The Nightlife Review: New York

Harrison Malkin delivers an ode to the Mets.

The night starts in Hell’s Kitchen, but doesn’t usually end there. It’s loud, all the tourists are out. I generally like the energy, but need to move to another place. So I take the subway to see some baseball. For me, it’s always the Mets. And this summer, I’ve lived out my childhood dreams. I’ll go once or twice a week, for the full game, or even a few innings. I’ll go with friends, or by myself, because it feels, in one word—comforting.

I walk a little bit from my apartment, take the E to Jackson Hts-Roosevelt Av. then hop on the 7 line to Citi Field. I eat a few hot dogs—on dollar dog night, I had six—and try to stay cool. It’s another sweaty, spring night.

“Agua, agua, ice cold water,” the vendor yells.

It’s Fleet Week—the stadium and city is full of young Navy, Marine Corps, and Coast Guard guys. I think about starting a conversation, but don’t.

The Mets don’t win. The loss is heartbreaking. But the games are like poetry for navigating life.

After the 9th inning, there’s more eating. I take the subway one stop to Flushing—supposedly the fastest-growing Chinatown in the world. Dim sum is on the lineup: shrimp shumai, steamed pork buns. The food takes awhile but is well worth it. It’s empty but somehow rowdy inside.

I go back on the subway to Manhattan, get off at Grand Central. Then get on a Citi Bike. I go east, take a quick pic of Greenpoint and Long Island City glimmering in the East River. Phone’s going to die. Why does this always happen?

I meet my girlfriend and we head to the bodega on the corner of her block—bacon, egg and cheese, with ketchup on a roll. We go to hers, have a drink. It’s already 2 am.

All photos by Harrison Malkin.