“What the fuck did you do in Brussels?” my dad mouthed at me as I was pulled into the cold little immigration room at New York airport…

It’s been a year since my trip to NYC, and I haven’t written a thing about it – mainly because I was there with my family for my cousin’s baby shower and general shenanigans -so, naturally, everything went according to the plan without any of the utter fucking carnage that usually follows me on all my holidays. So without any chaos to report, I’ve not really had anything write about.

I mean, I could have written about each individual thing we did in the five days we were there – but it would be a lot of “yeaahhhhh so we did that. It was really good, you know. Maybe do it?” Which frankly nobody really wants to be bored with. Or maybe you do? Have you heard of Trip Advisor?

New York, to summarise, is amazing. Especially if you love big cities, which, incidentally, I do.


Hire a bike in Central Park if you’re going – that’s really important because it’s fun. Go to the posh chocolate shops on 5th Avenue because seriously they just GIVE YOU FREE CHOCOLATE as you walk in without you actually buying jack shit. Drink in rooftop bars like 230 Fifth for the gorgeous views, but also drink in daft Irish bars because they’re more fun and Irish people are hot, (that reminds me, I haven’t told you about our three day bender in Dublin have I… bear with me on that one.) Eat $2 giant pizza slices because YOLO and walk around the city with a Starbucks before 9am if you can cos it’s peaceful AF.


Anyway, the holiday was great, the first few hours, on the other hand, I mostly spent pissed the fuck off.

After a horror flight via Icelandic airways, which included a 5 hour delay in an airport that sold nothing but schnapps and troll figurines, (but, credit where credit’s due, had the nicest airport toilet I have ever seen in my life) we finally touched down in Newark airport, hungry and jet-lagged, where my cousin was waiting outside to take us to his to meet his beautiful pregnant girlfriend for the first time. 

One by one we made our way through customs, me at the back dragging my heels. All they had to do was scan my fingerprint and we were on the home straight to grab our bags and bail… but nothing is ever simple, is it?

“Miss Nixon please come with us” – I didn’t even get a chance to ask why as they bundled me into the cold immigration room.

You know that feeling when you wake up after a night out, and for a second you forget that you were mangled the night before… then it hits you like a tonne of bricks and you grab your phone desperately searching for embarrasing texts/evidence to piece the night together? Well I had the exact same feeling as I sat in that immigration room, racking my brain as to what the fuck I had done to end up there.


“Ohhhh what the fuck is my actual life” I thought as I stared at the muted TV showing reruns of Modern Family.

The sound of a woman screaming something in Spanish at one of the guards was welcomed restbite from the hysterical crying  from the woman to my left that had been echoing around the room for the last 45 minutes. On my right is a white fella with dreadlocks and a teardrop tattoo on his cheek. Then there was me. In my little snapback hat. Trying to look calm and collected but feeling anything but.

Three hours they held me there, without speaking a word to me. Three hours my entire family sat outside musing about what atrocity I had committed. Three fucking hours. And why…

“Did you lose your passport in 2007 Miss Nixon?” 

“Erm, yes, In a club – I used to use it as ID before I got my driving lisence.”

“OK good, we just needed to check, you’re free to go.”

And that was it. Talk about making a mountain out of a molehill, Jesus.

So in Summary; when it comes to the Big Apple – free chocolate good, immigration bad.

Until next time… x



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