Brooklyn, Broadway, and the Blind Superhero
Our last full day in New York, the sun finally decided to show up. I got to see my baby, which already made it a five-star day—no matter what Yelp says.
We took the train to Brooklyn to meet Annie at Bittersweet, a coffee shop, where the line of dogs waiting patiently outside made it clear—this was the place. It’s the kind of establishment where you feel like you should’ve brought a beret and a compostable cup sleeve. We grabbed our second latte of the morning (because balance) and headed off for a walk to Pratt Institute.
Annie gave us a tour of her 25-acre campus, which had that classic university feel—grassy quads, a few Gothic-ish buildings, and just enough student art installations to remind you that, yes, this is an art school. One sculpture looked like a rusted-out mushroom. Another might’ve been a large chainsaw wheel. Or possibly a statement on capitalism. Either way, it was too pointy to sit on.
She brought us into her department, which was refreshingly unpretentious. Eight students. One small room. Creative writing graduate program. It reminded me of my own grad school days, just with more natural light and fewer people talking about NCSA Mosaic. Annie seemed at home there, and as a mom, nothing beats the feeling of watching your kid do something they love—even if you don’t entirely understand what that “something” is.
From there, we walked to a place called The Fat Rabbit Diner for brunch. We were second in line before it even opened, which is the universal sign that food will be both overpriced and completely worth it. I ordered the Honey Bunny, which was a BLT with an egg on a warm sweet bun—gooey, satisfying, and about 1,200 calories of happiness. The whole place had that “big city meets small town” charm, like Brooklyn is trying to be both intimidatingly cool and your grandmother’s backyard.
It was Saturday, the sun was out, and the markets were in full swing. Not your average “goat soap and hot sauce” market either—this one had real artistry. I didn’t buy anything because I’m trying to collect memories, not stuff. Also, I didn’t look at any price tags, which probably helped me keep that resolution.
The plan was to go to a matinee, and Annie was able to get off work and join us. We subwayed back to Midtown and went to see Good Night, and Good Luck—the play, not the film. George Clooney was in it, which they made sure you knew because his name was on the billboard in all caps. He played Edward R. Murrow and did a solid job of looking deeply concerned while holding a cigarette. The play itself was excellent (from what I could tell, the same script as the movie), the staging was incredible, and the ending reminded you that the media actually used to make people in power sweat a little.
I had just finished reading The Briar Club for book club, which is also set in the 1950s during the McCarthyism panic. People genuinely thought communists were hiding under beds and stealing their babies. If you even hinted at skepticism, you were branded a pinko. It was a wild time, and watching the play while reading that book made me think history really does repeat itself. Hopefully we’ve got the next Edward R. Murrow waiting in the wings.
After the show, we walked back to the hotel through Times Square, which is like walking through a fever dream. There are off-brand superheroes lurking in dirty costumes, flashing billboards, and tourists eating at Olive Garden like it’s a once-in-a-lifetime culinary event. Annie is not a fan of Times Square. I find it weirdly entertaining. It’s like walking through someone else’s bad decisions.
Back at the hotel, we shared some snacks and gave hugs to Annie before she headed back to Brooklyn. She subwayed off, and we took our old-people nap. Because that’s what love and age look like: letting go of your kid and unapologetically prioritizing horizontal time.
That evening, we met up with Alisa and Randy. Randy had gone to MoMA and confirmed that our museum strategy is aligned: go early, skip the crowds, look at a few pieces that don’t make you question your mental health, and then get out. We had planned to try a soup spot down the street, but instead stumbled into Café China, a Chinese restaurant I’d been eyeing all week. With just two of us, we got in without a wait. And it was so good. I had a cocktail, soup dumplings, and duck—and would absolutely go again, possibly with stretchier pants.
On the walk back, we passed a man with a white cane standing on the corner asking for help crossing the street. His name was Ian, visiting from Boston, and he was trying to get to a bar down the way. He had audible GPS on his phone, but the crosswalks didn’t have audio signals, which basically made him invisible to most of the sidewalk crowd.
We had walked past him at first—because that’s what people do in cities—but then Chad and I looked at each other, turned around, and walked back. Chad introduced himself and helped Ian navigate. Along the way, Ian asked us to describe what we passed, and honestly, he could tell what was around just by the smells. Like a blind superhero.
We crossed two major intersections and a small side street, got him to the right bus stop, and then said our goodbyes. I left feeling like the world still works sometimes. You just have to stop, turn around, and ask someone where they’re going.
