More than two years after moving to New York, I just had my first five-borough weekend. I full-throatedly recommend it. Much of the joy owed to letting the weekend develop organically; over-describing or -prescribing risks turning something fun into a checklist. But, in case you're simply curious, here's a synopsis:
It began inconspiculously. After work on Friday, I ambled down Sixth Avenue, having made what at the time felt like depressingly few weekend plans. I played and lost two chess games in Bryant Park at $1 apiece before deciding where to eat dinner: Phayul, a Tibetan restaurant that a friend and I had considered but decided against the previous weekend.
Phayul's location, a couple short blocks from the Roosevelt Ave. station in Queens's Jackson Heights neighborhood, makes it surprisingly accessible from midtown; I think the entire trip took less than a half-hour.
I ordered blood sausage, spicy tofu with numbing peppercorns, potato-vegetable dumplings, and a paper-cupful of butter tea. Enough food for two people, easily. And all for $20, before tip.
From there, I wandered for a half-hour along Roosevelt Avenue, propelled by Jackson Heights' diversity; every block, it seems, is dominated by a different nationality.
After a lazy Saturday morning, I walked to the Union Square Greenmarket in hopes of cobbling together lunch. A purple-green tomato, some peaches, and bunch of carrots got me nearly there; a carnitas taco from Dos Toros did the rest.
From Union Square, I took the L train to Williamsburg for my only truly-planned weekend plan: meeting a friend for coffee at Blue Bottle. A good time and a few hours later, I was again out of actual plans.
But the Staten Island Yankees's had a home game in two hours, and I hadn't been to a baseball game all season. So what if the Baby Bombers held their AA league's worst record and were playing its best team?
With some subway-transfer luck, I caught the 5:30pm Staten Island Ferry and arrived at the stadium at six o'clock, a full hour before the game's starting time. I bought my tickets and strolled around the lush residential neighborhood nearby, vaguely in search of tacos that I never found.
Back at the stadium, I picked up a players' guide, scouted out the concession stands, and registered as a bone marrow donor. Cardinal Dolan — in attendance for Catholic Faith Night — told a joke about spitballs and holy water, and then threw out the first pitch. I took my seat, the best I've ever had: just nine rows from the field. The Yankees lost 6-3 to Tri-City ValleyCats.
I realized on the ferry ride back to Manhattan that, in the span of 24 hours, I'd spent non-trivial time in four of New York's five boroughs. I set my Sunday eyes on the Bronx.
At a friend's recommendation, I took an hour-long ride north on the D train to the New York Botanical Garden. Four hours of lily-pond gazing, forest walking, and rose sniffing later, I was hungry. A 30 minute walk took me to Papaye, a Ghanaian restaurant. I ate a bowl of goat stew full of peanut-butter broth and three giant spheres of compressed rice — much tastier than it sounds — while watching the Olympic closing ceremony on Ghana TV.
At the risk of over-gushing: I've never appreciated New York City more than I did this weekend. I got to play tourist in five fascinating sub-cities without ever booking a flight. Or, come to think of it, without paying for transportation at all. Monthly MetroCard in hand, every leg of my journey — even the Staten Island Ferry — had a marginal cost of nil.