8 Ways to Have an Original NYC Holiday Experience

You decided to visit New York City for the holiday season!

Wow!

We’re really glad you’re here...as long as you don’t stop in the middle of the sidewalk to check Google maps for the nearest Sbarro or constantly clutch your purse for fear of getting mugged like it’s still 1986.  

New York is a fucking blast --- that’s why you came here for vacation instead of hitting up a tropical locale, which would’ve been considerably warmer but cost about the same. New York around the holidays is even more of a fucking blast, because everything is decorated and pretty and incredibly over-the-top.

If you’re visiting NYC around the holidays, you’re gonna have a good time. You’ll have an even better time if you follow these eight suggestions, which will ensure you don’t have the same New York holiday adventure as the 25, 047 other people who took a kissing pic in front of the #rockefellertree.

1. Don’t eat at Rolf’s

You’re here for one weekend and you want to waste 2 ½ hours of your day waiting to eat decent-at-best German Beef Stew with Spätzle?

Cool, never mind, carry on.

Rolf’s is famous for its Christmas decorations of epileptic proportions. And, to be fair, it’s pretty phenomenal to witness. But in the interest of doing cool things that actually matter, my advice is this: Walk in, look up, take a photo, add it to your Insta story, and bounce.

Or literally just look at pics online, your life will not be impacted significantly either way.

2. Keep your mouth shut

Surprise! New York is cold in December.

Surprise! You’re here at the literal busiest time of the year.

Surprise! We walk. A lot.

Let those three revelations wash over you like a $15 Vodka Cranberry and accept them as readily as you do a homeless man’s fake sob story on the 2 train.

If you’re complaining about how freezing you are while you shuffle through the line to look at Macy’s window display, go back to South Carolina. Seriously. You currently have free internet, so the ability to check the weather and read tourist guides on Thrillist was afforded to you long before you jumped off the plane at JFK and spoke too loudly and too slowly to the cabbie who was born and raised in Queens.

3. Skip ice skating at Rockefeller Center

If this is on your girlfriend’s bucket list then I literally cannot save you. However, should the opportunity to negotiate plans arise, mention that between peak-season admission and skate rentals, you’re looking at a $45-per-person special memory that you’ll be sharing with 150 other people.

The real kicker is that you can do the same activity cheaper at Wollman Rink in Central Park or at the Winter Village at Bryant Park. Or you can just watch people [try to] ice skate for free, because let’s be honest: neither of you actually know what the fuck you’re doing out there anyway.

4. Realize that Macy’s Santa is a glorified mall Santa  

I have lovingly forced my boyfriend to see the Macy’s Santa with me for four straight years, because I’m obnoxious as fuck but incredibly cute. So I realize the hypocrisy that comes with this statement.

Admission aside, making your kids come all the way to New York to see Santa Claus at Macy’s is child abuse, straight up. That line is a three-hour-long human centipede of lost patience and abandoned family values. Santa is a stud, but no more so than the one at your local shopping center in Missouri.

5. Avoid Times Square

I recommend this at any and every time of year, but it’s especially true at Christmas.

No one that lives in New York likes Times Square.

Your friend that you’re visiting does not want to take you there.

The waitress at Olive Garden wishes you would have gone to a real Italian restaurant in Little Italy.

The other tourists who don’t know how to walk at a proper pace are annoyed that you’re bumping into them.

Dora the Explorer is going to take off her mascot head right in front of your 4-year-old niece, and she’s not going to give one quarter of a shit what you have to say about it.

In short, it sucks. Go anywhere else. Consider this tip my holiday gift to you.  

5. Keep your holiday market visits to one

Unlike American citizens, all holiday markets are, in fact, equal.

You will find the same knit scarves and Amish playthings at every market from Columbus Circle to Union Square to Bryant Park. If your boyfriend says he needs to taste the “unique fare” at each of the markets to really get in the holiday spirit, you need to return that J. Crew sweater and gift him a Planet Fitness membership instead.

If you want to visit cool shops with original artisans, take the L to Bedford Ave in Brooklyn and follow the nearest bearded modern pilgrim and/or hipster into any dimly-lit store.

6. Forget the frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity 3

 

Because it can’t be said enough: it’s cold. Why in God’s name do you want frozen hot chocolate?

Why are you waiting four hours for it?

Did you know you can buy a kit on Amazon to make it at home?

Did you know there are three Starbucks in a three block radius of Serendipity 3 where you can get a hot Salted Caramel Hot Chocolate?

Did you know Starbucks exists in every state?

Did you wait in line anyway and feel a judgement-filled eyebrow raise in your midst?

That was me.

7. Freeze your ass off for free, not at minus5 Ice Bar

Any bar that can also be visited in Las Vegas and Orlando has no place on your must-visit list.

You want me to don a rented parka and gloves while I drink out of ice glasses and sit on ice chairs and observe an LED light show set to Martin Garrix? And I’m not allowed to take photos on my own camera because you want me to look psyched for professional pics that I also have to buy because this experience wasn’t enough of a soul sucker? No thank you, please.

8. Be unique

Try to have an experience that is unique to you and your travel buddies.

The reason you can google “NYC holiday must-dos” and get 21,500,000 results that are all some version of, “IT’S NOT CHRISTMAS IF YA DON’T SEE THE ROCKETTES!” is because everyone who visits is too scared of figuring out the subway and getting yelled at by a local to actually branch out and do something cool.

This place is not your comfort zone.

It’s not anyone’s comfort zone.

It’s a clusterfuck of lights and cheap pizza and jaywalking. But if you choose the tiny Moroccan restaurant for Christmas dinner or ride the 6 up to East Harlem for no other reason than it’s not Midtown, you’ll have cooler stories than your neighbor who insisted you stop in at a little shop called Urban Outfitters because they’ve got “such rare vintage clothing.”

Barbie Wasn't Broken

Feminism has taken on a whole new form over the past year or so. Like, it's been a thing for about 50 years, but recently it seems to have blown UP. I’m wholly grateful for the women who are spearheading the movement to get me paid as much (or more) than my male counterparts, because I have expensive taste and plan to buy what I want by my own damn self.

 

Political affiliations aside, I think it’s pretty sweet that the likes of Carly Fiorina and Hilary Clinton are legitimately considered for presidential candidacy. It’s neat that we could potentially have a First Husband, or First Boyfriend, or First Guy I’m Talking To. It’d also be cool if Madame President had a First Lady.

In something that probably should’ve been bigger news, the Buffalo Bills recently hired Kathryn Smith to fire up the squad as the league's first full-time female assistant coach, and they’re not even making her wear a crop top and shake poms to do it. This is progress.

 

                It’s important to teach young girls that they can do and be whatever they want to be, because bitches get stuff done and the way our world is currently operating, they’re going to have a lot to work on in the coming years. I think it’s just as important to build up your fellow woman as it is to side step the 32-year-old Hot Mess doing lines off a toilet paper dispenser in a bar bathroom—I’m proud of her for doing her thang, but if she’s unable to function at her well-paying job in fashion, I will gladly nail the interview that names me as her replacement. I’ll applaud a ditz as quickly as I will a genius, as long as they’re doing something noteworthy. I’ll throw a “You go girl” towards just about anyone deserving, whether she has a rock solid bod or a pair of well-rounded hips. I’ll look at what she’s doing, not what she’s wearing. I never realized that this wasn’t the norm.

 

 

                As such, this whole Barbie Makeover is kinda funny to me. Not funny like a clown, it doesn’t amuse me, but funny like “Ugh, my future kids are going to have some pretty pathetic play dates.” Listen, I am by no means some unicorn who grew up carrying glittery saddlebags of confidence: I was short; had hairy arms that earned me the nickname Werewolf from ages 5-12; had a literal snaggle tooth; displayed intricately-wired braces for 3 ½ years; and was overly rambunctious in social situations. I wished I was pretty and had straight teeth and that boys liked me, but that’s because other girls were pretty and had straight teeth and boyfriends. I wanted to be like them. You know who I had the wherewithal not to worship? A goddamn toy.   

                I had an entire storage tub dedicated to Barbie and her gang of uniquely-named friends, plus two Kens. My favorite was one who wore a hot pink mini skirt and white t-shirt with pink hearts, her voluminous hair perfectly coifed and her lips glossed the perfect bright rose. She was gorgeous, even when she had been picked as the favorite so often that her hair was unbrushable and the plastic on her toes started to peel (she never wore shoes—such a Bohemian spirit).

Thissss bitch

She didn’t have a specific name, because none of them did, because they were all Barbie, because Barbie is it all and does it all. When she wasn’t helping my brother’s Spiderman action figure save a Beanie Baby from a case of animal abuse, she was base jumping over the stair railing with a plastic bag as a parachute. One of the Kens lost his leg in a horrific accident that I can’t even speak about to this day because I just don’t remember what happened, and this Barbie stuck by his side while maintaining her adrenaline-fueled schedule because while she had compassion, she found it important to pursue her own interests. 

Not once did I hold this Barbie in my hands and whine, “Why don’t I have a 16-inch waist?” She was a doll. This was understood from the get-go.

Her legs were freakishly long and her neck could not adequately support her huge head were she a living, breathing human. She was not. She was a doll.

She didn’t have lady parts, and hardly ever wore underwear. She didn’t need to. She was a doll (maybe a bit on the slutty side, but still).

 

I invited all of my friends to come over to my house and play Barbies, and they reciprocated, and we had a blast. I do not recall one conversation in which a group of three 9-year-olds sat around silently admiring their toys and casually saying, “Damn, this is the goal, amiright?” Maybe I had really cool friends, or maybe my parents did a fantastic job of allowing me to build my self-worth through more beneficial avenues like sports and piano lessons than through the unnecessary veneration a 6-inch tall plaything, but whatever the case may have been, I always knew that Barbie was a doll. She could be impossibly proportioned. It was allowed. I wasn’t going to be called pretty until I was 19 no matter what the fuck that girl looked like, she might as well be able to celebrate it until I could, too.

Can't compete with this

 

Now, I’m not saying that Mattel is wrong for this. In fact, it’s pretty cool that they took the time to acknowledge some of society’s sensitivities to beauty standards and wanted to accommodate the delicate feelings of children – namely little girls – in order to make them feel good about themselves. That is an incredible step to take for their industry. However, toys are toys, and if you can’t communicate to a girl that Barbie and her outlandish boob-to-butt ratio isn’t a deal-breaker in the grand scheme of life, maybe take the doll away entirely and have an actual conversation about why she, as a person, is important.

Barbie went to the moon four years before Neil Armstrong, became a surgeon, was a Marine Corp Sergeant, and ran for President in three separate decades. She can be Argentinian, Nigerian, Navajo, Cambodian, Moroccan, Polish, and Greek. She’s owned upwards of five Dream Houses and even an Austin Healey. Meanwhile, I’m a white marketing professional who takes the subway or walks everywhere. I’m also happy. So strange how I’m able to achieve that, right?

 

We like women that are strong-willed, unique in their initiatives, articulate, and relatable. We seek inspiration from these women, but don’t want their goals and/or achievements to be so out of our personal reach that we don’t feel equipped enough to participate. We want to put them on a pedestal because gaining visibility for themselves and their goals is really bringing light to the issues that face us all, and we can enthusiastically shout phrases of support like, “YAASSSS QUEEN.” In my eyes, that has always been Barbie. She helped me develop an ability to tell stories, provided a way to bond with friends, and gave me something fun to do before I went to soccer practice. She could have 29-inch hips and I could simply be a kid with a toy. Pretty solid trade-off, if you ask me. 

New Yorker? Not Yet

I have lived in New York City for about a month and a half now.

The hierarchical years of service metric claims that I still have about seven years and 10.5 months until I can claim official "New Yorker" status, but I'm a fast learner, and until I've earned my stripes I'm at least taking note of what it will really take to be one of those geniuses who knows how to navigate the subway without using a map.

Here's how I know I've got a little ways to go:

I smile at passers-by - "Oh how courteous of you, Skylar." Wrong. This is not okay. People are uncomfortable when you look at them at all. Years of living in Kentucky (where the Kroger greeter met you with a, "Well hi there my darlin', how yew?") and Northern Virginia/DC (where passing a random yogger would at least get you a breathless "hey" plus head nod) completely ruined me for New York social interaction. The only person who wants to tell you how their day is going is the homeless man missing toenails on the 3 a.m. E Train and my friendliness stops there.

I buy too many groceries - In a technical sense, this is not true. Just as I've always done, I shop for enough food to get me through the week, although the added bonus of not having my car here means I buy enough to fit into two bags that I then get to carry a mile home. Apparently, I'm supposed to completely forgo the grocery list and eat all of my meals via Seamless. Why this is such a difficult transition for me to make I have no idea, because if living the American dream isn't getting a meatball parmigiana sandwich delivered at 1 p.m. and then again at 1 a.m. I don't know what is.

I wear color - My closet is color coordinated in rainbow order and is a collection of predominantly red, blue, and pink. I own three black tops and a black cardigan. That's all. New Yorkers don't wear color, primarily because of occurrences like the toenail-less gentleman above being a run-of-the-mill thing. If I'm wearing a bright yellow sweater and I sit down in the seat that he occupied not five minutes before, who really thinks that the layer of sidewalk on his jacket won't make it onto my clothes? Never mind a little dirt on my back, I might also be pregnant. All black errthang is the way to go.

I say "very" - It's "mad," e.g. "That bagel place is mad busy on Saturday" and "Girl your hair is mad long, whatchu use, Argan oil?" (unfortunately the latter has been taken from recent events and was said by a straight dude.) I sound like an idiot when I say anything even remotely slang-y, which is why, wish as I might, I could never move to Boston because I would be the weirdo painfully trying to work "wicked" into conversation. Same applies here.

I never see anyone I know - In NoVA, I couldn't go to a Target 45 miles away from my house without seeing an old soccer coach or the girl from my high school photography class who overplucked her eyebrows (and was still suffering the consequences). In a population of just over 2.5 million people, that's not ridiculous, but it's also kind of ridiculous. I live eight miles away from Midtown in a population of nearly 8.5 million people and I never recognize a soul. I do have friends in the city, but I'm pretty sure most of them are avoiding me as a polite way of saying, "I never actually liked you, bitch" which I totally respect and understand. As far as new friends go, the "psychic" down the street who always sees something in my aura when I walk by and I are like this.

 

I don't care about baseball - Mets, Yankees, it really doesn't matter to me. There were grown men crying over Jeter's retirement and I didn't even know it was his last game until the day of. I've been told I need to pick a team and devote my life to it, but at a recent trip to Citi Field I didn't even realize the game was over until it was over (and the Mets lost, if anyone wanted the biggest shock of their life). I am a Giants fan through and through, and while I own a Knicks jersey, I would scrounge for Nets tickets in a heartbeat if they led to a potential sighting of Queen Bey. Unfortunately I just don't see myself ever genuinely caring enough about the Mets/Yankees rivalry. Not even sorry.

 

 

 

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