Sister Shenanigans NYC

After Maggie and Sam had both lost their husbands, and their children were grown with families of their own, the sisters decided to buy a home in Peletier, North Carolina—just miles from the green coastal beaches of Emerald Isle. Tucked away on a quiet lot backing up to Croatan National Forest, their home was a modest beach cottage framed by flower beds and a small backyard garden. The front soaked up the sun, while the back stayed shaded, which is why they had two sitting areas with gliders—perfect for coffee, tea, or wine, depending on the hour.

Winters were mild, but summers could be hot and muggy. That’s when they typically packed up and visited their children in Boston, Seattle, or Chicago.

Being in their sixties hadn’t slowed them down much. They spent their days hiking forest trails, kayaking the tributaries, walking the beaches of Emerald Isle, and enjoying drinks at Bar 1957 or the Emerald Club. Life was peaceful—almost unusually uneventful. They were still playful, but their shenanigans had all but stopped.

Hmmmm. Was this just what happened when you got old?

Or was it?

One night, while sitting on the back patio, Sam got a wild hair.

“Let’s go to the airport tomorrow and find the cheapest flight we can,” she said. “We’ll take it wherever it goes. No plans. Just the weekend. We’ll be explorers—adventurers.”

“What?” Maggie laughed. “You mean get on a plane with no reservations, no plans, no idea what’s there? That sounds…” She paused, then grinned. “Absolutely hysterical. Let’s do it!”

They ran inside and each packed a carry-on. With no idea where they were headed, they packed layers for every possible climate. Keeping things casual—no fancy outfits, minimal shoes—tossing in bathing suits just in case. Sharing one toiletry bag (except toothbrushes, of course) and adding earplugs in case they ended up sharing a bed.

They were ready for adventure.

The alarm went off at 7:00 a.m., and they were out the door by 8:00. Excitement buzzed through the Uber on the way to the airport.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Maggie said.

“I can,” Sam replied. “This is exactly the kind of thing we would do. Let’s not tell the kids until we’re back home.”

At Raleigh-Durham Airport, they headed straight to the information desk. Once they explained their scheme, the young woman behind the counter jumped into the search with them.

“No way. No way. There is just no way!” she shouted.

“There’s a no-name airline running a special this month,” she continued. “Fifty dollars to NYC.”

Maggie and Sam stared at her, stunned. Then they jumped up and down, hugging each other—before abruptly stopping as they both peed a little from the excitement.

“Damn being old,” Sam muttered.

“NYC—here we come!”

With a couple of hours before departure, they made their way through security and settled into a bar and sandwich shop. Over drinks, they debated whether they’d packed anything remotely appropriate for New York City.

“We’ll have to improvise,” Maggie said.

“And we can always grab some NYC garb at the Newark airport,” Sam added. “Who cares? We’ll be in New York. It’s been ages. The bagels. Off-Broadway…”

“Italian food, Macy’s, the museums,” Maggie chimed in. “How are we going to fit it all in?”

The flight was smooth, and before they knew it, the Big Apple came into view. Anticipation surged as they passed over MetLife Stadium, home of the Giants and the Jets.

They had arrived.

Sticking to a minimal budget was part of the thrill, so Maggie and Sam opted to stay at a hostel. Yes—a hostel. And yes, they absolutely let sixty-somethings stay there. The Lamartine Chelsea was perfect, located at the corner of 29th Street and 8th Avenue, right in the heart of the city.

They booked a private room—just the sisters. It came with a single set of bunk beds built into the wall and one small side table. The door locked, and that’s what mattered. Bathrooms and showers were communal, as was the kitchen, should they want to cook or reheat food.

They didn’t.

The cabby pulled up to the entrance and asked, “Are you sure this is the right address? This is a hostel, not a hotel.”

“We know,” Sam said.

“Do you know what a hostel is?” he asked in a thick Pakistani accent.

“Yes! We’re here for an adventure,” Maggie added.

“Oh, you shall see an adventure, all right.”

He helped them with their luggage and drove away.

Inside the lobby, they couldn’t help but notice how clean and updated everything looked—modern, hip. Conversations buzzed in languages from all over the world. People from every corner of the globe were here to see NYC. There were a few others in their age bracket, though they seemed to be living more of a hippie flashback—or maybe they were original hippies.

Nonetheless, they checked in and headed to their room.

When the door opened, their eyes widened.

It was the tiniest room they had ever seen. You could barely squeeze in beside the “single” beds. Single what? Clearly not meant for a postmenopausal woman, but this was part of the adventure. There was room under the bottom bunk for their luggage and a three-rung metal ladder to reach the top bunk, which they decided they would each take a night on.

“Well, it’s three o’clock,” Sam said. “Let’s freshen up, head out, see the sights, and grab an early dinner.”

They squeezed onto the tiny bottom bunk, pulled out their powder compacts, and touched up their makeup the way mature women do—tightening here, smoothing there. A swipe of lipstick, a fluff of hair, silk scarves tied around their necks, and they were ready.

Nothing could stop them now.

“Times Square,” they told the cabby, staring out the window and soaking it all in—the people, the buildings, the constant motion. What a marvelous place, this New York City.

“Here you are, ladies,” the cabby said as he pulled over.

And there it was—the towering billboards, Broadway theaters, Father Duffy Square, the center of it all. They stepped out and wandered into the park to get their bearings. A street vendor sold them roasted nuts and sodas, and they sat on a bench watching the passersby.

Sightseeing was one thing, but people-watching was mesmerizing. The personalities, cultures, colors, races, and languages—it felt like every possible variation of humanity had gathered in one place.

“Let’s look around a bit,” Maggie suggested.

As they stood up, Sam’s pant leg caught on the bench. She pitched forward with a scream and a thud.

“My ankle!”

A vendor rushed over to help her back onto the bench while another brought a bag of ice for her already swelling ankle.

“What an adventure,” Sam smirked. “And we haven’t even gotten started.”

“We should get you back to the hostel,” Maggie declared.

“Absolutely not! Over my dead body are we going back,” Sam commanded. “We are continuing this adventure.”

“Well then, let’s go to dinner. Do you want to go to Katz?”

“Now that’s a great idea!”

They hailed a cab and headed to Katz Delicatessen, one of the best-known Jewish delis in Manhattan. They already knew exactly what they’d order: one Reuben—big enough to feed a family of five—stacked impossibly high with corned beef and melted cheese on fresh rye, plus a bowl of matzoh ball soup. Even split between them, they couldn’t finish it.

The hour they spent there felt like a chapter straight out of a book. You couldn’t make this stuff up. Cramped into a booth, the place buzzing with constant motion, a line snaking out the door. The food was incredible. The service was pure New York—loud, fast, unapologetic. Perfect.

But once they were back in a cab, Sam’s ankle had swollen to the size of a softball.

“Oh no, Sammy,” Maggie said. “We need to get your leg propped up and some ice on it.”

Maggie had the driver stop at a CVS so she could grab ice and ibuprofen before heading back to the hostel. Once again, the cabbie asked—in a thick Dominican accent—“Are you sure this is the right address? This is a hostel, not a hotel.”

Clearly, this was going to be a recurring theme.

Back at the hostel, a sweet young man from Norway carried Sam to the elevator and all the way to their room. Maggie dosed her with ibuprofen, settled her onto the bottom bunk, got her into her pajamas, propped up her leg, applied ice, and tucked her in.

“I’m so sorry this happened, Sis,” Maggie said.

“I know,” Sam sighed. “Me too.”

Exhaustion quickly took over, and Sam fell asleep. Maggie slipped into her own pajamas, hauled herself up the ladder, collapsed onto the top bunk, and drifted off almost instantly.

It had been quite a day.

“Ohhhhh… ohhhh,” Sam groaned.

Maggie’s eyes flew open. “You okay, sis?”

“I’m not sure.”

Maggie climbed down and pulled back the covers from Sam’s ankle. It was still swollen, but not black and blue. Between raising kids and surviving countless injuries, they knew what that meant—probably not a break, just a bad sprain. Maggie handed Sam more ibuprofen and suggested a change of plans.

They began brainstorming how to spend the next day and a half in the city. Almost everything in New York involved walking or standing. Even Broadway shows trapped you in tight seats with no room to stretch. Then it hit them.

A double-decker bus tour. A boat tour.

That could work.

Maggie preferred the boat—fresh air, open views—so they went online and booked tickets for the 10:00 a.m. morning tour.

Then Maggie made an executive decision.

She canceled their remaining night at the hostel and booked them into a reasonable hotel—hard to find in New York—complete with a spa afternoon and real beds.

“Let’s eat Italian in Little Italy tonight,” she suggested.

“Sounds perfect,” Sam said. “So much for a cheap adventure.”

“We’re in our late sixties,” Maggie replied. “We earned this money. We can spend this money.”

They both laughed.

The day unfolded without a hitch. The boat tour was lovely. They sat with pretzel hot dog sandwiches in hand while the guide pointed out the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, the World Trade Center, along with layers of history.

Afterward, they checked into the Ritz-Carlton and indulged in massages and body treatments before collapsing into a two-hour nap—this time in real queen-size beds.

“I don’t even feel like getting out of bed,” Sam whispered. “Is that bad, Maggie?”

“No,” Maggie said. “I’m right there with you. Let’s skip Little Italy and order room service.”

“That’s gonna to cost us.”

“I know,” Maggie said. “We’ll just eat ramen for a month when we get home.”

They both chuckled.

They ordered light, watching the cost and stayed in watching movies, laughing and enjoying NYC from a different view this time around.

The next morning, they knew they had time for one more New York moment before their 2:00 p.m. flight.

They had a cabby take them to Central Park where they took a good old-fashioned carriage ride. Sam with her swollen ankle propped up.

Smiles plastered across their faces. Giggles in the air.

Just two sisters on their own great adventure.

-Lisa Briggs Davis