24 Hours in New York: Highlines, Hangovers, and a Surprise Love Affair with the Raiders
If you ever find yourself with just 24 hours in New York City, don’t panic. You won’t see it all, but you will feel it all. It’s a place that grabs you by the shirt collar and yells, “You’re alive!”—before gently handing you a bagel and a hangover cure. I should know. My latest one-day adventure in the Big Apple gave me a full-course tasting menu of the city—served with extra attitude and a side of matzo ball soup.
I started where any semi-respectable urban explorer might: The High Line. Picture this—an old elevated rail track turned into a mile-and-a-half-long garden in the sky.
But this wasn’t my first rodeo. I’d been here before—in winter, when the wind had teeth and the plants were mostly existentially confused twigs. This time? Summer. The High Line in July is something out of a Wes Anderson daydream—wildflowers spilling over rusted steel, art installations lurking in unexpected corners, and tourists herded together like caffeinated sheep with selfie sticks.
I strolled. I admired. I judged shoes. I contemplated stealing a flower. I didn’t. Growth.
By late afternoon, the heat had turned me into a sweaty doughball of a man, and I knew I needed two things: air-conditioning and a pizza the size of a satellite dish. Enter: Lombardi’s Pizza.
The godfather of New York pizza joints. America’s first pizzeria, no less. We rolled in as a group—hungry, tired, and just emotional enough to tear up at the smell of tomato sauce.
We ordered a pizza meant for six, maybe seven people. We were four. It was glorious. The crust had that coal-oven char, the cheese clung to the roof of your mouth like a childhood trauma, and the sauce had that tangy, herby punch that made you feel like you were being yelled at lovingly by a Sicilian grandmother. We argued over the last slice. Friendships were tested. Alliances were formed and broken. I have no regrets.
After dinner, we wandered the city’s streets in that blissed-out, sodium-high fog. Cameras in hand, we snapped everything: shadowy stoops, neon diners, a dog in a stroller wearing sunglasses. New York is a playground for the semi-sober shutterbug.
Then, as all good stories go, I accidentally wandered into a dive bar: Dillon’s Pub. It was loud, dark, and smelled faintly of hops and poor decisions.
What I didn’t know—until we saw the black-and-silver flags and a TV replaying football highlights like religious scripture—was that we had landed smack in the middle of a Las Vegas Raiders bar. In Manhattan. Who knew?
I’ll be honest: I’ve never really cared about American football. But after two beers, three high-fives, and being called “brother” by a guy in a leather vest with a tattoo of a flaming skull on his forearm, I was all in. Suddenly I was yelling at the screen like I’d been born in Oakland. My voice dropped an octave. I chest-bumped someone. I briefly considered buying a jersey.
Hours later, drunk on camaraderie and Coors Light, I stumbled out into the street with a renewed sense of purpose and absolutely no idea where my hotel was. That’s when I met him.
The Cop.
Picture a Michelangelo statue in NYPD blues. Broad shoulders, five o’clock shadow, a voice like gravel dipped in espresso. I asked for directions, slurring just enough to seem charming rather than concerning. He laughed, clapped a massive hand on my back, and pointed me in the right direction like some kind of urban centaur. “Walk straight. Don’t make any more friends tonight.”
I didn’t. Probably.
Morning came like a slap to the face with a wet subway map. My skull was hosting a drum solo and my stomach had staged a coup. There was only one cure: Carnegie Deli.
Now, before you get pedantic: I know the original Carnegie Deli closed its doors a few years ago. But a satellite version lives on at the corner of nostalgia and necessity. I staggered in, half-human, half regret, and ordered matzo ball soup like a man on a mission.
There is something quietly spiritual about matzo ball soup. It’s Jewish grandmother magic in a bowl. The broth was golden, rich, and just salty enough to remind me of my life choices. The matzo ball itself? A fluffy, carby moon of redemption. By the time I slurped the last spoonful, I was reborn.
Final Thoughts
New York doesn’t ask for permission. It doesn’t care about your schedule. In 24 hours, it fed me coal-fired pizza, turned me into a Raiders fan, gave me the world’s most intimidating guardian angel, and gently spooned me back to life with soup.
If you’ve only got a day in this city—walk high, eat big, say yes to weird bars, and always follow the Italian cop’s advice.
And get the soup. Always get the soup.
