Our two-trip story as Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade balloon handlers

Two New York trips live in our memory like treasured stamps in a collector’s album: vivid, oversized, and impossible to forget. Both times we traveled to the city, not just as visitors, but as Macy’s employees chosen to help bring the Thanksgiving Day Parade to life. The first was back in 2000, when we marched in a bright Big Bird costume holding a Sesame Street favorite character. The second was seven years later, in 2007, when perfect weather and the honor of opening the parade with the Abby Cadabby balloon turned an ordinary morning into a once-in-a-lifetime moment. Those two trips became travel memories we still carry like rare collectible stamps; large, colorful, and full of New York energy.

2000: I can still feel the cold bus seat behind me as we rolled into Manhattan in the pitch-dark, wheels humming, and my stomach doing its own little somersault of excitement and nerves. It was our first time participating in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, a dream come true for travel lovers, balloon handlers, and anyone who has ever believed in creating giant moments. That morning, we were dressed in bright yellow, our Big Bird costumes, and by the time the sun rose, we were part of something enormous, something that would become one of our favorite memories.

The prep for that parade didn’t start on a bus at 4 a.m., though — no, it began months earlier. Somewhere in late spring of 2000, when we received the training invitation from the store where we worked (yes, you must be an employee at Macy’s to be a balloon handler), it felt like getting the golden ticket. There was a large set of instructions from the training center in New York: choosing the costume size, learning how to manage the balloon ropes, understanding how the team works, what to do under gusty conditions, even when the skies looked deceptively blue. The trainers were matter-of-fact: “It’s harder than it looks on TV,” they said. And they were right.

The Big Bird costume assigned to us in the fitting room was surprisingly warm, and it came with a big yellow hat that bobbed when I walked. I remember feeling ridiculous and proud simultaneously. The training drills tested us in everything: sudden gusts, uneven pavement, the choreography of keeping the balloon aloft while moving down city streets crowded with people, floats, marching bands, and secret behind-the-scenes crews. Wind gusts could push the balloon sideways into lamp posts or trees; the trainers emphasized the importance of staying calm and communicating. Sounds more like an extreme sport than a walk down the street with a big helium balloon.

Then came the all-night bus ride from Maine. We had volunteered from our retail location up north, and the company chartered a coach. I slept in fits, waking every time I heard the engine hum a different pitch or the driver hit a bump in New England. We pulled into Manhattan around 4 a.m., darkness still hovering over the skyscrapers. The streets around Herald Square and Midtown were quiet, but the air had that early-morning crispness, that electric expectancy. We disembarked, shuffled our bags, pulled on our costumes, and made our way to the staging area. The organization was impressive: balloon riggers, crowd-control staff, police, parade marshals, the whole orchestration of giant balloons, floats, celebrities, and marching units. It felt like showing up to pageantry on a grand scale and being handed VIP wristbands.

As the sun began to creep up, we took our positions. The parade started in Upper Manhattan; the route walked us down Broadway and then west on 34th Street to Herald Square, ending at 7th Avenue. I remember the green street sign for “Broadway” as though it were a giant postage-stamp border, crisp white letters on green, attached to a pole that holds so many stories. We clasped the balloon’s tether lines, took the weight of the helium giant on our shoulders, balanced as a team, eyes forward on the route. The sea of spectators was still forming, and every child with glowing eyes pointed skyward. We felt the first breath of the city awakening.

When the parade started, our Big Bird soared above the crowds. I can’t recall the exact wind speed, but I remember a steady breeze, manageable but persistent; the kind that requires your muscle, your grip, and your trust in the peer handlers around you. The sun rose higher, and our bird floated; each step felt like moving through a living stamp: the city framed us, the crowd framed us, and the balloon framed a moment in time.

2007: Fast-forward seven years to our second time: we qualified again, we trained again in late spring for the 2007 parade. This time was magical in a way that only a perfect morning can be. On Thanksgiving Day 2007, Thursday, November 22, the weather in New York City delivered a high of 66°F and a low of 40°F, with only 0.03 inches of precipitation. That meant we were greeted with a warm morning, no wind gusts of consequence, no rain to lug around, no frigid chill to stiffen our fingers on the balloon lines. We carried the Abby Cadabby, brand-new giant balloon, and this time we opened the parade! I looked at the dawn sky, turning pink and orange, the crisp air lightly bristling. The sidewalks were already teeming with families, children perched on shoulders, cameras clicking, flags waving. The promise of New York lifestyle in action: energy, joy, spectacle.

We marched from 77th Street south on Central Park West, then turned to go down Broadway through Times Square. We occasionally waved, as a promise to our store’s cheering team, also knowing that our friends and relatives were watching on television across America. When Abby Cadabby passed the towering buildings that cast long shadows even early in the morning, I felt like we had lifted not just a balloon but a collective joy of travel, of childhood wonder, of the kind of spectacle that makes someone say “I was there.” The balloon soared higher than ever thanks to the perfect conditions: the helium sting-in-the-wind, the team steady at each line anchor, the city streets wide and clear. Holding one of the tether lines, I looked up, saw the skyline behind it, and in that moment, I felt like I was on top of the world.

The crowd that day was electric. Windows on the high-rises lining the route were filled with faces; families gathered, children pressing noses to the glass, tourists pointing. Every child’s face had that glow: “Look! There’s the balloon!” And I thought: yes, I’m one of those people down there; I’m the handler making the sky happen. On that Thanksgiving morning, we weren’t just walk-on participants; we were the story unfolding for a million Americans watching at home.

The connection to our larger life as travel storytellers and stamp makers is fascinating. When I look at my New York art pieces, large postage stamps, bright colors, street signs (Broadway, W 42nd St, Times Sq.), I’m reminded of these two parade days. Just as a stamp collector treasures each issue, each little rectangle with glistening perforations, we treasure each memory, each giant helium balloon, each route through New York City, each chilly morning waiting for dawn, each child’s face in the crowd.

When we first did the yellow bird balloon in 2000, the route, the training, and the city felt enormous. We learned how to walk south on Broadway through Times Square, then turned right onto 34th Street and continued west to 7th Avenue, ending at Herald Square. We experienced how the buildings seem to pinch the air, how helium wants to lift too fast, how you lean into the ropes, and how teamwork matters. We saw the crowd lining both sides of the street, like two long ribbons of smiling faces, waiting for the spectacle to unfold. When we returned in 2007, things felt different. We managed to carry the balloon higher, with less stress and more sheer joy.

It’s not just the destination, but the moment of participation, the feeling of inclusion, the laughter of a child, the roar of the crowd, the city skyline framing an inflatable giant. It’s when you realize you were part of the story, not just watching it.