On Track. (And Not.)

An abridged version.

New York City, New York – The humid air is heavy like my lids.

In fairness, it’s nearly midnight and it took us more than five hours to get out of Manhattan. Next, we take Berlin.

We spent the morning casually strolling down the High Line, where exhausted train tracks stitch together a series of gardens in the elevated park. It provides a new vantage to the city: vistas framed by tall grasses sashaying in the whisper of a breeze.

The sun, however, continued to bear down, casting long shadows over artworks dotting the path.

A hard turn across lower Manhattan, where we passed brunching actor, Josh Charles, and onto the Brooklyn Bridge – once the world’s largest suspension bridge. Today, it was filled with runners raising money for juvenile diabetes.

Festival fare.

Up through Chinatown, which has spread into Little Italy. We had, of course, picked the hottest fall day on record to amble through a street festival – the 91st annual Feast of San Gennaro – on Mulberry Street, which was awash in colour and the aromas of onions, peppers and sausages snapping on the grill. Other vendors had cannoli the size of my forearm.

I couldn’t even count the steps I sewed into the city's streets today. Thankfully, my pedometer did: more than 35-thousand.

Back up Broadway to gather our bags, and on to Grand Central Station to catch our shuttle once we grabbed a fun Cambodian sandwich at Num Pang.

Alas, two hours into our trip, we had gone just three blocks, surrounded by blinking lights and blaring horns – it was as if Studio 54 had taken to Manhattan’s streets. The tunnel was blocked, siphoning traffic toward the 57th street bridge. Several panicked passengers leapt off, fearful of missing their planes.

They immediately discovered subways also weren't running.

Complicating matters further, our driver decided to get into a battle of wills with an SUV. Their tires were locked in a stalemate, his studded rims hopelessly wound into hers. We wouldn’t be going anywhere until a new shuttle arrived. Finally, five hours after our initial departure: John F. Kennedy International Airport.

It’s the one time I’ve ever been happy to be told I have a multiple-hour flight delay.

Still, we won't get home until 5:30 a.m.

The workday looms far closer than I’d prefer.