For thousands of years, people have flocked to England to marvel at the genius of ancient peoples, whose work is still brilliantly illuminated at Stonehenge every summer and winter solstice. Every year since 1997, tourists have flocked to Manhattan to marvel at the genius of Neil deGrasse Tyson, the father of Manhattanhenge (what can’t he do). 

At age 15, Tyson visited Stonehenge on an expedition led by astronomer Gerald Hawkins, who proposed its purpose as an observatory (yes, we thought it was just rocks until 1965). Inspired, the native New Yorker considered that Manhattan’s main grid (the box from 155th down to Houston) is all built on a 29 degree angle, meaning that when the sun sets at an angle 29 degrees north of due West, it aligns perfectly with the skyline.

Neil’s dubbing the biannual event “Manhattanhenge” was an homage to Hawkins, but also a reference to the fact that future civilizations might think the phenomenon was deliberate. What will our descendants think when they dig up this meticulously-numbered grid, designed to glow on the most random of spring nights?

In reality, Manhattanhenge is a ritual far less sacred than Stonehenge’s ancient celebrations of treacherous winters’ ends. We vaguely mention its imminence, but few are bothered to actually join the throngs checking it out. I’ve personally popped my head out of apartments, offices, and happy hours annually, only to see nothing, shrug, and go back inside. 

But according to Tyson, there are a few prime spots: east-west thoroughfares (think 14th, 34th, or 42nd). You’re supposed to stand as far east as possible on said streets without losing, to drop another term used by Neil for the first time in history, westward “views of New Jersey” in all its glorious beauty.

I happen to live within walking distance of one of the rare spots that meets Neil’s criteria: the Tudor City Bridge. If you’ve ever come out of Grand Central and walked way too far in the wrong direction, you’ve seen this bridge. Nestled in front of the UN, it connects the north and south sides of Murray Hill’s shy older cousin, Tudor City (which is built into a cliff in midtown, and no one is talking about it).

I decided this was my year. I was going to pick up a black cherry Sparkling Ice (the only correct bodega fridge beverage) and brave the sea of amateur photographers all by myself, just to unlock a new small talk topic (and witness an accidental astronomical marvel, I guess). 

A crowd of hundreds awaited me both on and below the bridge, including a news van and a Cadillac stretch limo (presumably containing Neil himself). I felt unprepared: everyone else had in tow a selfie stick, a DSLR, a date, or at least a dog. There was no getting out and back in—my phone camera and Sparkling Ice would have to do.

These Manhattanhenge-heads must’ve known what they were doing, I thought. I was in good hands with them: finally, I’d get to see what all the fuss was about. But as the time inched closer to the sun’s weather app-mandated curfew…nothing happened.

The crowd wasn’t budging, so I ventured in search of a better view—maybe I was missing something. I descended the stairs down the cliff and onto 42nd ever so carefully (one misstep and I’d be Mufasa’d into the stampede). 

Down below, a cacophony of angry honks greeted me. Swaths of the crowd were filling the middle-of-the-street islands and hilariously refusing to make way for oncoming traffic, simultaneously the most touristy and most New Yorker move I’d ever seen. Such is the culture of the blocks surrounding Grand Central.

I joined them briefly (before chickening out and crossing when the light turned), desperate to catch a glimpse of the sun’s and Weehawken’s competing splendor. Still no dice. My Manhattanhenge quest was officially a bust. So just like always, I shrugged and went back inside. On my way, I consulted Google, who spewed some BS about clouds blocking the view.

This wouldn’t have happened at Stonehenge. For 5,000 years, the shortest and longest days of the year have been marked by celestial wonder. Without fail, the sun sparkles with precision through 25-ton stones transported a marathon’s distance, shaped with other rocks, and erected using only wood and rope. So why can’t a city with three public heliports and Wifi do us one favor? New York is always making promises she can’t keep.

A week later, I was walking past Madison Square Park when something stopped me in my tracks. There it was, what could only be described as…Manhattanhenge. The sun’s angle had changed a whole eight degrees since the scheduled show (yes, I used NOAA’s sunset calculator and yes, that exists). And yet, she aligned perfectly with the most random of non-thoroughfare streets, casting a brilliant orange glow so blinding it hid Hoboken.

Maybe our descendants will discover Manhattanhenge, or maybe they’ll stumble upon her crooked understudy. Maybe they’ll think we worshiped Neil deGrasse Tyson (correct), or maybe they’ll assume New York was “just rocks” until someone with half a brain cell comes along. Even if they guess wrong, they’ll be impressed. People cared to see the rocks even before Hawkins declared us idiots.

I guess in the end, New York always follows through on her promises, though it’s impossible to plan how or when. She’s a sneaky bitch who pulls out the stops when you least expect it. “I wanted you to soak up this astronomical awe on a quiet sunset walk, not in a crowd of feral commuters,” I’m assuming she said. “But it was pretty funny to watch you climb a cliff and stare at New Jersey from the middle of the road.”