Christmas in New York City: Ice Skating at Rockefeller and a Night with the Rockettes
Winter magic, festive excess, and believing the New York Christmas myth in 2018
Christmas in New York is not a season; it’s a performance. In December 2018, I walked straight into it, jet-lagged, wide-eyed, and entirely unprepared for how convincingly the city sells its own myth.
New York in winter has a particular confidence. It doesn’t politely decorate for Christmas—it commits. Lights spill out of shop windows like Broadway understudies desperate for their own spotlight. Every street feels staged, every corner framed as if someone somewhere is about to shout, “Action.” Even the cold seems intentional, sharpened just enough to justify scarves, gloved hands wrapped around paper coffee cups, and that cinematic cloud of breath that makes everyone look thoughtful.
Rockefeller Centre was, unsurprisingly, the epicentre of it all. The tree dominated the plaza like a celebrity who doesn’t need to acknowledge the crowd to be adored. Beneath it, the ice skating rink pulsed with movement—people gliding, wobbling, clinging to the edge with quiet dignity. Skating there felt less like a sport and more like stepping into a collective memory you didn’t know you had borrowed. The ice reflected the lights above, and for a moment, the city seemed to exist upside down as well as right-side up.
I was not a graceful skater. But that hardly mattered. Falling would have felt appropriate—New York has never required elegance, only participation. Around me, tourists filmed each other with the seriousness of documentary filmmakers. At the same time, locals passed through with practised indifference, as if skating under a Christmas tree between skyscrapers were merely another Tuesday inconvenience.
The decorations were relentless in the best possible way. Fifth Avenue shop windows were miniature theatres: mechanical elves working overtime, snowy villages looping the same eternal story, luxury brands transforming nostalgia into something improbably expensive. I lingered longer than necessary, watching reflections of passing taxis merge with fake snow and blinking lights. It felt like the city was daring you to be cynical—and winning.
One evening led me to Radio City Music Hall, where the Rockettes performed with military precision disguised as joy. The show was unapologetically festive: high kicks slicing the air, perfect smiles that somehow didn’t feel forced, and choreography so exact it bordered on surreal. Watching them was like watching time itself behave—everything landing exactly where it should. It was excessive, polished, and utterly sincere. In other words, completely New York.
Outside, the city resumed its usual level of activity. Sirens threaded through Christmas music. Street vendors sold roasted nuts under glowing carts. Somewhere, someone was late for something important. Yet even in the rush, December softened the edges. Strangers held doors a second longer. The city, famously indifferent, allowed itself brief moments of warmth.
Looking back now, Christmas 2018 in New York feels less like a trip and more like a shared illusion I willingly stepped into. I didn’t just see the decorations or the shows—I participated in the agreement that, for a few weeks each year, New York becomes exactly what everyone hopes it will be. Loud, beautiful, exhausting, and somehow still magical.
And maybe that’s the real tradition: arriving knowing it’s all a bit ridiculous, and leaving grateful that you believed in it anyway.