Until next time, New York City.

For anyone who doesn’t feel like reading all of this, here’s a short, unedited recording from the trip—no narration, no polish, just New York.

For anyone who does feel like reading all of this, here’s where it starts.

I won’t say “a dream came true,” but it feels fair to say that a long-term plan finally did. Last April, during a particularly difficult period at work, I bought a refundable ticket to Waiting for Godot—a Broadway play starring THE Keanu Reeves—scheduled for December 2025. I added the refund option because, honestly, you never know what life will look like eight months later. As December approached, the familiar doubts crept in: Should I really go to New York just for a play? I checked flight prices and hotel rates and immediately thought, This is so expensive. With the same budget, I could easily fly to Turkey for winter break and spend three full weeks with my parents. I went back and forth between the two options for days. Then I reminded myself why I had bought that ticket in the first place. Seeing that play had become my personal totem last spring—a promise to myself. Skipping it would mean breaking that promise. So I committed. I found a relatively affordable hotel, booked my flights, and just like that—New York, here I come.

The cheapest flight option had a 5:00 a.m. departure from Chattanooga, and since I am unnecessarily loyal to American Airlines, it came with a one-and-a-half-hour layover in Charlotte—a connection I seem to volunteer for every single time. My scheduled arrival in New York City was 10:00 a.m., which actually worked well with my plans. For the first day, the itinerary was simple: go to the hotel, leave my backpack there, then head to MoMA, followed by a walk through Central Park, conveniently just steps away.

I arrived at the Chattanooga airport at 3:30 a.m., parked my car, passed through security, and boarded the plane on time—only to be told that we couldn’t depart due to icing issues on the plane’s tires. The delay lasted an hour. While we were waiting, I started talking to ChatGPT about my connecting flight, and it reassured me that American Airlines would transfer me to the next flight without any fees, since this would count as a misconnection rather than a no-show. Still, I felt a bit discouraged, because starting a trip with a delay is never the best way to begin. But it was out of my hands, so I told myself that whatever happened next, I would embrace it. When the air traffic controllers finally cleared us for departure, the captain worked what felt like magic. He pushed the pace and stayed at a lower altitude, keeping the plane below the clouds to avoid losing time climbing higher—and, against all odds, we arrived in Charlotte right on time.

We landed at JFK earlier than the scheduled 10:00 a.m. arrival time. From there, I took the AirTrain to Jamaica Station and then the Long Island Rail Road to the Murray Hill neighborhood of Midtown Manhattan, where my hotel was located. After leaving my backpack at the hotel, I headed straight to MoMA. I bought my MoMA ticket a day in advance just to be safe, though it turned out not to be necessary. It was only then that I realized I hadn’t eaten anything except the Biscoff cookies they served on the Charlotte-to-JFK flight. Surprisingly, I wasn’t hungry at all—not even thirsty, which is very unusual for me since I normally drink a lot of water. I think it was pure excitement. Once inside MoMA, I went straight up to the sixth floor to the Terrace Café, where I had one of the best tiramisus I’ve ever tasted, along with a very good cup of decaf Americano—trying to be cautious with caffeine after being awake since 1:30 a.m.

Not the best framing, but excellent tiramisu and coffee.

Then I started wandering through the galleries, moving from the fifth floor all the way down to the first. It had been a long time since my last visit to an art museum—the Picasso Museum in Barcelona, back in July 2024—and it felt really good to be surrounded again by so many brilliant minds who had the courage to live out loud. I often think there are two kinds of people: regular ones and artists. And by artists, I mean creators of all kinds—writers, painters, musicians, photographers—anyone who makes something that allows us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time. 

I decided not to go to Central Park after MoMA. After the long and stressful journey, I was barely myself. Instead, I walked back to my hotel, trying to observe everything around me as much as possible, reminding myself, again and again, that I had made it to New York City. 

I moved through a sea of people, hearing languages from everywhere—some I recognized and others I didn’t—pausing at red lights before crossing wide streets, and looking up at skyscrapers that seemed to stretch endlessly into the sky. Just around the corner from my hotel, I stopped for a slice of New York–style pizza, which became the beginning of three days of street food, eaten happily and without a single complaint.

On day two, after a decent and uninterrupted night’s sleep, I headed to the Brooklyn Bridge. According to Apple Maps, it was supposed to be just a two-stop ride from my hotel on the 6 train. However, with all the crowds at Grand Central–42nd Street, I must have gone in the wrong direction, which turned my short trip into a one-and-a-half-hour ride instead of the expected twenty minutes to reach Brooklyn. If I had stayed on the 6 any longer, I would have had enough time to put together a full collection of songs for my debut (here the writer refers to Jennifer Lopez’s first album On the 6, named after the subway line she used to ride between Manhattan and the Bronx early in her career.) 

Once I finally emerged from the Brooklyn Bridge–City Hall station, I located the nearest Starbucks, since I hadn’t had any caffeine yet. After that, I started walking toward the Brooklyn Bridge and onto it. I walked the entire length in the cold, windy air, eventually reaching DUMBO and taking the obligatory photo.

Obligatory DUMBO pic.

I then found a café near a window, where I watched people taking pictures while eating a bowl of vegetable soup to recover from the cold—followed by a completely unrelated but delicious slice of cake. While sitting there, I decided to check my email to confirm what time I needed to arrive for Waiting for Godot. I had assumed the play would start at seven and checked my email to confirm when the doors would open—only to realize, by sheer luck, that the show was actually at two. Considering how complicated it had already been just to get to Brooklyn, I panicked slightly and immediately set my maps to the Hudson Theatre, where the play would take place.

Since I arrived at the Hudson Theatre quite early, I ended up being the third person in line waiting to go inside. I chatted briefly with the woman behind me, who had come to New York from Berlin as a one-week Christmas gift to herself, and with the woman in front of me, who had traveled from Austin, Texas, to see a few Broadway shows. Behind the woman from Berlin stood a well-dressed, Spanish-speaking couple—whom I assumed were from Mexico—trying to understand whether ticket holders with Golden Lounge access were supposed to wait in the same line as the rest of us.

Image from the official Waiting for Godot website.

The theater was completely full. I was seated in the balcony, just one row from the very back. While waiting for the play to begin, I stayed off my phone and instead took in the people around me, in all types and shapes. I still remember the woman sitting in front of me, wearing swan-shaped earrings, with the head of the swan resting in front of her earlobes and the rest curving behind them. They seemed to be designed in two parts and somehow attached to the ear horizontally. And then there was the gentleman seated two seats to my left—absolutely not my type, and yet somehow charming. (Imaginary scenario: this blog post goes viral, the gentleman from balcony G108 on December 17, 2025, finds this post, connects the dots, and a love story begins.)

Once the lights went off and Keanu Reeves stepped onto the stage, the theater erupted in cheers and applause. Then came a shared stillness—everyone leaning in, catching every line, every movement, every shift in the actors’ voices. For two full hours, I was completely transported, before stepping back into the city and returning to its rhythm. 

Day three was the day to head back home. I had a flight to Charlotte at 7:50 p.m., followed by a late connection to Chattanooga at 11:00 p.m. Since checkout was at 11:00 a.m., I made the most of the morning, sipping the hotel’s complimentary coffee while watching the New York skyline from my window. After checking out, I headed to Macy’s first—to see the famous wooden escalator, built in the 1920s, and to soak in what was supposed to be the Christmas atmosphere. Instead, it felt more retail-heavy than Christmassy, with people competing to buy whatever they could get their hands on. 

After leaving the overstimulating chaos of Macy’s behind, I headed to Central Park and took a long walk, taking pictures and observing people—realizing how many different ways there are to make money if you live in New York City and are a bit talented. I saw artists drawing charcoal portraits, people writing custom poems on typewriters, singing Christmas songs, dancing hip-hop, taking vintage Polaroids of tourists, or simply selling paintings and handmade items. (Unrelated but unavoidable thought of a law-abiding resident taxpayer—aka me: how exactly does one report taxes on custom poems sold in Central Park?) 

After Central Park, I walked another twenty to twenty-five blocks—until I could no longer feel my feet—on my way back to my hotel to pick up my backpack. Even my feet had reached their limit, I still wanted more of the city, but I let the adult in the room take over and headed to the airport a bit earlier than planned—especially since it was an international airport, where you never really know how long security might take.

We boarded the plane on time—and, of course, got delayed. We sat inside the plane for a while, long enough that I started worrying I might miss my connecting flight. Luckily, that flight was delayed too. In fact, we didn’t board on time at all and ended up changing gates four times. When the Chattanooga-bound plane finally took off, I realized I had lost my parking ticket and had no idea how I was going to get my car out of the parking lot. I started planning worst-case scenarios: sleeping in the car until morning so that airport staff would arrive and help me, calling a cab, going home, and coming back the next day to deal with the car. 

I felt a bit discouraged, because ending a trip with a lost parking ticket is never the best way to wrap things up. As I was walking toward my car, something magical happened: I ran into two of the nicest parking lot officers. I explained that I had lost my ticket, told them exactly when I had parked my car (December 16, 3:34 a.m. sharp—reminder: always take photos of your car when you leave it!), and, close to tears, told them that I just wanted to go home, adding how happy I was to see them there at 1:30 in the morning. They must have taken pity on me—they took one look at my face, said they’d open the gate, and let me through. And just like that, after three wonderful days in New York City, I made it home.

Now I’ve been home since Thursday 2:30 a.m., and I don’t plan to leave again until Monday—for a quick grocery run. I feel deeply grateful for my life, for where I have brought myself through hard work and everything else I’ve invested in my own growth—to do more, to see more. 

December 2025, Chattanooga.