Candid Manhattan

Loud. Small. Crowded. Sweaty. I stopped in a tiny, congested bar a few blocks outside of Greenwich Village in Manhattan on a hot Saturday in August at 3 o’clock in the morning. For reasons not to do with nurture but more nature, I was making my way through hoards of people poorly attempting to yell over the loud music to get to the ladies room. If you’ve ever been to New York, you know the horror of being in a less upscale end of the city, and realizing there isn’t a Starbucks for miles if you need to “go.” Thus, I made a quick detour. While waiting in line looking around at this shack I’d found myself in, I laughed at the thought “am I actually here right now?”
It started that night in Brooklyn. I was living there for the summer on an internship, and after a particularly long week of work, a group of us interns decided to go out to The Village. We ended up aimlessly wandering through the city and stopped in the first place that looked intriguing. With lots of looking and even more luck, we found ourselves in Buvette. A sort of hybrid of authentic French and Italian cuisine, Buvette is a restaurant renown for their wine, or as the French would say, “vin.” So imagine France and Italy meeting for a date, laughing over prosciutto with rich reds and light whites in their hands, out on the balcony on a fashionably warm NYC summer night. Add in the world-class atmosphere, you’ve got Buvette.
We were seated at a large table beside a very enthusiastic group from Quebec City. They started talking to us about Manhattan, and convinced us to explore a part of the borough to seek out the Highline. The Highline is a bit of a safe haven within the city. It’s an abandoned subway train track that’s been revamped into an elevated boardwalk of gardens, restaurants, and general little hangout spots. After conversing with a couple buskers playing some fantastic folk, we decided to head back to Brooklyn.
After nature had finished with me, I finally budged my way out of the bar alongside an appropriate mix of terror and confusion to return to the group. Outside, our sandalled feet had remnants of Manhattan’s layer of filth, and we were ready to call it a night.
We flagged a yellow taxi down to take us back to Brooklyn. As we sat in the car, our driver Ishmael allowed us to stay silent. Our voices and eyes were captured by the city as we crossed the Manhattan Bridge.
In the silence, my mind was consumed with one thought; I want to end up here every night.