.
Regardless of the layover—because irregardless is not a word, just accept it and move on—we safely made it to LaGuardia a bit before midnight and joined the seemingly interminable queue for cabs. I say seemingly interminable because, despite the length of the line resembling Herculean Task #2, it was relatively swift and painless. Other than the guy who was clearly in line behind us, jumping in front of me to grab our cab door handle. I found it charming, the way he used the voice kindergarten teachers reserve for special needs students to tell me, “This one is mine.” I assumed he was a native New Yorker, chalked it up to a standard tourist experience, and vowed to bear no lasting grudge against the a-hole. Let’s just call him Johnny The Jerk going forward because I’m all about the endearing nicknames.
At any rate, Nate and I arrived at our hotel in Midtown Manhattan on a Thursday somewhere close to midnight. The location put us in proximity to the Cock & Bull, which would quickly become my favorite pub and eatery.
*Whether you are a visitor or a resident, this place is a great local pub, not some flashy tourist trap. They have Old Speckled Hen on tap, the food is great, and the staff makes you feel right at home.
After check-in, the two of us headed to our room and chatted briefly about what to do after we picked up our New York City Passes and Hop On Hop Off Bus/Ferry Tickets the next morning. Then we dragged our exhausted bodies to bed.
*For the record and the cynics (like myself so, hey, I get it), no. I was not asked to promote Cock & Bull, New York Pass, or any other entity in my blog. Nor am I getting paid in any way, shape, or form for doing so. If I were, well, that would be stellar, and I’d admit to it openly like the proud little capitalist piggy that I am. If I like something, I intend to share it with you. In the words of the singer-songwriter Michael Bolton, “Baby, that’s what love is all about.” End of story.