Sabbatikos

It was supposed to rain on Sunday, so we reshuffled our plans and claimed the first half of Saturday for Central Park. The air was brisk and cold, but the low autumn sun gave just enough warmth to make it inviting. Our day began at the Central Park Zoo, where Clara had a couple of friends meet us for a relaxed morning wander. Because the zoo is AZA accredited, the gold standard in zoological certification, Tawny was especially interested in experiencing it through the lens of her work at Seattle’s Woodland Park Zoo, which holds the same distinction. I had walked past the Central Park Zoo multiple times over the years but had never gone inside. All of us were curious, especially since our collective understanding of the place had been shaped almost entirely by the animated classic Madagascar.

The zoo turned out to be surprisingly delightful. Just steps from the city’s relentless energy, it felt calm, intimate, and unexpectedly engaging. Any assumptions we had, shaped by animated characters, quickly disappeared. Instead, we found playful sea lions frolicking through the water, penguins socially waddling, bears soaking up the sun, snow monkeys waiting patiently for winter, and birds preening and showing off their elaborate feathered finery. It was small, focused, and charming, making it an easy and unforced way to meet Clara’s friends Cleo and Dylan and give them time to catch up.

When we exited the zoo, no one suggested where to go next. We simply started walking. We drifted through the park past artist stands, kicking the last leaves of autumn along the paths. Eventually, we found ourselves near the Dakota, where John Lennon once lived and was tragically killed. Across the street, in the park opposite the Dakota, people gathered quietly in Strawberry Fields for a moment of remembrance.

Cravings for New York style pizza eventually made the next decision for us. Cleo knew a nearby place for a respectable pizza, and almost on cue, Patsy’s appeared just a block or two from the park. Great pizza, great conversation, and the kind of day that satisfyingly fills your soul as well as your belly. After lunch, we said goodbye to Cleo and Dylan and headed back to the hotel to change our clothes. Our evening plans were ambitious.

As dusk settled in, we arrived at Rockefeller Center, the undeniable epicenter of holiday spectacle, rivaled only by the North Pole itself. It was packed beyond reason. We waddled through the crowd like penguins, caught in a murmuration of people flowing through the streets, all angling for views of the overwhelming holiday displays. The light show at Saks Fifth Avenue flickered and pulsed in sync like an expensive holiday disco, while Cartier’s building was literally wrapped in its signature red bow, a gift so perfectly presented we did not want to open the box by stepping inside. Below us, the ice rink was circled endlessly, with skilled skaters showing off while beginners wobbled bravely, all of it periodically erased by the Zamboni smoothing the ice to reset the scene.

The crowds became crushing. It was all starting to feel like too much, so we crossed the street and stepped into St. Patrick’s Cathedral just as a mass was underway. The chaos fell away instantly. Candles flickered. Stone walls kept out the noise of the city. A voice echoed through the space, delivering hymns to the seated and devoted. At the rear of the cathedral, the newly painted mural revealed itself slowly, color blooming upward toward the ceiling. Adam Cvijanovic’s What’s So Funny About Peace, Love, and Understanding stretches across twelve towering panels, depicting the journey of immigrants while questioning the role of the Church amid the modern racism and xenophobia of the current administration. Facing the altar at the back of the cathedral, the mural beatifies its subjects and stands as a powerful reminder that we are a nation of immigrants.

That calm and quiet felt like the eye of a hurricane. When we stepped back outside, we were swept back into the people storm, with Rockefeller Center still buzzing all around us. We passed Radio City Music Hall in her neon glow, patiently holding her promise for later that night. But first, we needed to escape the crowds. Surely there had to be a bar somewhere nearby.

We pulled out our phones, identified a destination, and arrived to disappointment. They were too busy to seat us. After that failed attempt, Clara pointed to a door next door. As if on cue, it opened while we stood there, and we stepped inside. Two women at a small reception desk asked if we had a reservation. We did not. We just wanted a quick drink. The room was confusing, with no visible bar, just a quiet foyer. But we were dressed well, ready for dinner and the Rockettes afterward, and maybe that helped. One of them picked up the phone, asked if three spots at the bar could be made available, and just like that, we were in. But where were we?

The hostess gave a subtle gesture that said follow me. Another door opened, followed by a descent down a few flights of stairs, and suddenly we found ourselves in Madame George. The tin ceiling was as low as the lighting, creating an intimate atmosphere. The chairs were overstuffed, and the space was carved into cozy nooks where couples and friends leaned into conversations and their cocktails. It felt like we had been let in on a secret. We perched ourselves on the last three barstools and studied the artfully designed menu. Clara ordered one of Madame’s Punches. I ordered the 32 Cans. It arrived confident, a Warhol painting reimagined as a cocktail, complete with a Campbell’s soup can sidecar. It tasted savory, built on mushroom gin with hints of cumin and cardamom, and while it was served cold, it somehow warmed and soothed you like soup does.

We had a few rounds at Madame George, but had to get to our dinner reservation and afterwards the evening’s main event.

After a decent but forgettable Spanish tapas dinner, we walked back to Radio City Music Hall for the one hundred year anniversary of the Rockettes Christmas Spectacular and the 10pm show. It was past our bedtime, but as we were still on west coast time we had some energy left in us. We were excited to see the Rockettes, but even more excited to finally see the inside of Radio City itself. At one point, the nearly six thousand seat theater was the largest in the world. Still, I wondered how synchronized leg kicking might hold my attention for ninety minutes.

It took about thirty seconds to answer that question.

The Rockettes Christmas Spectacular is many things. It is a holiday tradition built on synchronized precision. It is a cultural artifact and a nod to an optimistic version of America. And it is, quite simply, spectacular.

We settled into what we thought were nosebleed seats in row KK, assuming that meant thirty seven rows back. It turns out the numbering starts at BB, which put us in the tenth row with an incredible view of the massive stage. When the Rockettes took the stage, they immediately defied the laws of physics. High kick lines rose and fell in perfect unison, a metronome of muscle memory. Sets and costumes changed with lightning speed. Hydraulic stages lifted and lowered dancers and the orchestra. High-resolution visual projections spilled across the entire auditorium. I was completely blown away, especially by the dancing tour bus ride through New York. By the end, even the most cynical part of me surrendered. I’m officially a Rockettes fan.

The next morning, the rain arrived right on schedule. We headed to the Museum of Modern Art to meet Linda, the best boss I have ever had, and her husband Kevin. She had seen our social media posts and texted to see if we were still in New York, as she happened to be visiting too. We turned out to be close enough to make it work, and with the rain falling steadily, we decided to catch up by wandering the museum together.

Inside, the city faded away as our footsteps echoed softly through the galleries. Pollocks. Jasper Johns. Monets. Picassos. And then there it was. Andy Warhol’s 32 Cans. Thirty two soup cans lined up like a chorus line of Rockettes. Repetition as commentary. Repetition as art.

I thought about the secret drinking hole from the night before. The Rockettes’ high-kick lines. The pizza slices. The zoo. The Thanksgiving Day Parade. That bagel in Greenwich Village. The rotating sunset from The View atop the Mariott Marquis.

This had been a magical trip to New York filled with bucket list moments. Unplanned and spontaneous activities. Serendipitous encounters. Old friends. New memories. New York, I love you.