Does New York Like Me?

It’s December 23rd—two days before Christmas—and I’m in New York, reenacting my own version of Home Alone. Thanks to a passport issue (self-inflicted, of course), I was stuck in the city alone until Christmas Eve.

I was supposed to be back in Barcelona well before the holiday, returning for the first time since study abroad.

After pouting, spiraling, and briefly cursing the universe for my own mistakes, I decided to make apple juice. Because if you can make lemonade out of lemons, surely you can make apple juice out of a Big Apple.

The shift in my spirit was largely thanks to meeting my fairy godfather—Tinker Bell. I’m not kidding. His last name was literally Tinker.

I met Tinker Bell because he used to be my mom’s client back in the day, and she suggested I grab coffee with him while I was stranded in New York. Professionally, he’s known in television. Personally, he’s someone who was there when my mom first admitted she wanted to get pregnant—and he later witnessed her pregnant with me.

While explaining what I do outside of school, I used the term “energetic portal” to describe a surprising career pivot. Yes, I have used that exact phrase in a job interview. Yes, it secured me a job at a major finance bank. This prompted Tinker Bell to reveal that he is part Food Network professional, part life coach—and for the next two hours, we were engaged in full-blown conversational sorcery.

He shared that he has “isms,” and I have to pass a few along so you understand the magic.

“I know how to deal with the real world because I had both enemies and allies at home.”

And my favorite:

“People are lucky to know you. You show them how they can live.”

Meeting him snapped me out of my misery. I realized I had created despair by feeding the lie that none of this was working in my favor.

And just as that realization hit—my phone rang.

My passport was ready. A full day early.

As if that weren’t enough magic, the entire airport debacle led me to an Italian dinner with a childhood friend I hadn’t seen in over ten years. We reconnected because she found my column. She, too, had a flight delay—to her study abroad program in Australia—and was stuck in the city. It felt like a reminder that good things quietly coexist with inconvenience.

All ended well. I’m currently on my flight to Barcelona, after they barely even looked at my passport when boarding (I should’ve put on a full performance with it). Still, I’m not convinced New York likes me. Or maybe it just loves to test me.

I’ve had a December New York trip plan with Miranda forever. At least since she got into school here. And considering I’ve spent the last year actively turning myself into Carrie Bradshaw, it felt… appropriate.

The trip itself was awesome. I saw so much of the city and loved every second. But getting stuck there without Miranda for four more days? That was interesting.

I’m not trying to pull the “woe is me” card—especially when I was stranded in the Christmas capital of the world—but damn, are the people you love really the only thing that makes Christmas what it is.

I saw lights, buildings, markets, and ice skating rinks drowning in holiday cheer. But what truly kept me moving forward—holding out hope that everything would resolve in time for my Christmas flight—was a daydream.

It showed me at Mr. International’s door, fumbling for the keys he gave me six months ago (six months???), urging me not to give back the keys to my home. I’m laughing because I’ve wrapped ribbon in my hair and am wearing a giant bow—this is not hypothetical; this is what I’m currently wearing. I finally get the hug I’ve dreamt about more than once, and we motorcycle off to his parents’ house to celebrate our first Christmas together.

So for now, I hold onto that daydream. I laugh at the humor of the universe—and New York’s apparent reluctance to grant me the Carrie Bradshaw title before I earn it.

Case in point: yesterday, I went solo ice skating at Bryant Park. AirPods in, feeling unstoppable. After an hour of seamless skating, New York State of Mind by Billy Joel comes on. I think, Well, isn’t this perfect?

The thought barely finishes before my right foot catches a rogue pile of snow in the middle of the rink. I fully face-plant and slide a solid five feet across the ice on my stomach.

I love you too, New York.

Nothing left to say except—¡Viva España! And as my poor Opa tried to wish me a Spanish Christmas: “Felix Navidad!”

So close to Spanish. Just like me (hopefully).