Last Friday night, I was walking home through the East Village and was absolutely floored by the swarm of wasted, obnoxious people roaming 2nd Avenue. The lines at BBar and Phebes snaked around the block, and I saw a sweaty kid in a pastel button down throwing up in a trash can outside of the Papaya King on St. Marks.
Ahhhh, Intern season.
In college, I interned in the city for two summers in a row, and absolutely loved it. After living here for real for two years, though, I’m horribly embarrassed to admit to some of the stuff I thought was cool.
And boy, did I think I was cool.
During my first summer in New York, right after my Sophomore year at Georgetown, I lived in Herald Square in a triple room, right above the Forever 21 and smack in the middle of tourist central. Sure, my fourth floor window looked directly into someone else’s apartment and one morning I woke up to find someone had peed in the hallway right outside our door, but the 2am Shwarma guy parked out front and I were on first name basis and the subway was super convenient (because I was basically living in Penn Station) so I thought the place was great.
I liked it there so much (I honestly didn’t know enough to know better) that the next summer, when my guy friends were doing their post-junior-year finance internships, I convinced them all to live there with me.
… Sorry Guys.
For two summers in the row, living in The Herald Towers, I had a strict weekly routine– including weekends, because I had no idea that all of the actual cool people leave the city during the weekend in the Summer. It mirrored that of nearly everyone I knew (read: East Coast college kids trying to get jobs at banks, magazines and law firms) and on any given night I would run into acquaintences from high school, college, and of course, Summer camp. As far as I was concerned, I was living the Manhattan dream.
It was as follows:
Tuesday Night- 13th Step
I actually went back here recently (and, for reasons still unknown, somehow got kicked out) and to this day have no idea why we ever thought this bar was cool. It does, however, have amazing fried Oreos.
Wednesday Night- Dollar Beers at Turtle Bay
This place was the best for flirting with disheveled looking boys in suits. In true NYC Summer Intern fashion, this is actually where I rang in my 21st birthday. A special shoutout to the members of the NYFD who were there to buy me my “first” shots. The bartender, who had been serving me for two years, was understandably confused.
Thursday Night- Brother Jimmy’s for PBR’s and Pickleback shots
For some people, Thursday night at Bro J’s meant waiting in line for over an hour, but because I was self proclaimed “coolest girl in Manhattan,” I got to know the bouncers early on and after Week 2 was given special permission to cut the line. Never in my life have I felt like more of a rockstar than being ushered into Bro J’s in Murray Hill on a Thursday night, underage, nonetheless. Cue the well-deserved “LOSER” cough.
Friday Night- Phebes and BBar
These bars, on the “off season”, are actually still fun. But during the summer, they are intern heaven. In 2011 and 2012, there was no surer place to find the Harvard lacrosse players I had crushes on. Over the course of two years, I lost four cell phones and three credit cards at these locations.
Saturday Night- CLUB NIGHT!
Looking back, there is nothing more embarrassing than the thought of going to a club, as an intern, with a promoter. “Meet me @Tenjune @10pm. Jenny McCarthy hosting!” would be the weekly text I would get from a guy named “Panama Ron.” And boy, did I JUMP on that band wagon week after week. That is, until I got dumped by one of said Harvard lacrosse players in the middle of the Lavo dance floor. #classy
Honorable Mentions- Saloon and McFaddens
These places were always, for some reason or another, giving away open bars. Every weekend, somebody knew somebody who knew somebody who had won one and we could drink until midnight for $40. What a steal!
How I still got a job out of those internships operating exclusively on hangovers I will never know, and I can’t quite decide if I want to go back and high-five intern-season me, or bitch slap her.