1. I mean, obviously. Obviously go to the thing.
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| Just to be safe, it's best to devote the 24 pre-showtime hours that you are in the city anxiously constructing imaginary scenarios that will somehow keep you from the thing. |
2. Okay! You have emerged from the thing both drained and full, destroyed and reborn, having experienced at least two emotions previously unknown to humans. Nothing to do now but return to your hotel and proceed directly to bed for at least--wait, what's that? You went to a matinee? Oh, shoot, I should have told you not to go to a matinee, now you have to go live life in the world for a few hours and that's going to be rough. Well, food time I guess! Try some hot pastrami.
3. And some cheesecake.
Have them bring it all out together so they know you're not playing around.
There are plenty of classic New York venues for these items, when deciding on one just use whatever metric works for you.
4. Can you enter the lottery for the next Hamilton performance yet? Not yet? Oh, okay. Maybe go somewhere very, very tall, I dunno, that seems distracting.
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| The top of the Empire State Building: one part terrifying, three parts too crowded to be romantic, two parts I wish it were Christmastime. |
DAY TWO
1. Enter the Hamilton lottery.
2. Go to Russ & Daughters Cafe. Decide to live here. Like, here. Not the East Village, the cafe itself.
3. If you are an Austinite, you will at this point start to feel inexplicably yet undeniably drawn to Brooklyn. Don't fight this! Go be with your hipster brethren. They have egg creams there.
4. And charming chocolate shops.
5. Okay, listen, time to eat some vegetables, because you are a grown up.
6. Reward your good decision-making skills with a second egg cream.
7. And a small pizza.
8. Lose the Hamilton lottery, because of math.
9. Throw yourself into the arms of another well-regarded production.
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| This will act as a sort of Hamilton methadone. |
10. Retire to bed with a small snack.
