New York is a city we’ve seen in images so many times, there’s a very real danger we won’t actually see it when we visit.

I was thinking about that last night as I read Alain de Botton’s book The Art of Travel. I realize de Botton divides the masses, but I rather enjoyed his focus on the contrast between the anticipation and reality of travel. And he’s not wrong when he notes that our travels are only as good as our relationships with our companions and ourselves. He gets full points for this wry observation about a disastrous trip to Barbados: “A momentous but until then overlooked fact was making itself apparent: I had inadvertently brought myself with me to the island.”

In my case, I brought my loved ones with me to the island of Manhattan, including The General, who was celebrating his 90th birthday. We were especially excited to have tickets to see a Broadway show, but a massive spring blizzard shut down the Denver airport for two days and scuppered those plans. Oh, well.

We made up for the Book of Mormon debacle by taking in a rousing concert on the Great Organ at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine.

Then we spent a few precious days together, mostly visiting museums and historic sites. Several moments in time impressed themselves upon me, almost Wordsworthian in their power.

Here’s Bryant Park, nearly empty, with the New York Public Library in the background. An oasis in a crowded place, the park plays a significant role in my friend Zach Milan’s new novel Skyline.

An elegant polo match, played on bicycles in an asphalt jungle. These kids were fearless, especially the girl guarding the goal.

We got dim sum in Chinatown, and there was a old man sitting in a corner playing an erhu, his bow scraping across the strings.

On the way back from Ellis Island, we spotted a number of eager investors propping up the bull market. This woman ignored them.

There was serious art to be found at the Met Museum, and serious artists as well.

On the Roof Garden at the Met, we discovered Cornelia Parker’s Hitchcockian Psychobarn, which looks a lot to me like the Adams Family house.

I found Rodin’s sculpture of The Burghers of Calais incredibly moving. Such a range of emotions–anguish, fear, stoic resolve–as each man voluntarily faces execution.

For thirty seconds or so, I was alone with this charming ballerina, presiding over a whole roomful of Degas paintings.

I loved everything on view at the stunning Frick Collection, which was so overwhelming that I had to recharge more than once in the peaceful Garden Court.

But my favorite part of the holiday was an evening back at the hotel, doing a New York Times crossword with the birthday boy.