Birthright Manhattan

Kat was here over the weekend.  Which was…The Best.

We had dubbed the trip “Birthright Manhattan” because her trip to NYC in January was essentially an extended layover between Minnesota and Israel.  I have (regrettably) not written much about that visit, save for a passing mention, because there were several Capital-C-Crises of Consequence happening simultaneous to Kat’s Winesday debut.

But this trip was a wonderful adventure-sans-crisis.  There was Thai food, and run-spectating, and study abroad (aka Travel to Brooklyn), and beer-drinking, and food-eating (Smorgasburg Williamsburg, hello to you).

That I was in an Outerboro three times in one weekend may mean that Hell has now frozen over.

For the record, I was in Brooklyn thrice to a) pick up my Brooklyn Half Marathon race number on Friday at the asinine “Pre Party” in DUMBO.  The whole affair was, for lack of a better word, dumb; b) I was in Prospect Park and Coney Island to run said half-marathon; and c) Strand and I went out to Williamsburg to regroup with Kat, her husband Marcus, and his friends over beers at Brooklyn Brewery on Saturday afternoon.

I digress.

But let me Begin at the Very Beginning (a very good place to start):

On Friday, a select contingent of the WoWs went for Thai food and Bengal Tigers and gabbed over dinner.  Delightful.


(Strand and Kat.)

On Saturday, I ran the Brooklyn Half to avenge last year’s DNF, and Kat was kind enough to come spectate.  As I was leaving on Saturday morning at The Hour Before Dawn, Kat stopped me at the front door and inquired: What are you wearing?

(I did not tell her the tale of the last time someone asked me that question.)

I stood in the doorway and raised my outer shirt to try to show off my singlet.

It’s bright yellow, you can’t miss me.  Also, it has my name in giant letters across the front.

She met me at Mile 2, and despite my promise that she wouldn’t miss me, I damn-near ran right by her.  Despite the near-miss, I was thrilled and infinitely grateful that she came out.

IMG_1495Later that afternoon, after I was showered and changed, Strand met me and we headed back out to Brooklyn to meet up with the gang at Brooklyn Brewery.

Kat’s husband Marcus had to leave a bit early, as he was due out in Westchester for the prelude to a wedding, at which Kat would join him the following day.  But we all stayed at the Brewery for a celebratory tipple.  It was there that one of Marcus’s friends decided to educate me on what Belgium was.

(Trust me, if you’re reading that sentence, you’re probably having the same reaction I had, and am still having.  That Belgium-as-a-concept could need explaining continues to baffle me even now.)

After this explanation went on for a period of time that felt so long, I lost track of how long it actually went on, we moved on to Smorgasburg in Williamsburg.  For the uninitiated, this is essentially the Brooklyn Flea, except sans junk; only junk food.


Things were wrapping up at Smorgasburg when we arrived, but we were able to snag some tacos before heading back to Manhattan, where Kat and Strand were going for coffee, and I was meeting a friend for a drink.

We regrouped later in the evening, and Kat and I admitted to ourselves that we were in no shape to handle anything heavier than Netflix and delivery dinner.  We attempted a romantic comedy, but wound up with What to Expect When You’re Expecting. 

(Spoiler alert: You should expect The Worst.  Particularly of the film itself.)

Then we felt asleep and slept like champions.

This morning, it was time for off-leash hours.  We walked in morning rain, semi-sheltered underneath the canopy of trees in Central Park.  We held our Starbucks cups in our damp hands, and Roo was trailing behind us.  It was a perfect, quiet, morning.  Everything was still, and the Park was swathed in that gloomy, bright green mistiness that was so beautiful in New York in Spring.


After a walk, and after picking up some bagels, we headed back to my apartment.

I hate people who ask for scooped bagels, I said suddenly, reflecting on two girls we’d seen at the bagel counter, If you’re going to order a bagel, order a goddamned bagel.

(The tirade was, in real life, much more hostile and vulgar, but we’ll leave it phrased as such.)

Kat agreed.  And we sat and munched our bagels with lox, until I had to leave to take the dog to his vet appointment, and we said our goodbyes.

In sum:  a wonderful weekend filled with laughter; great food; excellent company — including the requisite, extraordinary number of blondes.


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