New York never ceases to amaze me. With every visit, I leave more entranced, more taken in by its energy and vitality. It’s as if each trip offers me new, surprising facets of the city to admire. This city, with its eclectic energy, iconic skyline, and its people—all as diverse as the world itself—is intoxicating. It pulls you into its rhythm, a place where every borough holds its own distinct allure. Brooklyn, with its industrial charm and artistic soul, hums with creativity. Meanwhile, the Upper East Side oozes sophistication, a haven of refined elegance and designer indulgence. East Harlem brims with life, an urban carnival bursting with color, sound, and culture. New York, in all its grittiness and grandeur, is unlike anywhere else.
In just eight days, we experienced so much of what New York has to offer and yet, as always, it felt like we barely scratched the surface. There’s an odd satisfaction in that. No matter how much of New York you consume, how many streets you explore, how many restaurants you sample, there’s always more to discover—a comforting kind of incompletion.
I’ve always been struck by the balance New York manages to maintain, despite its seemingly endless contradictions. There’s Midtown, with the dizzying frenzy of Times Square, flashing lights, and a whirlwind of people at all hours. And just a few blocks away, you’ll find the serenity of Central Park, an oasis of calm and greenery where time seems to slow. Granted, even here, you need to keep an eye out for speeding cyclists who have transformed leisurely park strolls into near-death experiences. But that’s New York in a nutshell—chaos paired with calm, luxury intertwined with simplicity.
The city's culture is a kaleidoscope of global influences, a living mosaic where food, art, and tradition converge from every corner of the planet. It is no exaggeration to call New York a culinary paradise. The variety and quality of food are simply staggering, with offerings that range from high-end Michelin star dining to the hidden gems only locals whisper about—those beloved hole-in-the-wall spots that serve food just as exquisite, yet without the pretense, where the food is unforgettable and the ambiance intimately grimey.
Similarly, while trendy cocktail bars may lure the crowds on a Friday night, it’s the unassuming, cozy neighborhood bars that hold a special charm. Where veteran bartenders whip up perfect cocktails, offering just the right amount of conversation, making you feel seen but never overwhelmed. It’s these spaces, away from the hustle and bustle, that make New York feel a little more personal and dynamic.
I’ve visited New York in all seasons, and the city never fails to reveal a different side of itself. Fall, with its crisp air and golden light, may be one of my favorite times to explore, but I’m proud to admit that I braved the depths of “Snowzilla” back in 2016 with relative ease as well—in fact, I relished the challenge. With the right boots and some serious outerwear, surviving a New York winter feels like a rite of passage, one I might need to take someday.
No matter the season, though, New York remains a city of contrasts. It’s glamorous and gritty, elegant yet raw. And that’s exactly why I love it—the endless contradictions that somehow make sense, coexisting in a vibrant, relentless harmony.
And New Yorkers. Yes, the stereotype is that they’re brash, aggressive, and always in a hurry. And sure, if you don’t know the unspoken rules of the sidewalk, you might get told to “move your ass” from the hard-hat-wearing guy eating a hotdog on his way back to a job site (there are job sites everywhere, all the time). But for me, that’s part of the charm. There’s a direct, no-nonsense but not necessarily combative vibe to New Yorkers that I don’t seem to mind.
Surprisingly, I’ve found New Yorkers to be incredibly kind. During our visit, whether it was the lovely hostess at our hotel rooftop bar or Betty, the sweet woman overseeing the breakfast buffet, I encountered warmth and friendliness everywhere. It was the people, more than anything, that made this trip so memorable.
Over the span of a few days at the US Open, we saw incredible tennis, but it was the New Yorkers themselves who stole the show. For all the city’s larger-than-life reputation, it was the small moments of human connection that left the most lasting impressions. New York, once again, did not disappoint. Here are a few of the most memorable tales from the week.
Hafiz
On Friday morning, I had a bright idea. I wondered if I could track down a place that made custom Yankees/Mets jerseys. I thought a Yankees jersey with Paolini and the number 5 (her world ranking) would be dope. Hita agreed and piled on the idea of a Ben Shelton jersey for herself. And without hesitation, it wasn’t long before I found a place in Times Square that could bring my idea to life.
Since Hita had to do some work, I hit the streets and made my way twenty or so blocks to Grand Slam, an eclectic emporium of sports and novelty merchandise in the pulsating heart of Times Square. I made my way upstairs where I met a man named Hafiz, nestled in his modest corner on the second floor of the chaotically merchandised store. I selected a couple of blank jerseys on the wall, made my naming selections and paid up front. I returned to Hafiz and the man went to work.
With a gentle demeanor and steady hands, he was not just a purveyor of souvenirs; he was a craftsman, meticulous in his approach. The care and precision which he aligned and pressed each letter onto the jersey, was impressive. It was as if he treated every letter as one might treat a stroke upon a canvas, with an attention to detail that transformed the mundane into something quite profound for me. The Yankees jersey that seemed to carry more weight, more significance—though, at the time, I hadn't the faintest inkling of just how integral it would become (keep reading).
As Hafiz worked, we exchanged words—small talk, perhaps, and I found myself captivated by his concentration. He wasn't merely assembling a garment; he was weaving together fragments of the city's identity, merging my love for tennis and New York’s sports culture.
When he finally completed his work, the satisfaction that flickered across his face was unmistakable. It mirrored the sense of quiet triumph I felt at that moment, holding this piece of art in my hands. I respected his craft and his patience, offering a generous tip in acknowledgment, which he accepted with a mixture of surprise and gratitude. There was an unspoken understanding, a shared recognition of the care that had gone into this seemingly simple transaction.
Neither of us, I suspect, knew at that moment how much this jersey would mean to me in the days to come. It would become a symbol, accompanying me through moments and memories yet to unfold.
I walked out of the store, not just with the jerseys, but with a deeper sense of admiration for this man in his humble domain, and a smile that stretched far beyond the boundaries of a simple purchase, tethered to the very fabric of that jersey—woven into the threads of my New York experience.
Harlem, Chelsea, and the Golden Girls
The Saturday before the tournament promised to be a delightful one. Hita and I had arranged to meet her dear friend Tiffany and her partner Toby for a jazz concert in Harlem, followed by brunch. Tiffany and Hita had grown quite close while working together in the Bay Area, and although Tiffany had since returned to New York for a better career opportunity, their friendship still remained strong. Toby, much like Tiffany and Hita, was a technical engineer—a world of jargon I’ve long resigned myself to spectating rather than participating in.
As we prepared to leave that morning, I took a few minutes to “scroll the Gram” when something caught my eye. Jasmine Paolini had posted about an appearance she and doubles partner Sara Errani would be making at the Detour Gallery in Chelsea. They were to unveil works by artist Ted Dimond, who had immortalized them and a rising ATP player, Jakob Mensik, with his impressionist-like style of painting. Instantly, I thought it would be an injustice to Hafiz if I didn’t at least attempt to get the jersey signed, right?
Brunch was as delightful as anticipated—conversation flowed effortlessly, Hita and Tiffany caught up, and we got to know a bit more about Toby. And when the conversation went technical, I worked on my French 75 and nodded my head like I understood what they were talking about. Afterwards, we took a leisurely stroll through Harlem’s streets, and I rather sheepishly shared my desire to visit the gallery. Ever the gracious couple, Tiffany and Toby humored me, and agreed to roll with us to Chelsea, my quest for the jersey signing now in full swing.
Upon arriving, we found Paolini and Errani outside, engaged with a few fans. A nervous hesitation crept in as I watched her navigate one conversation to the next. It felt almost intrusive to ask, but Hita, ever my quiet compass, gently encouraged me, “go ahead honey, it’s okay, go talk to her.”
With her nudge, I gently approached Paolini, the jersey draped in my hands, and made my request. Seemingly unaware at first, she took the jersey with a warm smile. When she noticed her own name across the back, I think it made a bit more sense to her. In a single breath, I congratulated her on her extraordinary season and Olympic triumph, and kept it moving, careful not to overstep the moment.
The gallery itself was a visual feast of Dimond’s tennis art. We meandered through, conversing with other guests before attending the official unveiling. As the evening drew on, we made our way to an exquisite dinner at a local gem and later, the four of us took a peaceful stroll along the High Line. The day stretched into night, and when we finally parted ways with Tiffany and Toby, I marveled at what a beautiful day we had.
Even without the autograph, the day had been blissful in its own right—but the signed jersey, well, that was a serendipitous stroke of fortune. It was the delicate finishing touch on an already unforgettable day in New York.
Brooklyn Brothas
On Tuesday at the Billie Jean King Tennis Center, I made an entrance, a true connoisseur of both fashion and fandom. I glided through the grounds “full spec” as my wife would say. A fresh pair of pristine Air Jordan 1s on my feet, and my crown jewel, the pièce de résistance, my autographed Yankees jersey.
It was midday on a Tuesday, and the relentless sun on Armstrong had beat us down pretty good, and our stomachs began protesting after a few hours of being on empty. When it comes to food decisions, I often defer to my wife, my stomach is pretty strong and I can usually find something anywhere. But on this day, in an unusual turn of events she surprisingly blurted out, “A chicken sandwich would hit.” “Say no more my love,” I replied.
We stepped to the front of the line at the concession stand, and were greeted by two affable brothas working behind the counter. Their respective allegiances were immediately evident—one proudly a Mets fan, the other, a Yankees devotee. The Mets fan was quick to let me know. “Yankees? Booo, it’s all about the Mets, fam,” he quipped, eyeing my Yankees jersey with disdain.
Before I could respond, his buddy, a fellow Yankees fan, came to my defense. “Man, we’re from Brooklyn! Let that man live. Don’t listen to him, that jersey’s clean, bro, you good!” he assured, giving me an approving nod.
With a smile, I had questions. “You know, it’s the same every time. When I wear Mets gear, Yankees fans give me grief. When I wear Yankees gear, I catch it from Yankees fans. What I’m trippin on is, y’all are in two different leagues altogether—why can’t y’all just get along?” The absurdity of it all hung in the air for a moment before both men laughed, realizing the truth of my observation.
It wasn’t lost on me that these two, both from Brooklyn, were engaging in their own friendly rivalry. I didn’t need to remind them of that detail. Instead, I seized the moment to bridge the divide, delivering my punchline. “I’m from Cali, so maybe I don’t fully get it. But in my book, whether you’re a Mets fan or a Yankees fan, I’ve got love for New Yorkers. Period.”
For a brief, gratifying second, they paused, exchanging glances of approval as though I’d passed some unspoken inter-burrough New York loyalty test. The Mets fan gave a nod of respect, finally conceding, “That’s what’s up.”
We dapped up, a subtle but affirming gesture that validated the moment. With chicken sandwiches and cookies (they insisted we try the cookies) in hand, I walked away from the stand, feeling as though I’d scored food and a temporary pass into the brotherhood of the city.
Ruth
Tuesday night finally rolled around and we settled into our seats at Louis Armstrong Stadium, anticipating a thrilling clash between Jasmine Paolini and Bianca Andreescu. The atmosphere was electric, the crowd buzzing with excitement. Beside us, a woman sat with her two daughters, and it wasn't long before a conversation blossomed. A Yankees fan, her eyes landed on my jersey, unmistakable in its tribute. “You’re really a fan,” she observed, a note of admiration in her voice.
She, it turned out, was there to cheer on Andreescu, a decision I could hardly fault. I assured her, however, that she was in for an unforgettable match regardless of the victor; two fierce competitors would undoubtedly put on a show.
As the match unfolded, so too did a friendship between my wife and the woman. Their conversation flowed effortlessly, bound by their mutual love of New York. Her accent was pure, unfiltered New York, the kind that made me think of Anne Bancroft’s indomitable Ruth Schram in the 2000 movie Keeping the Faith (with Ben Stiller, Ed Norton, and Jenna Elfman, cute movie, highly recommend)—the woman was sharp, witty, and brimming with personality.
For two and a half hours, we laughed, we bantered, and we reveled in the joy of great tennis. When it ended, we said our goodbyes, but only later did we realize a tragic oversight. We had failed to ask for her name—this woman who, with her quick wit and effortless charm, had brightened our night in ways we hadn’t anticipated. She seemed like the kind of person who would have insisted we visit her the next time we were in town, regaling us with tales of seventies New York over tea at her home in Teaneck.
There is, however, a glimmer of hope. She mentioned that her neighbor always provided her with tickets, and that they sat in the same seats every year. So, next year, we’ll return, our eyes scanning the crowd. For now, she remains “Ruth” in our minds—a memory we cherish, and a hope that perhaps, our paths will cross once more.
Sam
The evening had already seen two grueling sets between Paolini and Andreescu, and I was beginning to feel the effects—not just of the tension on court, but also of a rather pressing thirst. A cold beer seemed to be the antidote. I climbed the Armstrong stairs from Row 3 with purpose, only to find the west side concessions stand in disarray. Once a promised land of refreshment, were barren—devoid of beer due to an unforeseen crisis: no CO2.
I wandered from one stand to another, each refusal sinking me further into disbelief. As fate would have it, I crossed paths with a man in his early thirties, clearly caught in the same struggle I was in.
"No gas on this whole side?" he asked in desperation.
"None," I replied, offering a helpless shrug.
He sighed heavily. "My wife’s going to kill me, but I need a drink. Should we try the other side?"
The alternative was simply unacceptable. "Let’s do it," I said, aligning in our mutual struggle.
“I’m Wendell, by the way.”
"Sam. Nice to meet you."
We moved with the determination of men on a mission, navigating the stadium like seasoned locals, and without hesitation, we approached the first counter on the opposite side. We bypassed the queue with an air of entitlement and urgency that should have raised some New York eyebrows, but somehow didn’t. Sam, undeterred, spoke with the directness of a man having a beer emergency.
"They're out of gas on the other side," he told the concession worker. "The Heineken woman sent us here."
The concession guy, sensing the gravity of our plight, understood the assignment, and without as much as a second thought poured us a couple of cold Heinekens, and set them on the counter.
"I’ve got this," I offered, reaching for my wallet.
"Nah, we’re in this together," he replied, before turning to the server. "And throw in two Honey Deuces."
With our drinks secured—two beers and two Honey Deuces—we began our triumphant doublefisted march back to our seats, each of us gripping our beverages like we had won a couple of trophies.
"My wife’s pregnant," Sam confided, with a hint of guilt in his voice. "I told her I’d only have one drink. Let me slam this beer real quick."
I couldn’t help but laugh. We clinked cans in silent camaraderie. "Great meeting you," I said.
"You too. Enjoy the match."
With the ease of a seasoned veteran, Sam downed his Heineken, we exchanged a final fist bump before parting ways, and I made my way back to Row 3 just as the third set was beginning.
As I settled into my seat, victory drinks in hand, I couldn’t help but smile at the absurdity of it all. “Only in New York,” I thought to myself.
Are the Barber
For someone who is mostly bald, it’s remarkable how fast the hair I do have insists on growing. Naturally, I had neglected to pack my clippers, a minor oversight that could easily have spiraled into inconvenience. Yet, the charm of New York lies in its ability to provide whatever one may need at a moment’s notice. In this city, everything is at your fingertips—quite literally, thanks to the marvels of modern technology.
A quick search revealed a barber just a few blocks away from our hotel. To my surprise, I was able to book an appointment online, a far cry from the barber shops of California, where one must linger for hours, waiting their turn. At home, it's an uncivilized activity humorously attributed to "CP time." But, in New York, efficiency reigns supreme.
Within the hour, I found myself walking down 59th Street, on my way to meet Robert, or as he’s known, "Are the Barber." Robert, Dominican and originally from Philadelphia, has spent over two decades in Harlem, and it shows. His essence is now purely New York, through and through.
As he worked, we fell into easy conversation, covering the usual topics—New York vs. California, sports, his family (a wife and three daughters). The conversation flowed naturally, punctuated with laughter and the shared appreciation of New York's iconic hip-hop culture. Robert was taken aback by my knowledge of the genre, and from there, we clicked effortlessly, as though he had been cutting my hair, or what remains of it, for years.
By the end of our hour together, it was clear that I had found my guy—a New York barber I could trust whenever the need arose. Robert, "Are the Barber," would become another fixture in my New York experience.
This whirlwind in New York left me with a profound appreciation for a city always dancing to its own beat, constantly evolving yet deeply rooted in tradition. Each visit reveals a tapestry of experiences, woven from the vibrant threads of its diverse neighborhoods, great cuisine, and the individuals who call New York home. From the chaotic energy of Times Square to the serene embrace of Central Park, New York embodies a beautiful contradiction for visitors and residents alike.
It's the moments however, that transform an ordinary trip into something memorable. These shared experiences remind us that behind the city's bustling façade lies a community bound by passion and resilience.
As I reflect on our time here, I find comfort in knowing that there’s always more to discover—new corners to explore, stories to hear, and connections to forge. So here’s to New York: a city that never truly reveals all its secrets, and perhaps that’s exactly what makes it so irresistable.
