I could attempt to compile the weekend experiences into a single, cohesive story, but exhaustion-induced scatterbrain would result in something like the following:

I worried that I'd forgotten to lock the car and then I was staring at the mirror through vibrant, teal-lined eyes before the alarm went off at 5 a.m. and prompted a chorus of "Oh, fuck you, Jason." The bartender at the brewery commiserated about the Yankees game because he was from Massachusetts after I felt a cold cup placed against my bare back. The cupcake tasted better at midnight after we walked down the pathway next to the stage as the Take It Easy Buddies were doing soundcheck.

So, instead, I'm going to break it up into mini-story form. Including some of the bits I scribbled into my notebook during the weekend.
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On the train from Stamford to Grand Central Station, a little girl is dozing in her stroller. She tried so valiantly to stay awake, but her head now rests against her mother's arm; Mommy is also holding her sleeping hand.

The backdrop has shifted from trees and small buildings to trees, hotels and building space. I have the aisle seat, so I don't know if the skyline has become visible, but I like to imagine it looms ahead of our ambling train, a mass of shadowy blue in the distance. I will the train to approach it with increasing speed.

"Local train to New York," comes the call over the speakers as we start and stop and start again. With each stop, it becomes increasingly real to me that I'm actually here.

Near here, anyway.
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You get in line and stand there so you can be allowed into a space and stand there. If you're lucky, you get to move into another space and stand there awhile longer. By the time you're through, you've been penned and corralled, feeling entirely bovine. You can hear the news, but don't really see it unless you've a view of the small televisions near the corner of the studio building. It's clearly a slow newsday.

You already know what the band will play - your walk from the hotel several blocks away included a pathway by the stage, where Jason and company were conducting soundcheck. "The Remedy," "Wordplay" and "Please Don't Tell Her." You realize you were right in predicting two out of the three and are pleasantly pleased to have been wrong about the last. The skies were just beginning to brighten as you took your place in line - and several hundred people stretched out in a line behind you. There was much smaller number of people in front of you, and you silently thank the group you're with for making that possible.

You squeeze forward with the rest of the horde trying to get into the VIP section when the gate was opened, and you're the last to squeak through when they close the doors. You're closer, you have more room to breathe and you realize you'll have to actively avoid the cameras, but you don't really care at this point. The band rehearses "The Remedy" and Jason remarks that when it goes live, the audience should be singing along at this point. You don't realize at the time that the whole exchange was broadcast, and you sing along to the words you've heard for years upon years, ignoring the surprise that he'll apparently start with an old song while supporting a new album.

Then they actually perform, and the three-plus hours you've been standing there, listening to repeat news about a woman billing her husband for a dissolved marriage, melt away. You're singing along to the songs, standing on tiptoe to snap a shot of Bill or Toca or Ian or Eric or Jason or whoever else the camera happens to catch. Your friends are singing along next to you, also adding the little riffs that you know Jason will add, and you have to laugh and duck away as the camera catches The Post It Girls standing next to you. You're just there for the experience and the music and the chance to enjoy seeing him before the fall tour. And then the songs are over and you're standing around with friends, watching the crew pack up the equipment and convert the staging area to the alley it usually is. When you walk by a couple of hours later, there's little standing out to make it clear that a mini-concert was held there earlier in the morning.

This is The Today Show.
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Every third person in Union Square was carrying huge bundles of sunflowers. I tried to snap a discreet photo of the gigantic floral clusters, but instead captured an endless series of elbows and heads. I never would make it as a papparazzi, I suppose.

The farmers' market was in full swing. We made a loop around the park and I took pictures of the contrast between grass and granite. There was a traditional mailbox attached to the trunk of a tree, far above the reach of postal workers and seemingly without an owner waiting to receive the latest junk mail. The humorous installation made me laugh, and another walking nearby stared at me as if I was the crazy person who'd hammered the mailbox there in the first place.

I took a sip of Michelle's raspberry cider as we approached the brewery for lunch and beer (or, in my case, hard cider and chambord). We lined up at the bar, directly below the Yankees game, and several of us groaned upon seeing Jeter's smug face in the batter's box. The bartender noticed our grimaces and asked if we were Sox fans. Five out of six - our Midwestern member abstained - nodded, and the bartender (charming, with dark hair, dark eyes and easy smile) laughed. He'd grown up in Massachusetts and felt our pain.

I suddenly liked New York all the more.
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I stared into the mirror. My eyes were lined in dark, teal green.

"Whoa."

The stylist clucked, and I quickly assured her that it wasn't that I didn't like it, it was just incredibly different.

But hell, if this wasn't the time to try something different, when was?

The girls, each made up and lovely, blinked as they saw me. "Whoa."

I began to count down the moments until I could wash it off.

"No, that looks amazing." L1 grinned.

"Those are Fuck Me Eyes. So V, what are you doin later?" said L2, making me burst into laughter.

Screw it. I was going to have fun with this.
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We missed Honestly, which disappointed me, but we arrived at the club just as Averi finished their first song. I walked into the performance space, expecting to have to walk about to get a good spot, but the room was tiny. Walking from the back to the front, with a stop at the bar, required about eight paces. I was near the stage, vodka cran in hand, in no time.

Of the seven of us (new New Yorker J had come to join us), only three had seen the band before. But it seemed that they all enjoyed the sound. They were treated to a great introductory performance - the band was on. Michael and Stu coupled for a sax/guitar duet during "Empty Pages" that left me grinning like an idiot and made me realize just how happy I was to have seen the band's progression over the years. The set was short, but packed with energy and flair. The crowd eagerly clamored for more.

It felt wonderful, being in a new place, surrounded by new friends and old, seeing a familiar band in a completely unfamiliar context. Not to mention that I felt great. Self-empowerment, loving yourself and all that are great in theory, but sometimes you just need a halter top, heels and eyeliner to make you feel ready to take on the world.

And then the headliner started. We later discovered that the seven of us each individually cringed with the opening chords, but didn't necessarily want to come out and say it.

The bar in the other room began to look really good.
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I actually like Red Stripe. A beer.

I know. I was amazed by it too. I actually remarked on it as I stood in the bar, taking surprised sips from the bottle J had handed me as she went outside.

Shortly thereafter, though, I set the bottle on the bar and made my own way for the door. I had planned on sticking around for a bit longer; my friends were going to be awhile as they figured out what would come up next. I wanted to finish my inherited beer and the conversation.

Because, quite frankly, I was enjoying both - the conversation most of all.

But a moment later, I had to force myself to not have a look of complete surprise on my face, said, "Um, okaaaaay. Bye." and headed for the Village instead.

Huh.
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Near Grand Central, we were looking about for somewhere to grab a quick bite to eat before embarking on the trip home. It felt bizarre, the weekend already being over. I realized how much I'd been looking forward to it, how much I'd been enjoying it. Suddenly it started to dawn on me that I had to get back to normal.

And that I was going to be exhausted the next day.

"I want to find some Jamaican," K said as we carried our bags about. "But I know I won't be able to find it."

"I want to find a Chipotle," I said with a sigh. "But I have no idea where they all are around here."

As we crossed the street, K looked at buildings stretching down into the distance.

"Jamba - Hey, there's a Chipotle!"

I quickly looked over. Right next to the Jamba Juice was the familiar silver lettering. I grinned, and K laughed.

"Let's go."

DIY is good. But as I took a bite into my first real Chicken Fajita Burrito in about 10 months, I realized that DIY ain't got nothin on the real thing.

Mmmmm.

I sent Beth a quick text message, as I knew she'd be amused.

"Eating Chipotle. SWOON."

I had managed to do everything I'd hoped I would do in New York. Save one, that is.
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I realized as we rode on the train back to Connecticut that I, lover of all skylines, never took in the sight of a shadowy New York skyline.

It seemed appropriate. It was an characteristically uncharacteristic weekend.

I closed my eyes, leaned back against the seat and thanked the city.

It had been fun to step out. And I felt a bit different leaving.

For the better.