Thirty, you are magic
Ahhh thirty. After spending this milestone birthday in New York with some of my best gals, my body is still catching up on sleep and adjusting to a diet that doesn't include daily pizza and cocktails. As for my heart, it's still feeling mighty full of love and gratitude for my dear friends who went out of their way to share in a most unforgettable weekend. Here are some of the highlights.
For lunch on my birthday, we bopped to Alice's Tea Cup. Actually, there was nothing bop-ish about it. Public transportation was feeling Mercury in retrograde (have you seen that one Seinfeld?), and we waited for a table for what felt like forever.
But I have to say, sipping three types of scrumptious tea and savoring fresh-baked scones with clotted cream and berry jam in a sunlit upper room melted any hard feelings toward that morning's frustrating logistics. Oh the power of a good tea party!
I'd never been to a museum in New York, so it was time to check one off the bucket list. The Met has a pay-what-you-can policy, which is nice (though I just saw a headline saying that policy might change for non-New Yorkers). The place is overwhelming in its vastness, architectural beauty, and the works on display. We certainly did not have enough time to enjoy it thoroughly — you'd need days, really. But we took a spin around the Egyptian wing (it just goes on and on!), and I tried to slow down for my favorite impressionists.
What I didn't realize before going in was the variety of art housed at the Met. Airy, marble halls filled with statues and architectural wonders — even entire Parisian hotel rooms lifted from their homes and preserved for New York's viewing pleasure. It's astounding, and I'm kicking myself for not doing more research before our visit. Luckily, there's always next time. I plan to park myself in the American Wing with its Narnia lamppost and just take it in for a while.
On my birthday night, my sweet friends unveiled one of New York's signature treats: a Milk Bar birthday cake. The funfetti naked cake scrawled with "Kelsey, you are magic" in chocolate letters was truly delightful — and tasted just as delish.
After cake, it was off to Beauty Bar, where there was far too much dancing and drinking to bother with blog-worthy photos.
With the weather a little dreary, we browsed Chelsea Market (milk shakes and Japanese tacos!) and Artists & Fleas — an artist, designer, and vintage market.
The gorgeous wearables were certainly tempting, and none more than these Star Wars pendants. Drool.
For $20, you can get your aura read. We have our friend Rachelle to thank for cluing us into this bizarre experience. First, you go to Magic Jewelry in Chinatown and get your picture taken on a special aura-reading camera. Once the photo develops and your aura is revealed, the resident aura specialist tells you what it means.
She might tell you you're a workaholic, care too much about money or people, overthink, or have a lucky future — or she might ask you if you're on your period, as happened to one of our group. No, she wasn't on her period, but the aura guru was getting some very strong menstrual vibes. We left a little flabbergasted and proceeded to ask google for more answers, but all in all it was a fun experience.
A piano bar in the West Village where everyone crowds around and sings show tunes — and only show tunes. Is this Heaven? No, it's Marie's Crisis. Shout out to my friend Rachel for knowing just what a birthday girl wants. We sang songs from Rent, Wicked, Oklahoma, Chicago (oh yes, oh yes, oh yes they both...), Les Mis, and plenty of others that I didn't know the words to.
It's safe to say we all have a crush on the adorably charismatic piano-playing superstar, Michael James Roy. Here, take my money. There was a girl sitting at the bar who, we overheard, had been to Marie's Crisis three nights in one week. We laughed — but really I don't blame her. It's giving Disney World a run for its money in the "Happiest Place on Earth" department.
Wandering home from a delicious brunch, Rachel told me a bit about her Brooklyn neighborhood, Carroll Gardens. She said there's a cat whose owner lets it roam the streets by day, and the cat has come to be known as the Mayor of Carroll Gardens. Rachel was lamenting the fact that though she'd heard of the elusive creature, she'd never seen it.
Well not five minutes later, a cat crossed our path and lay down on the sunny sidewalk. We approached, checked its tag, and sure enough — "Petro, Neighborhood Cat." A passerby confirmed that Petro was indeed the Mayor. There's something strange about how the cat seemingly manifested from our conversation — like the universe conspired to put him in our world. Makes me wonder what else the universe has up its sleeve for the year ahead.
