Last summer we took our first trip to New York.

I faithfully studied the Frommer’s Guide to New York City With Kids to find the perfect place to park our suburban family for the two-day trip. The financial district turned out to be surprisingly low-key and family friendly over the weekend. Despite our tourist status, it didn’t take long to feel like New Yorkers.

I even figured out the subway. The first day we easily found our way onto the red line, headed to the Museum of Natural History. I smugly watched another family openly consulting the Frommer’s guide I’d wisely tucked into my backpack. Rookies. We bounced along until my son inexplicably hopped up and walked off the train at Canal Street—a full 673 blocks early. He had one foot on the platform before I sprung from my seat and pulled him back in. Crisis averted. Heart rate down.

“I could totally live here,” I said, more to myself than anyone else.

My husband rolled his eyes.

I held onto my son until we safely reached the museum, where following my carefully crafted itinerary we saw as many of the most important exhibits as possible. (Including an unplanned sighting of Carolina Herrera, next to a panorama of Great Plains—and yes, her white shirt is crisper than yours.) When it was time for lunch we found the perfect pizza place exactly where the book had promised.

“I could totally live here,” I said later, watching my kids play air guitar on a rock in Central Park.

“You think?” My husband wasn’t convinced.

That next day we took a tour of the harbor and ate overpriced pasta on Pier 16. Afterwards we walked along the waterfront of Battery Park City, an area full of Frisbee, dogs, and strollers. The guidebook had highlighted the playground just two blocks from our hotel as a key perk of the location. Once again, Frommer’s didn’t disappoint.

Our children swung in the tires, climbed the rope net, and slid down the fireman’s pole with real city kids while my husband and I found a bench to relax and keep an eye on them. With the sun setting, and the slightest chill in the air—just enough to bring us closer together on the bench—we felt completely at home. Like a couple of locals.

“I could totally live here,” I told my husband again.

“Nah.” He reminded me that everything we owned in suburbia—the house, the cars, the boat, the stainless steel refrigerator—would buy us approximately six hundred square feet in New York City.

As we enjoyed our last night in the city, vowing to come back soon, three very cool teen-aged girls—the kind you might see on one of those reality shows I’m too old to know the name of—approached the playground equipment. The tallest, longest-haired, hottest-bodied of the three immediately grasped the pole directly in front of us and began demonstrating to her friends how to work it. Twirling, sliding, grinding. Clearly, she had practice. My husband squirmed, simultaneously watching and averting his eyes. I searched my pockets for ones.

“Huh,” I said. “That wasn’t in the guidebook.”

The closest thing we have to this kind of entertainment in the suburbs is when an Arbor Mist loving girlfriend hosts one of those parties where you’re supposed to buy your own personal stripper pole and install it in your bedroom. (Because your children certainly would never ask, hey mom, why’re you hanging off that pole?) A friend of mine recently had one built into her new house from the upstairs down into the laundry room. She calls it a fireman’s pole, swears it’s for the kids to slide down. Right, that’s why the laundry room also has a chaise lounge and a deadbolt.

Anyway, the free show continued for some time as the beta girls took turns emulating their erotic alpha. It didn’t bother me, so long as my daughter was oblivious. And when my husband recovered from his initial shock, he turned to me and said,

"I could totally live here."



(Lela can be found at her fabulous blog,  AFTER THE BUBBLY.)

PS: The beautiful recycled art is courtesy of Brooklyn artist Ben Boyland.