There are songs that tell the tale of the New York nightlife.  The cars, the cigars, the rooftop bars - well, one of three wasn’t bad, not bad at all.

Friday night, we hit the town with our friends Jason and Mima.  Starting in a 17^th floor apartment about four o’clock in midtown Manhattan, sipping beers, shooting the breeze, and enjoying the sights of New York form seventeen stories up.

From there, we proceeded to the Rare View - a bar that sits atop a sixteenth floor of the Shelburne Murray Hill Building on Lexington in the heart of Manhattan.  We sat up top, drinking our beers, mohitos, rum and cokes, and margaritas under the New York sun on a beautiful spring evening.  Watching business men and women grab and beverage and enjoy a nice spring evening, we grabbed a corner table and watched the comings and goings.  Enjoying the sights and the conversation.

We were joined by Jason’s girlfriend and her retinue about eight o’clock.  Graduating that weekend, she had friends and family in tow.  As the New York skyline made the transition to dusk, the crowd continued to change and evolve.  The business crowd slowly thinned and was being fast replaced by the cool and well heeled, the young men and women out on the town.  We sat in the corner, watching, visiting and enjoying the evening.

One of the downfalls of a rooftop bar on the sixteenth floor is our party of nine was one person too big for the elevator.  With no line behind us, I gallantly offered to allow the party to continue below as I visited the men’s room.  To my horror, four minutes later as I walked out of the small shanty, I noticed, first the group of beautiful women walking past, second, my slightly ajar zipper, third, the massive line that had formed to get down in that little time.

As we would say on the farm, shucks.

A quick call to the party below and a ten minute wait had us under full steam again and off to an authentic Texas Roadhouse…in Midtown Manhattan, complete with feed and seed signs, people in boots and hats, and plank floors.

The food was good.  The company was good.  Feasting on some Fajita’s (while New Yorker’s don’t refer to them as Fa-Jita’s, they think it is pretty funny, but not as fun as Quesadillas being pronounced Que-si-dillos (rhymes with armadillo).  The Fajita’s were washed down with some of Brooklyn’s finest, Brooklyn Lager.

About midnight, talked out, well fed, and well watered, we were ready to rest.  Walking back to the hotel, it struck me, here I was, a guy from a town of twelve hundred people, living the high life.  The Minnesotan part of me remembered the hard fought battle to get where I was and it tinged me with a bit of guilt.  The world traveler in me felt very satisfied.  The young single male part of me was ready to hit it again the next night!