Neil Diamond

Our weekend getaway to New York was over. When I woke up on Sunday morning, I was a walking zombie. I had spent the past two days running all over God’s creation shopping, eating, then shopping more, and eating more. We had all been to New York City before. My mom, Aunt Amy (we call her Titsy, don’t ask), and my cousin Christina took this trip seriously as a shop-till-you-drop (and literally drop) weekend getaway.

First, we hit Fifth Avenue. We looked a little less Carrie Bradshaw and more like obvious tourists strapped down with large bags and a map of the hop-on hop-off bus stops. Of course, we had to go to Tiffany’s. Christina already mapped out her purchase. Tiffany’s in New York has multiple floors so we waited for an elevator. The elevator opened and a tall, good-looking guy dressed in a spiffy suit held the door open for us.

“What floor?”

“Two,” replied the man standing with his girlfriend. We went on the floor where all the silver jewelry was. Then the elevator man gave us the rundown of what was on each of the floors.

“Floor two. Engagement rings, wedding rings. Good luck to you, sir,” he said smiling.

We ventured to Little Italy and China Town the next day. Once again, Christina had a plan. Find the most “real-looking” knock off Louis Vuitton bag. Next thing I know, we’re being ushered through some random hole in the wall (literally, a hole in the wall), up a very tall flight of steps, to a hot steamy makeshift store in an old apartment. This is it, I thought, this is the end of me.

Another day and another marathon around the city, we ended our trip with breakfast at the Carnegie Deli. Although I was tired and hungry, I walked in proudly sporting my favorite purchase of the weekend—a black t-shirt with “Italian Girls Best in the World, Little Italy, New York” written in hot pink letters. “A lot of famous people eat here” was Christina’s reasoning for why we had to have breakfast at the Carnegie. It had been on Food Network, and is famous for the mile high sandwiches and a monstrosity of a cheesecake (literally, they’re six inches thick).

We sat down, ordered, and started babbling about a bunch of nothing until Christina noticed a recognizable character eating lox and bagels.

“That guy is famous,” she said, “who is that?” My mom and I had our backs to the unknown celebrity and didn’t want to rudely stare.

“Oh my god! It’s NEIL DIAMOND!!!” She yelled in some sort of loud whisper, embarrassing us. Neil, caught up in conversation and his lox and bagels, didn’t notice.

You would have thought my mom died and went to heaven. She loves Neil. Christina and my mom went up to Neil, said the traditional “I’m a big fan of yours,” shook his hand, and my aunt and I paid the bill. I could have cared less.