A phone number saved is a daiquiri earned

Lesson 1 for moving into the City that never sleeps: find those that don't sleep and make them your best friends. These people are fountains of knowledge. The Aristotles, the Platos, the Einsteins, if you will. They know the whos, whats, hows and whys of New York night life. That is, of course, if you can get them to stop passing the imaginary power-ball long enough to scream into your ear over a bumping bass. If nothing else, they know a damn good diner to go to at 4:30am when all bars close and you're left with nothing but a enormous craving for fried zucchini. But I digress.

One summer day, I ran into B*, a friend of mine from high school that happened to live around the block from me. She mentioned she was going to the Meatpacking District that night because she had a promoter friend that was getting girls into a hot new club. [Enter jackpot/ $$ symbols here]. My friends and I dolled up for a big night out in Manhattan. Extra blush, perfume and tighter clothes were all adorned for the occasion (while I've always thought the neighborhood name to be a misnomer, as few datable men inhabit that area on a weekend night. From my experience, the men that do fall into 3 categories: 1) they wear more hair products then I do 2) They are there because their girlfriend dragged them there despite their best wishes or 3)They go to the area because they also are attracted by it's name). So, we dressed to the nines, in a sense, for the mere idea of "going out".

Once at the club, we were ushered in, free of charge I may add, to the table of the promoter. At his table, there was one bottle of Grey Goose surrounded by a valley of mixers - as if those were the important beverages. I have not seen a group of girls throw themselves at anything quicker since Justin Timberlake blew a kiss into the crowd at one of his N*Sync concerts. Elbows were thrown, hair was pulled and heels pressed on toes as we made our way to the Jerusalem of our dreams.

With a glass full of gloriousness safely in hand, we made our way to the dance floor; or rather the dance floor found us. There is something about NYC and techno music that makes a foreign man in a tight, patterned shirt and ripped denim seem so right, when normally, I would ask him how he got on HBO's Flight of the Conchords and if he and Bret really slept in twin beds next to each other. But when Lady Gaga is blasting in the background, you have a free Cranberry vodka and the guy to your left is also interested in the man you are dancing with, you will take what you can get.

On this particular night, the guy I was dancing with offered me and my friends a glass of his champagne. Let this be a lesson, ladies: champagne is a drink of celebration. If he is not celebrating anything at the moment, he is planning a celebration later that night. IE: conquering you will be the celebration. He asked if I wanted to come home with him. Where was home? His friend's couch. While the thought of sleeping on some random guy's couch with another random guy should obviously be very enticing, I gracefully declined the offer. He immediately took my glass of champagne out of my hand and gave it to the floozy next to me. Case in point.

Shortly there after, my girlfriends and I found ourselves outside the club, deciding that we had had enough free vodka and juice for one night. And after a night of meatheads focusing on their own meat and potatoes in the meat packing district, it was definitely time for some zucchini sticks.

Dimes fly when you're having fun

People move to the Big Apple for all sorts of reasons. Some for adventure. Some for opportunity. And some just to understand what everyone else is talking about. After graduation in May, I came to New York City for all three. 

I'll admit, my timing was bad. I moved to the Big Apple with $800 to my name, a $1,050 monthly rent, and no job in the worst economy America has seen since the Great Depression (what can I say, I like a challenge). Sob stories aside, I got what I came for plus much, much more. Six months later, I'm still here. Not only that, but I have some of the most fun memories of days wandering the City and nights on the town of anyone I know. 

Some of you may feel obligated to sit in your room awaiting the Apocalypse right now. If you are holding the last Krispy Kreme on Earth and Roseanne Barr is after you, then by all means, hide away. But if you are just trying to save money, there is no reason to not get out and have some cheap (pun intended) fun. 

These are our stories. These are my recommendations. Read on and you'll see that I can put my money where my mouth is.