From Tacos to Testicles: Day 2 in NYC

Day 4 - October 14, 2025

The beasts rise from their slumber before dawn, demanding tribute. We offer bagels. They devour them in bed while watching cartoons, and within minutes the hotel beds turn into everything bagels… crumbs, seeds, butter everywhere.. and enough sesame shrapnel to qualify as a crime scene. We whisper a prayer to the elder gods that the cleaning fairy can resurrect the linens, and head out to face another day.

This time we take the hotel shuttle. Convenient pick-up, sure, but inside it feels like someone tried to Tetris a daycare into a lunchbox then shook it violently. Sophie is drowning in children, I’m drowning in stroller gear and every “just in case” item we own. We survive. Barely. But we survive.

The weather is nicer today. No rain gear: yayyy. But it also means yesterday’s blisters are free to resume their fiery torment: not yayyy, but here we are anyway.

We head to McDonald's again for caffeine and actual internet. The hotel internet? Calling it “bad” is a compliment, it’s basically performance art. We need a real connection to plan our day, which, shockingly, involves even more walking. First stop: the High Line, an old train track reborn as a walkway with enough art and greenery to convince you you're experiencing culture instead of slowly wearing down your will to live on foot.

On the way there, Wesley picks the exact “least convenient” moment to fall asleep. The High Line is mostly elevated, so you either haul the stroller up the stairs like a CrossFit couple or find an elevator. We picked “find an elevator,” which led us right back to 30th Street… where the elevator greeted us with an “Out of Order” sign and the faint sound of our will to live evaporating.

Travel with kids requires flexibility.

Travel with kids in New York requires Jedi-level mind control and at least one adult quietly questioning their life choices.

So we pivoted. New plan: start the High Line at the very beginning… ground level, no stairs, no sudden “why is this uphill now?” surprises. And honestly? It worked in our favor.

Starting from the beginning meant we got our first real look at the Vessel: a massive, honeycomb-looking structure surrounded by glass and steel. It’s beautiful and strange and the kind of thing only New York would build. Not because it needed to. Just because it could.

And for a moment, everyone was walking, no one was complaining, and the city felt like it was meeting us halfway.

Wesley wakes up right around this time, which is perfect, because the High Line is fully enclosed. Translation: he and Lola can run wild without us yelling “Car! Car! CAR!” every eight seconds like malfunctioning backup alarms.

They burn energy at a truly glorious rate, and for a brief, shining stretch of time, no one is actively trying to die in traffic.

Every once in a while, we stumble into an art installation. One of them is a giant pink leg with tongues sticking out of it, parked beside a bench-powered pink pedal contraption. If you pedal fast enough, it shoots water out of the top of the leg. Like some kind of hydration-themed fever dream no one asked for, but everyone is now responsible for understanding. If that sounds weird, it’s because it is. New York is deeply committed to its brand.

Another feature along the High Line is a gigantic pigeon. Wesley, brave in all things except large birds, takes one look and decides today is not the day. No chasing. No eye contact. Just quiet respect and a wide berth.

We do manage to get a family photo, though, thanks to a New Yorker who casually accepts our phone like this is a completely normal interaction and we’re not total strangers. She even throws in recommendations on what to see, when to go, where to eat like we didn’t just meet thirty seconds ago and immediately outsource our entire itinerary to her.

Honestly? It felt very New York in the best possible way.

We finish the High Line and take the elevator down toward Chelsea Market, aiming for the famously good Los Tacos. Naturally, we arrive at peak lunch chaos with lines everywhere, noise at full volume, children operating entirely on vibes.

While I wait for our food, Sophie embarks on a full seats-and-table quest, weaving through the crowd with quiet determination and zero hesitation. I don’t ask questions. I just trust the process.

Somehow, it works. The universe just knows by now what Sophie wants Sophie gets.

Six tacos and two quesadillas later, we officially declare it a win.

Escaping the maze that is Chelsea Market, we trek toward the Charging Bull in the Financial District. Sophie, once again, finds a path around the worst of the lineups.

The kids immediately attack the bull like it’s a playground. They photobomb strangers. They tackle the legs. They crawl underneath. And yes… they touch the golden testicles.

We acknowledge the moment. We accept what has happened. And then we leave. Promptly as disembodied voices accuse us of skipping the line.

Time for the free ferry. As we reach the Staten Island Ferry terminal, one is already pulling in, perfect timing. We join the massive second-level crowd, the doors open, and the whole thing moves forward like a very polite stampede.

We grab window seats on the left. The kids stare out almost the entire ride, no snacks requested, no questions asked, no one climbing anything they shouldn’t. Just pure, peaceful entertainment.

Bliss. Just kidding. They were climbing on and off the bench and trying to run the entire time.

On Staten Island, we disembark, take a few steps, turn around, and immediately line up again. The return trip is where it really pays off. This time we’re ready, and we get much better photos of the Statue of Liberty, mostly because now we know when to look out.

Back in Manhattan, we wander into Battery Park and find the SeaGlass Carousel, glowy, musical, and best described as an underwater rave designed exclusively for children. Lola, Sophie, and Wesley hop into a fish and go for a spin, fully committed to the experience. I stand back, mildly overstimulated, quietly humming Under the Sea like this was all part of the plan.

The real reason we came, though, is the playground Sophie’s dad recommended. It’s an instant hit. The slides are stone and surprisingly fast.

The park is designed to survive future storms, which is comforting, especially since our children test structural integrity like it’s a hobby. The curved slide is the clear favorite. Mom and Dad take a turn too. I come out of it moving so fast I’m pretty sure I break the space-time continuum, briefly visit my younger self, and scream “BRING A CHANGE OF UNDERWEAR” before being snapped violently back into the present.

The sun starts to drop, which feels like our cue to head back. None of us are particularly interested in discovering New York at night with two toddlers, so we grab our first subway to Times Square to catch the bus to New Jersey.

On the train, as meltdowns start to materialize I change the mood by entertaining the kids with a routine involving Lola’s shoe, mostly dramatic sniffing and over-the-top reactions like I’ve uncovered a crime scene. Big laughs. Zero dignity. Classic dad content. Powered entirely by infinite love and a complete lack of shame.

Before leaving the city with its actual, functioning food options, we stop for dinner. The kids order udon-sized spaghetti with butter, which arrives carrying the same bad attitude as the staff who served it.

We pivot and grab a 7th Street cheeseburger and fries instead, helped along by an owner who is genuinely friendly, patient, and somehow still cheerful. The contrast is wild.

The burger and fries are so good we immediately stop pretending we’re not sharing. The pasta is not a hit, somehow tasting exactly like the attitude it came with. A small glimpse of the darker side of New York, served al dente.

Trying not to repeat yesterday’s transit disaster, we ask for help, actual helpful help this time. With more details provided, we get confidently pointed toward the 125 bus.

Unfortunately, it is not a Greyhound-style bus. Which means the stroller must be collapsed, the kids must be held, and we must inconvenience absolutely everyone, including ourselves. The ride takes fifteen minutes. It feels like ten hours of suffering, carefully compressed into a single metal tube… shaken, not stirred.

The kids crash into bed instantly. We enjoy another internet-less night in the dark, counting paint chips on the wall like it’s a competitive sport. Another win for the parents. Another full day in the city without catastrophe.

We tend to our sore feet, our sore everything, and get ready for some very deserved rest.

Bread and butter awaits at dawn. Yayyy. Cant wait.