I try to make it back to New York at least once a year, usually for events, this time my epic High School reunion. I often travel solo but this time my companion was my nine-year-old. There was so much I wanted to share with him and narrowing down our plans was painful…and true to how I roll, the best things happened serendipitously.

We walked by the West 4th Street Courts just a block from my mom’s apartment, a famous spot where Lew Alcindor played before becoming the great Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, an iconic public court where legions of other basketball greats have shot hoops over the years. Tucked in the the back are handball courts — I had forgotten about the New York obsession with the game. A tiny pinky ball, perhaps a glove and a wall, that’s all that’s needed. The sport, now called “American Handball”, is a big draw for beach goers, but as I traveled the city I was surprised to see so many courts in every borough. My son was fascinated and wanted to play. A player at W. 4 Street let him on the court to give it a try and he was smitten. The guy even gave him a ball — I LOVE NY.

He promptly lost it and I promised to buy him a ball and play with him, as I have fond memories of playing at Jones Beach, Florida and around town as a kid. In fact, we used to just play against the wall next to my mom’s apartment, which is now a a deluxe condo.

We didn’t seem to pass any sporting goods stores and the Woolworths and Lamstons of my youth have been taken over by Duane Reade drugstores and Chase Bank buildings. So the next day, as we came up from the subway, I decided, on a whim, to see if the local newsstand next to the courts might, per chance, sell them. I’m not sure what inspired me to think that was possible, but for two-dollars, the kid got a handball and thus the highlight of his trip began. We checked out a few courts and he carried his ball with him each day.

A visit to Coney Island with the cousins and a glorious walk on the boardwalk found this handball hotspot in Brighton Beach, perfect with the pink flowers framing the gritty urban court. I reveled in the moment remembering all those years ago, a time when NYC was hurting, crime was out of control and yet people congregated on stoops, listened to music together on boom boxes and the hardcore handball fanatics were part of the pulse of the city.

We stopped at Tatiana’s, a Russian cafe in Brighton Beach. The Nathans of my youth was still recovering from Hurricane Sandy, but after losing everything in the storm, Tatiana’s was up and running again. It felt like we were on the Black Sea or somewhere in Europe, not much English spoken and many families out for a Sunday stroll. We parked ourselves in the cafe and ordered strudel and tea and studied the crowd. We were clearly outsiders, despite my part Russian heritage, but once the piping hot tea and scrumptious cherry strudel arrived I was in heaven. The less than stellar Soviet style service was part of the experience. A walk down the High Street of Surf Avenue unveiled more treasures, a terrific little shop where I bought Armenian sour cherry jam, Hungarian salami and the Russian bread I love. On the street, a vendor sold what looked like Russian pirozhki, but when I tried to confirm the name I was met with much sourness. We bought cabbage, pork, spinach and cherry; it’s great how the sweet and savory co-mingle. They were a tad greasy, but for $1.50 each was a meal.

We climbed onto the elevated subway track laden with our purchases as the stunning spring light made the grimiest steel sparkle. The ride back was quick and edifying. I was captivated by the multi-ethnic faces and so many languages filling the car. It made me want to move back to New York.

I’m no music expert, most of my response to music is visceral and associative, but I do know that if the Beastie Boys had been a fad, they wouldn’t have lasted as long as they have.

As I blasted their latest album with car windows open,  to pay homage to the fallen Beastie (Adam MCA Yauch) who passed away from cancer earlier this month, my kids cringed as Mom reminisced semi-publicly. I tend to hate when I pass another car with thumping music blaring, always muttering, “Yeah, I like that music so much” to myself. OK, so forgive me…

I was thinking about the concert they played at Madison Square Garden with Run DMC, the kids clothing store on 10th street, in my hood, owned by Beastie Boy Adam Horowitz’s mom Doris, cheekily named “Gee The Kids Need Clothes,” and dancing till rivers of sweat poured down my back to Brass Monkey, No Sleep Till Brooklyn and others at loft parties, clubs and friend’s homes.

Greenwich Village (and NYC in general) is no stranger to walking tours. I remember parting the crowds to get a cupcake from Magnolia Bakery, a shop featured on Sex in the City, or even wedging through the clumps of tourists snapping photos of my everyday haunts, places where the famous and infamous had worked, lived, partied or died. Once, while soaking in the Communal Russian Baths, in the East Village, a woman pulled out a camera because John Belushi had come there frequently to cleanse himself after his binges.

There is now a suggested self-guided Beastie Boys walking tour, including many of the places important to their life and career. It includes a loft where much of the magic took place in the early years of Beastie Boys rise from punk kids to Rap icons. The corner of Irvington and Ludlow on the Lower East Side is on the itinerary, where the cover for their second album, Paul’s Boutique, was shot. Today there is a restaurant called Paul’s Boutique in honor of the album.

A memorial is currently drawing mourners at 69 Avenue A where Yauch and the Boys recorded the album Polly Wog Stew.

RIP Adam Yauch 1964-2012

Now, as a mom I have become somewhat of a cupcake connoisseur, both as a baker and a consumer. My older son was such a cupcake fan I would make them for each birthday. We have a picture of him just about to bite one at his party for practically each year of his life. They are displayed in frames on our fridge to this day.

Every time I go home to visit my mom in NYC, I have to hit Magnolia Bakery on Bleecker Street in the West Village. I often claim the kids really would LOVE to go, but in truth, I look forward to the pilgrimage and I am not alone. Usually there is a line around the block. Since it opened in 1996, Magnolia has been featured in Sex in the City, The Devil Wears Prada and Saturday Night Live mock rap which is hilarious, among other shows and films shot in the Village.In summer, we often go, get our cupcakes and then sit in the park across the street, savoring the sumptuous, velvety treats. We then watch my kids run like mad in the sprinklers on a complete sugar, frosting, sprinkle induced high.

My long love affair with cupcakes was re-ignited recently when I read a small article in the New York Times Dining section earlier this month about the Cupcake-Stop. Apparently, now there is a mobile cupcake truck (not connected to Magnolia). The sugared-up van prowls the Union Square area Tuesday through Sunday from 10 a.m. to 5p.m. You can follow them on twitter and the “red velvet” comes highly recommended. My mouth is watering just thinking about it! Do you have any cupcake hotspots to recommend?