In Which the Tourists Become the Tour Guides

Context: This post is about the sixth day of my New York City trip, which was our fifth day in the city.

On Sunday night, Dr. Godfather texted Older Sister and mentioned that his best friend's son had just moved to New York City for an accounting internship and that the kid was nervous about the whole thing. Dr. Godfather asked if we would be so kind as to meet up with his best friend's son the next evening and take him sightseeing.

Now, Dr. Godfather has worked with our mom for ages, he's an especial friend of our family, and, as a former native of New York City, he offered us extensive advice in planning our trip. We felt obliged to help him out, but that obligation didn't keep Older Sister from freaking out.

"What if Dr. Godfather's best friend's son is weird? What if he's a creep? What if he's really awkward?" We listened to her worries on Monday morning as we all prepared for the day.

After a breakfast graciously provided by our hotel, we took the subway to Battery Park. Near Battery Park, we boarded a ferry heading for the Statue of Liberty. The sky was gray--not rainy, but oppressive in its coloring. It was a little claustrophobic, like the curved dome of the IMAX screen at the Clark Planetarium. And Lady Liberty was, well, green. Smaller than expected. Difficult to see up close. But the ferry ride was lovely all the same.

The second, and final, ferry stop was at Ellis Island.

I once visited Dachau in Germany. The misery that place had seen was palpable. I could feel it everywhere. Likewise, last summer, my family visited the martyrdom site of the prophet Joseph Smith. Once again, I could feel the tragedy in the air. Whatever your personal beliefs may be, innocent men cut down in their prime is always a tragedy.

For some reason, I was expecting to feel that at Ellis Island. I'm not sure why. People did die there, and some families suffered the personal tragedy of parting forever when unhealthy members were sent back to the old country. But a lot of good happened at Ellis Island, too. As not-so-great as the United States could be in the late 1800s and early 1900s, it was infinitely better than what many people left behind. Parts of Ellis Island were definitely unfair and unpleasant, but the overall feeling I got from its halls was hope.

We did a walking tour of the entire museum. This was no small feat, considering we'd pretty much walked the length of Central Park the day before. The end of the tour found us collapsed on a wooden bench in the long upstairs room, listening to the description of the Kissing Post without actually walking over to see it.

We'd estimated that Ellis Island would take up most of our day, but in reality they only have the one building open for exploration. It was not quite lunchtime when we finished our sightseeing and caught the ferry back to Battery Park.

Earlier, we'd seen food stands in Battery Park selling churros. Now that we were done with our tour, we decided to purchase some. Eagerly anticipating the joy of hot fried dough coated in cinnamon and sugar, we forked over our money to the churro stand guy.

So what are churros like in New York City? Well, NYC is famous for all kinds of food: the best cheesecake, the best sushi, the best coal-fire pizza, Manhattan chowder, black-and-white cookies. But they aren't famous for churros, and that's because New York City churros are the worst.

Not joking. It was the worst churro I'd ever had. Maybe New York City lacks sufficient Southwest influence, but they don't seem to understand the concept of fried dough. Our churros were baked, dry, and heavy. They had cream in the middle, which was a nice idea in theory but which didn't really work, and there was only a little sugar sprinkled on top. There was no cinnamon. There was no hot, dripping, greasy goodness. Our disappointment was tantamount.

Little Sister got a chocolate churro with an Oreo cream dipping sauce. She gave me half of hers, and I gave her half of mine. Hers was better than mine, but it was still a blight on the hallowed name of churro.

We then forsook Battery Park and its terrible churros in favor of Wall Street. Stock market Wall Street. Let's-occupy-it Wall Street. National Treasure "heere on the wall" Wall Street. In fact, we stopped at Trinity Church. Whether there actually are catacombs with secret passages beneath this church, I do not know, but we examined the burial grounds behind the church. I walked around three-fourths of the cemetery, appreciating the history and thinking quiet thoughts. The next day, I learned that Alexander Hamilton is buried in the fourth of the cemetery that I didn't explore. I will forever regret not seeing his grave, because Alexander Hamilton is a boss.

We decided to eat lunch on Wall Street, which is fancier than it sounds. Our joint of choice bore the name "The Variety Café," which it lived up to exceedingly well. There was a buffet of all kinds of hot food, including several different kinds of Asian cuisine (score!). There was also soup, sandwiches, salad, drinks, desserts, and so on and so forth. The other diners included what looked like business people, with their slacks and ties and laptops, and the staff included a friendly soup guy who asked us where we were from and told us about his experience skiing in Alta.

After lunch, the 9/11 Memorial. There, I found the misery that Ellis Island lacked.

9/11 is an American tragedy that I actually lived through. I remember the panic and the general confusion of a nation aghast. I remember seeing things on TV that I didn't understand but which people told me that I would remember for the rest of my life and that I should share with my children and grandchildren.

Now I was up close and personal.

Older Sister accompanied Glory in her meandering while Little Sister and I went on ahead. The museum descends into the foundations of the original World Trade Center, so down we climbed, meeting horror after horror after horror. Twisted wreckage; children's clothes collected from the downed planes; papers that floated on the wind from the gaping holes in the towers.

I got sniffly as a matter of course; Little Sister was still in the grip of her cold so she was extra sniffly. In the middle of the museum was a labyrinth-like structure that had a display that told the entire story of 9/11. It was very cool, but difficult to navigate.

Towards the end, Little Sister said, "Hic." Which looks harmless enough in print but which was actually a big ginormous hiccup. Little Sister had suddenly contracted a case of the loudest hiccups the world has ever heard. Ridiculousness ensued as we tried to find an exit so that we could rush out and leave people to their quiet personal mourning.

Our plans that night were to eat dinner at the Shake Shack and take in the view from the Top of the Rock. With much reluctance, Older Sister invited Dr. Godfather's best friend's son aka Peeta to join us for dinner and our tourist excursion.

Peeta said he would head to the Shake Shack and that we would know him because he was wearing a suit. Sure enough, when we arrived at the line stretching out of the Shake Shack and into the streets of New York, there was a guy in a suit saving us a spot halfway through the line.

They don't call me Awkward Mormon Girl for nothing. I find interacting with other humans to be quite awkward, so I was surprised at how well all of us got along with Peeta. He chatted with us amiably as we waited in line and ate our food (my burger was too salty; my concrete was to die for).

On the way out of the restaurant, Little Sister got the hiccups again. An extremely alarmed Shake Shack worker thought she was dying and offered to save her life by performing the Heimlich on her. Little Sister said, "I just have weird hiccups," which led to the worker expounding his philosophy about mortality to us. He said that he ate too much Shake Shack food, which was bad for him, but "I'd rather die happy than skinny."

Peeta acted like this conversation was a matter of course. He even joined us for a picture with our new Shake Shack friend.

We then headed to the Top of the Rock, which for all you yahoos means the top of the Rockefeller Center. As we headed that direction, Peeta mentioned that he'd been to New York City before. In fact, he had friends living in New York City whom he was planning to hang out with later that night.

It occurred to us that Dr. Godfather wanted Peeta to look out for us more than he wanted us to look out for Peeta. Sneaky Dr. Godfather.

At the Rockefeller Center, we took the elevator to the top and gazed out over the lights of the city that never sleeps.

New York City. What a place.