24 Hours in New York: Highlines, Hangovers, and a Surprise Love Affair with the Raiders

The High Line, But Make It Summer

I started where any semi-respectable urban explorer might: The High Line—an old elevated rail track turned garden in the sky. I’d been here in winter when the wind had teeth. This time? July. Wildflowers spilling over rusted steel, art installations lurking around corners, tourists herded like caffeinated sheep with selfie sticks.

I strolled. I admired. I judged shoes. I contemplated stealing a flower. I didn’t. Growth.

Coal-Oven Salvation at Lombardi’s

By late afternoon, the heat turned me into a sweaty doughball in dire need of air‑con and a pizza the size of a satellite dish. Enter Lombardi’s—America’s first pizzeria. We were four; we ordered a pie meant for six or seven. The coal‑oven char, the clingy cheese, the tangy, herby sauce—it was a loving shout from a Sicilian grandmother. Alliances were formed, broken, and reformed over the last slice. No regrets.

Golden Hour Wandering

We drifted through streets in a blissed‑out sodium haze. Cameras up, we shot shadowy stoops, neon diners, and a dog in a stroller wearing sunglasses. New York is a playground for the semi‑sober shutterbug.

Accidental Raiders Fan at Dillon’s Pub

We “accidentally” wandered into Dillon’s, a dive bar that smelled faintly of hops and poor decisions. Surprise: it’s a Raiders bar—black‑and‑silver flags, football highlights looping like scripture. I don’t really care about American football, but after a couple beers and three high‑fives, I was yelling like I’d been born in Oakland. My voice dropped an octave. I chest‑bumped someone. I considered buying a jersey.

The Cop

Hours later, drunk on camaraderie and Coors Light, I stumbled into the night with purpose and zero idea where my hotel was. Then I met him: a Michelangelo statue in NYPD blues—broad shoulders, five o’clock shadow, voice like gravel dipped in espresso. I asked for directions, slurring just enough to seem charming. He laughed, clapped my back, and pointed: “Walk straight. Don’t make any more friends tonight.”

I didn’t. Probably.

Matzo Ball Redemption

Morning arrived like a slap from a wet subway map. Head pounding, stomach staging a coup, I sought salvation at Carnegie Deli. Yes, the original closed—nostalgia has a satellite. I ordered matzo ball soup like a man on a mission. Golden broth, fluffy carb moon of redemption. By the last spoonful, I was reborn.

Final Thoughts

New York doesn’t ask permission. In 24 hours, it fed me coal‑fired pizza, turned me into a Raiders fan, assigned me a granite‑jawed guardian angel, and tucked me back to life with soup. If you’ve only got a day—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.