Finally, I’ve caught my breath long enough to sit down and tell you about my wild, nerve-racking trip to New York City. Honestly, it was like jumping into the deep end of a pool filled with caffeine and chaos. So much happened so fast that I was basically running on nervous energy—no sleep, no rest, just pure adrenaline. I kept telling myself I didn’t want to wake up and realize it was all just a dream, but honestly, I was so busy that sleep was a distant fantasy.
My adventure kicked off at JFK, after a quick connection from San Francisco. The airport looked like it hadn’t been upgraded since the 80s—like a relic that forgot to retire. But hey, it got me where I needed to go, and sometimes, in life, not everything shiny and new is necessary.
As I stepped outside into the bustling chaos, I was relieved to see a man holding a sign with my name—not smiling, but definitely professional. For a split second, I felt like I was about to be whisked off to some glamorous rendezvous. That is until he suddenly swooped in, grabbed my bags, and started walking at a pace that made me want to jog just to keep up.
While waiting at the crosswalk (which felt like waiting for a traffic light to turn green in slow motion), I took a moment to observe the scene outside. A line of yellow cabs jostled for position, drivers shouting colorful language that would make a sailor blush. It was chaos, but in a charming, New York kind of way.
Then, just as I was getting comfortable, I was once again thrust into action—chasing after my mysterious chauffeur through a dimly lit parking garage, lugging my suitcase like a reluctant hero in a low-budget action film. Heart pounding, I was so relieved when he finally stopped at a sleek black town car and held the door open like I was some fancy celebrity.
The ride into Manhattan turned out to be surprisingly pleasant. At first, I thought my driver had a New Jersey accent, but it turned out he was from Staten Island—an honest-to-God local, and quite nice to boot.
As we cruised past familiar sights, he pointed out areas I’d heard about but never seen. Brooklyn looked cool and artsy, while Jamaica Town looked just as vibrant but apparently isn’t on most tourists’ radar. “Not a bad area,” he said, “but don’t tell the tourists.” I couldn’t help but think, “Great, I’m in the city that never sleeps, and I’m already being initiated into the insider knowledge.”
When we finally arrived at the hotel, I was greeted with what felt like a welcome fit for royalty—over-the-top friendliness, smiles so wide they could hurt. I kept thinking, “What’s the catch?” The front desk staff’s politeness was so exaggerated I half expected them to break into song. They went on about how they’d been expecting me all day, how they hoped everything was perfect, and even offered to deliver a parcel that had arrived for me—like I was some VIP.
I stood there, blinking in confusion, clutching my room key that read “Manhattan Suite,” and wondered, “Just how big is this production?”
Opening the door to my room was like stepping into a dream—or maybe a movie set. Two full stories of windows showcased the entire Manhattan skyline—the city that never sleeps, right outside my window. I stood there, mouth agape, feeling like I’d just won the lottery or was about to star in my own reality TV show.
When the porter asked if I needed anything else, I nearly shouted, “Yes! I want to stay forever!” But instead, I fumbled for a couple of twenties, threw them his way, and tried not to look too starstruck.
The room was so fancy I kept thinking, “How did I get here?” I mean, I’m just a small-town girl, and somehow, I was now in a luxury hotel, with a view so stunning I could cry.
I wanted to jump onto the plush bed, call all my friends, and brag about my “big city adventure.” But instead, I had to unpack—my trusty suitcase, packed with everything I thought I’d need for a big moment.
As I sat there soaking in the skyline, there was a knock on the door. I opened it to find the same cheerful front desk clerk, now holding a large cardboard box. I slipped him twenty dollars, grateful for his efforts, and he placed the box on the front desk with a knowing smile. I gave him a quick “thank you,” trying my best not to seem too eager. Inside was my shiny new FemSkin IV—so light I was convinced it was secretly a feather. I couldn’t wait to try it on, standing in front of those giant windows, feeling like I was about to make a major debut.
I spent the evening trying on outfits, imagining myself on the big screen, and pondering deep questions like, “Why am I doing this?” and “Where the hell is my hairbrush and razors?” Ah, yes—the eternal struggle. It’s always the little things you forget, like your hairbrush, and in my case, razors. I swear I went over my packing list a dozen times, yet somehow, those items always get left behind. So I called down to the front desk, and within moments, they sent up replacements. Relief washed over me—I was saved from becoming the bearded woman on national television.
Then came makeup time. I took my sweet time, especially on my eyes—half an hour of careful, deliberate application to avoid gluing my eyelids shut. By the end, I looked in the mirror and thought, “Wow, I actually look like I know what I’m doing.” Standing there, in front of the expansive windows, I took a deep breath and whispered, “Okay, Sarah Luv, ready or not, here we go.”
This was more than just a trip; it was a turning point.
My life was about to change forever, all thanks to a city that never sleeps, a hotel that made me feel like a star, and a moment of boldness I never knew I had. And honestly? I wouldn’t trade it for anything.