The City In the Spotlight

7:45 p.m. I'm walking against the light on my way to the Richard Rodgers Theatre, figuring I can easily beat an approaching limo. But as I step off the curb, a fellow pedestrian -- a local, from the sound of her -- grabs my elbow, commanding, "Don't do it. They will hit you."

8 p.m. I've long felt that the best places for theater in New York are off-Broadway venues. But "In the Heights," a hip-hop- and salsa-flavored musical about a Latino community in Manhattan's Washington Heights neighborhood, restores my faith in New York's big-name theaters. Yes, the plot is corny and predictable. But the choreography is fabulous, the lyrics clever, and it's worth the price of admission just to see future superstar Lin-Manuel Miranda command the stage as the rapping bodega owner Usnavi. My musical-hating son scoffed at the sentimentality, but I noticed he was tapping his toes.

10:45 p.m. We walk-run a couple of blocks through the rain to the Algonquin Hotel, where I've reserved two seats for a little late-night cabaret. Inside the fabled Oak Room, the average age appears to be, oh, 87. We're shown to a prime table, where we sip our overpriced drinks and speculate about the crowd. Tonight's songstress, Maude Maggart, has gotten ridiculously good reviews in the New York press.

11:45 p.m. The lights dim, the spotlight spins and in she comes, 15 minutes late, all backless white gown and tumbling brown hair. Maggart, 32, is a champion hair-tosser. But she's no ditz. "This whole evening is going to be about dreams," she announces, and proceeds to dazzle us with evocative renditions of "Here Come the Dreamers," "Dream a Little Dream of Me" and a sublime combination of Judy Collins's "My Father" and Joan Baez's "Speaking of Dreams." Maggart is smart and funny, with amusing stage patter. She's the thinking person's chanteuse, and she clearly enjoys toying with the besotted businessmen in the audience.

11 a.m. Finally, a warm, sunny morning. And what better place to enjoy it than Greenacre Park, an enticing slice of nature tucked between two office buildings across from my hotel on East 51st Street. The tennis-court-size plot, a gift to the city from a Rockefeller family foundation in 1971, is abloom with spring flowers -- one of those unexpected oases that make walking around Manhattan such a pleasure. I settle in at a table in a grove of honey locust trees, sipping a cappuccino as a 25-foot waterfall drowns out the noise of the city. Bliss.

11:54 a.m. On my way to the subway, I stop at St. Bartholomew's Church on East 50th Street, attracted by the intricate stone carvings and the magnificent mosaic-tiled dome. The Romanesque-Byzantine concoction opened in 1918, adding the signature dome in 1930. Inside, there are marble columns, intricate friezes with scenes from the Bible, huge bronze doors designed by Stanford White. Bonus: a wide-ranging gift shop with a selection of folk-art crucifixes from around the globe.

Culture and commerce, the perfect combination.

-- K.C. Summers