Most teenagers hate family holidays, but for Eva O'Connorthe lure of the Big Apple proved too hard to resist
MY FRIENDS TELL ME that once you hit 17 it's officially pathetic to go on holidays with your family. What self-respecting teenager would forgo a free gaff, a well-stocked drinks cabinet and the thrill of sleeping in their parents' bed with that boy they don't approve of? Why intern yourself under the noses of your next-of-kin for 14 tortuous days? Well, this year I came up with two first-class reasons: God blessed me with a surprisingly bearable family; and the holiday destination in question was the sweetest three letters ever strung together - NYC.
I am known to get a tad overexcited. I generally don't sleep a wink for the two months before Christmas. Yet my excitement about New York was on a whole other scale. I was so hyper I barely noticed the seven-hour delay in Shannon or the baby in the seat next to me who screamed constantly. As I stepped off the aircraft I omitted a squeal generally reserved for OMG-there's-a-spider-in-the-bath moments. I simply couldn't wait to taste it all - even the thick smog hanging over the skyline.
The porter in the apartment block just happened to mention as he was leading us to our penthouse that Lindsay Lohan was a permanent resident in the building. As I surveyed the panoramic view of the city from my bedroom - Hudson Bay in the distance, the Statue of Liberty a tiny figure on the horizon, Times Square far below - I vowed from then on to cut my mother some slack.
After a breakfast of syrupy pancakes, over-easy eggs and enough sloppy coffee refills to have me bouncing off the walls we set off for Central Park, where my mother fell prey to two smooth-talking dudes who offered to cut her a special deal: "Just for you ma'am, 50 bucks for five bikes for an hour."
I didn't bother drawing her attention to the fact that the family before us had hired the same bikes for half the price or that none of us actually fancied cycling in 40-degree heat.
It was worth every cent, though: pedalling through the park was a fabulous, if slightly sweaty, experience. I kept seeing familiar benches, bridges and views and by the end was convinced that every movie contained at least one leafy shot of Central Park.
Our first taste of NYC retail therapy was at Bloomingdale's. We stepped inside an air-conditioned hive of make-up artistry and I was immediately pounced on by a voluptuous beautician, who plucked my eyebrows with such vigour that I'm still waiting for them to grow back. "I'm from Ireland, too," she announced with a thick American twang as she attacked me with her tweezers. She went on to explain that her "great-grammy" had been from Co Tipperary but that she herself had never been to Ireland. "Going to Europe is so expensive these days. I'd rather spend my money on bags and fancy underwear."
Later that evening we went to see The Lion King on Broadway. It is rare, if not unknown, for me to be stuck for words, but I'm having difficulty describing just how magical the show was. I cried. I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck. And I barely managed to remain in my seat, such was the intensity of my urge to take to the stage as a singing, dancing jungle animal.
Had it been an exclusively girlie trip we would have done nothing but shop. You could easily spend a solid week in Macy's alone and still not make it to the second floor.
Although I was less than ecstatic about my dad insisting that we see the sights, and not spend 24 hours in the shops, in hindsight I am grateful he did.
We visited the American Immigrant Wall of Honor on Ellis Island and endured airport-style security to visit Lady Liberty. We went to a Robert Plant concert at Madison Square Garden, which was probably wasted on me - after a few songs my mind began to wander to all those shops I still hadn't visited.
The wonderfully flamboyant Greenwich Village was a definite highlight. I was enthralled by the camp homeless men and super-stylish drag queens swaggering along the sidewalk. I braved Chinatown alone - and came out unscathed, bearing fake designer bags and bottles of rip-off perfume. We booked tickets to every conceivable art museum but didn't get around to any of them.
I always knew the time would come when I had to return home, but it still didn't make it any less heartbreaking. I had finally cracked the subway and could navigate the symmetrical city streets without ending up in some dodgy ghetto. I simply couldn't understand why my parents didn't jump at my financially ingenious idea (considering the ridiculously good exchange rate) of upping sticks and relocating to the US.
Perhaps my fling with Manhattan was a mere summer romance, a brief infatuation. For the moment, though, New York has stolen my heart. Somehow I'll have to put it to one side and concentrate on the State-sponsored torture regime known as the Leaving Cert. But I promise you, New York, I'll be back. Please wait for me.
• Eva O'Connor is an 18-year-old Leaving Cert student from Ogonnelloe, Co Clare. She is studying at Wesley College, Dublin
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