Sky Check.

Winging it.

New York City, New York – Email, text and a travel app chime in unison as we arrive at LaGuardia Airport. 

Very early.

"Not again," I sigh.

I've had a rash of postponed and cancelled flights in recent years, particularly those involving London International Airport. But we risked it this time for convenience and had no issues on arrival.

Sure enough, our flight from New York is delayed sufficiently enough we won't make our connection home. At least renovations have vastly improved LaGuardia since the last time I was here.

Heading to the lounge, I ask the attendant if there's an earlier flight. There is! She takes our passports, shoos us inside for a quick breakfast and gets us onto one that leaves in 20 minutes.

As we depart, she hands us updated tickets and doesn't take our passes for the lounge. "Keep it between us and have a happy holiday," she says with a grin. 

Credit where credit due: Air Canada's service is generally justifiably maligned, but not today. Exceptional.

Sometimes it pays to be at the airport (painfully) early.

As I'm known to be.

No Words.

Kicking Back.

This show has legs.

New York City, New York – Music builds in concert with the orchestra rising from the cavernous Radio City Music Hall stage.

It's an apparition with woodwinds.

Then, percussion as dancers tap in unison, microphones tucked into their shoes. Dressed as reindeer, revellers and wooden soldiers, they twirl and kick like ribbons of colour, rhythmic in the breeze.

Santa Claus slides in on a sleigh before multiplying in a chorus of "ho ho hos." A young boy's eyes grow wide at the appearance of 40 more, each popping up in spotlights around the theatre.

More than 1,100 costumes and pairs of shoes are used in the Rockettes Christmas Spectacular.

A very New York City holiday experience.

While much of the show hasn't changed since its debut in 1933, some immersive elements now require 3D glasses. More than a million pairs are handed out each year.

Drones flutter through the auditorium like fairies and pyrotechnics bring the performance to a close with a bang. With 160 synchronized high kicks each show, you'd have thought there would already be enough entertainment.

In the last scene, the stage grows dark and becomes serious. No more colourful helpers making toys.

Real sheep, donkeys and a camel trot slowly across the stage, drawing a line to the nativity scene. It may be the reason for the season, but it's a drastic shift in tone from the rest of the show.

Santa must have needed a break.

Let's Meat.

A Katz above.

New York City, New York – Today, the midday line outside Katz's Delicatessen is only a half-block long.

In relative terms, it's short.

Neon signs hum as we huddle against a light drizzle, a whisper of steam forming on our breath. It spells anticipation.

Moving inside, we pick up our tickets (don't lose them: you need them to get out) and scan the packed room for the shortest carving line and a table. Unsurprisingly, there will be a wait for both. 

Meanwhile, cutlery duels, plates clatter and people shout. Chairs screech across the floor.

The man in line in front of me doesn't seem to know what he wants and the server becomes visibly frustrated. Patience is not a New York virtue.

An oasis in the chaos.

The guest's saving grace is that he speaks Spanish. First opened in 1888, the Kosher-style deli may be the city's oldest, but it also signifies New York's shifting demographics: most of the staff today are Latin American.

As a middle ground, the carver offers, in Spanish: "Do you want pastrami and corned beef?"

He's as relieved to see the man gather his tray and push through the jostling crowd as he is to hear I know exactly what I want: pastrami on rye with brown mustard, a bowl of matzo ball soup and a side of pickles.

A wish for knish.

The carver throws a few juicy slices onto a plate set on the counter: time-honoured samples. Katz's goes through 30,000 pounds of meat in a given week and still expertly carves it by hand in front of you. I drool even at what's considered scrap and tossed aside. His knife spins, a glint in its eye.

The bustle and show are half the experience.

But only half: the sandwich is piled high with thickly cut meat, the crunchy pickles are sour and the matzo ball is the size of my fist. You have to be particularly careful to not spill any as you push against the stream to find a table.

A bite. Bliss.

While hardly still hungry, dessert comes in the form a a fresh cherry-cheese knish from the 120-year-old Yonah Schimmel a few doors down.

It's so hot and delicious it melts into my soul.

Parked.

New York City, New York – Aromas of baked goods and cheese dance in the air as raclette melts, twisting off the blade and onto a baguette.

Ice skaters twirl in parallel.

Frankly, it's a nice respite from the smells of weed and booze that seem to permeate the city.

Set up like chess pieces, the green-framed huts in the Bryant Park Winter Village serve as magnets for holiday crowds by offering crafts, gifts and food of all varieties. Passers-by tug on cups of hot chocolate so thick one merchant advertises that chewing isn't allowed; another twists freshly boiled pasta into a 70-pound wheel of Parmesan.

Jostled by endless lines of people, I feel the same.

But the sun twinkles on the tall Christmas tree and off the skyscrapers surrounding Bryant Park, whose revitalization over the past couple decades has allowed it to shed its previous "Needle Park" moniker. It now breathes a European flair into the city.

We trace the grid back up to Broadway, where we see Hamilton at the Richard Rogers Theatre, which has housed more Tony Award-winning Best Plays and Best Musicals than anywhere else. As expected, the show is great, but the theatre is cold, cramped and today has only one operational restroom. 

Patrons aren't thrilled.

But a post-show visit to New York landmark Junior's takes the (cheese) cake.

Finding Free.

Breakfast at Tiffany.

New York City, New York – "Beautiful smile, but I can't pay the rent with it," says an elderly man with a heavy Italian accent.

He doffs a tweed cap as he crosses the subway platform, his hands gesticulating as though drawing a caricature.

"Neither can I," I reply with a chuckle.

Not much in this city is cheap – not talk, not even the knock-off Gucci purses and faux high-end watches unceremoniously pulled from garbage bags and laid out on sidewalks. The packaging is a metaphor.

Fifth avenue is certainly no place to look for discounts. Its store windows, however, are beautifully animated for the holidays and come to life in sharp angles of colour and glitter. Bears dance the can-can behind the glass.

Bergdorf: good, man.

Having also wandered through Central Park, we stop at Judge Roy Bean for a beer and to toast my favourite young lady's birthday from afar. 

A sparkling silver purse sits on the patio table like the disco ball that will soon fall in Times Square to usher in the new year. We hand it to the server, who asks another table if it belongs to them.

A young woman shrieks in relief, not yet having realized it was gone.

As we prepare to leave, the server tells us the woman's friend has picked up our tab as thanks. "Good karma, and happy holidays," she says with a smile.

On our way home, we stumble upon a bourbon tasting and happy hour at the hotel. Both are free.

In a city this expensive, I'll take it.

Hustle and Go.

Not bored.

New York City, New York – We emerge from the subway to an eruption of colour.

Our stop has left us at Times Square, which is bathed in light from flashing billboards suited for a sweet tooth: Coca-Cola, Reese's peanut butter cups, M&Ms and the new movie, Wonka. 

As usual, it's a dizzying kaleidoscope.

We're immediately stitched into a thick holiday crowd and surrounded by countless street performers dressed in Minion, gorilla, robot and superhero costumes. Batman perches on a light standard, exchanging photos for tips.

Welcome to Gotham: everyone has a hustle, and everyone needs to make a buck.

A fine feller.

On another corner, the Naked Cowboy struts with his guitar, sings a bit and makes wrestling poses. I'm sure he's grateful it's sunny and an unseasonably warm 16 degrees.

The holidays are in full swing.

Iconic toy store FAO Schwarz is lined up around the block. Amazon couriers whiz past on e-bikes, pulling trailers stacked high with cardboard boxes; others rattle carts along the sidewalk.

Shoulder-to-shoulder doesn't put me into the holiday spirit, though, so we thread past the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree and squeeze through the throngs to Hell's Kitchen for lunch at Alfie's. We sit on the patio, enjoying the relative quiet in short sleeves.

Global warming isn't real, you say?

Drive-by Bye.

London, ON — The darkness of night suddenly swirled in blue and red, the silence of a quiet evening shattered by sirens and high-revving engines.

Connecticut Avenue had become a police disco.

Had someone hit a cyclist? The response, within minutes, of more than a dozen police cars and fire trucks wailed of great tragedy.

Little did we know.

Behind our hotel, four men had jumped out of a carjacked Alfa Romeo and fired more than 50 rounds — including with a semi-automatic rifle — in a targeted killing that also left a bystander with significant injuries. My partner had walked past the spot 20 minutes earlier. I had been there a couple hours prior, and countless times before.

When I first started coming to Washington D.C. more than 30 years ago, it was understood you had to be careful to not cross the wrong streets or you could suddenly end up in a bad area. Having walked through much of the city since, I’ve never felt unsafe.

Row, row, row.

And, despite being the site of an assassination attempt on President Ronald Reagan in 1981, the area around the Washington Hilton hardly qualifies as bad.

Violent crime and homicide have increased steadily in the district in recent years, though, reaching rates unseen in 20 years. It’s immediately obvious more people are experiencing homelessness than when I was there last. The pandemic cannot have helped.

Having spent the day driving home, we have been left reflecting on change, on life, on equity. And on a love I still have for D.C.

Vitals:

• Time: 12 hours
• Distance: 969.3 kms
• Province/States: Washington D.C., Maryland, Pennsylvania, New York, Ontario
  
• Weather: Sunny and mild
• Wildlife: A panic-stricken coyote, struck by a car and unable to move its legs

Film at Eleven.

Kicking our feet up.

New York City, New York — Night falls.

As it does, fluffy flakes pirouette slowly over Central Park.

With bourbon-barrelled beer on our breath, and frost in our fingertips, we do the same.

Angular branches cut into the darkness, striking dramatic poses in the shadows. It’s like a dance number in an old black-and-white movie and they’re our backups. We sway with the whispers of winter’s chill.

The city shares its romance with its visitors.


Geese huddle on the lake as a K-pop group shoots a music video. Skaters scrape through the drifts.


The city’s neon feels miles away.


It’s magic.


It’s the stuff of movies.


And it’s forever astounding such a space exists at the heart of the city.

Getting my Phil.

Do not pass Go, do not collect $200.

Philadelphia, PA – The dark velour of the early morning sky frays at the seams, salmon spawning across its belly.

It’s 5:30 a.m. and the rising sun has already become lazy with fall.

We wind through New York’s hills, which have only begun to molt summer’s skin, much like the greying you question seeing at your temples as you age. Through Pennsylvania’s Endless Mountains and Poconos, however, the leaves have begun to smoulder like recently lit cigarettes amidst puff-cheeked hills.

Vampire Weekend plays on repeat, getting us ready for tomorrow night’s concert on the outskirts of Philadelphia.

Our first stop in the City of Brotherly Love, though, is for a beer and moules et frites at the legendary Monk’s Café.

It has been called one of the top-five places in the world to have a beer and, upon scanning the list, I am disinclined to argue.

Vitals:

• Time: 10 hours
• Distance: 880 kilometres
• Weather: Sun with clouds, warming as we progressed
• Province/States: Ontario, New York, Pennsylvania
• Wildlife: None

Hop To It.

Aligned.

Worcester, MA – After a morning spent alternately dropping into, and climbing out of, New York’s green crevasses, we’ve fallen into a lineup that snakes around a parking lot.

Intentionally.

A constant stream of people toting flats of candy-coloured cans flows in the opposite direction. Many of the more ambitious have come prepared with trolleys – and apparently, deep pockets. They sport craft brewery t-shirts from around the world, seemingly trying to one-up each other with the most obscure, or the most sought-after.

Despite being an almost two-hour wait, it’s apparently actually a quiet day at Treehouse Brewing Company.

The only quiet spot at Treehouse that day.

As one of the top-rated breweries in the world – and one that doesn’t distribute beyond these lineups – I’d imagine they’ll also be selling many t-shirts, in addition to the coveted cans.

The sun is in full bloom against an utterly blue slate, so the minutes melt away.

Typical brewery aromas like wort blend with citrus notes, which makes sense given Treehouse is particularly known for its juicy, hoppy beers. The Adirondack chairs framing the garden sit empty, however, as it’s a can-only day.

There are too many people here for them to efficiently let the taproom flow.

An oddly efficient 90 minutes later, however, we have our own flat – a rattling rainbow of treats we carry past the hyphenated line of eager patrons still filling out their checklists.

It'll be worth their wait.

Vitals:

• Time: 12 hours
• Distance: 932 kms
• Weather: Sunny and hot
• Province/States: Ontario, New York, Massachusetts
• Wildlife: None

Shipping Out.

Time to alight.

New York City, New York – Setting out from the foot of the Queensboro Bridge, the pigeons are the noisiest thing breaking the morning’s silence.

Compared to yesterday, it's like biscotti crumbs falling into coffee. Sunday is our driver’s favourite to work and it’s obvious why as he careens through the empty streets like a hot knife through butter.

Yesterday’s madness around Rockefeller Center, too, has subsided, finally allowing us to get a clearer look at the window displays. It’s an easy walk across town to the terminal in the sharp cold.

Manhattan really isn’t that wide.

Climbing aboard the Norwegian Escape, however, thousands of people are suddenly compressed into limited space, luggage in tow. It’s as though we brought yesterday’s crowds aboard with us.

The dining room is enough to make an introvert’s head explode.

Leaving New York, the stars fall into the city: millions of pinpricks jointly lighting up the darkness.

With distance, the unknown begins to absorb the day-to-day, land melting into black.

Fairytale of New York.

Ready, Set, Action!

New York City, New York – An entire subway car filled with jolly Santas screeches past in a blur of red. Parents of young children will have some serious explaining to do.

On Ted! On Julie! On Marcus!

It’s the city’s official Santa Crawl and the F train in Queens is a subterranean silver sleigh carrying revellers to the gifts of the day. Above ground, brake lights melt into the decorations shining from the trees.

Fake Fendi bags have been flung across the pavement with care for those traipsing down Fifth Avenue, but unable to step inside for the real thing.

Stores have all unfurled their finery for the season: the windows at Bergdorf Goodman provide a psychedelic kaleidoscope of peppermint and cotton candy. A robot of famous robin egg blue boxes holds up the clock at Tiffany & Co. Saks adds a flourish of garland.

Christmas carriages of all varieties.

A live violinist performs in a lingerie shop window, while other stores provide passers-by with an opportunity to sing Christmas carol karaoke into microphones protruding like bird necks through the glass. A woman dressed as a toy solider stands guard outside F.A.O. Schwartz.

It’s the fathers who line up to pose for photos with her.

Across the road, saxophones echo in the archways of Central Park, clasped hands welcoming you with the smell of roasted chestnuts warmed under lightbulbs. A model poses, shivering in her whispy summer dress as the photographer waits for the right light.

Christmas season is a particular draw to Manhattan, as people seek out the romance of the city portrayed in so many Christmas movies. Between the store displays, the Rockefeller Center tree and the Rockettes show at Radio City Music Hall, however, it takes us an hour to walk a block.

Somehow, it’s always quiet in the movies.

Frozen Heros.

It was a Heady day.

Stowe, VT – Standing in the fog, the trees seemed like seventies tweed. Brown, everywhere.

Below, soft mounds of snow clung to the crevices, a season’s receding hairline on the rocks of the Canadian Shield.

And now, the U.S. Customs and Border Protection agent, perched in his kiosk, boomed: “Welcome to the United States” with a big smile. As he offered travel tips, it quickly became apparent he hadn’t had the busiest of days.

“Ah, Vermont! I was there last week. It’s lovely.”

While the crossing is into New York, you can literally see Vermont from where he sat. I’d imagine he’s there most weeks – but, he was a riot.

Five minutes of small talk later, he actually seemed saddened to see us go.

We wove through North Hero and South Hero and on to Stowe, where it’s apparently mud season. Snow, now like smoker’s teeth, lies clumped in the bush as we pull into the historic Stowehof for the night.

But first, the real reason for visiting Vermont: beer at the Alchemist and cheese, this time in the form of Bayley Hazen Blue cheese balls at Doc Ponds.

And here I thought I couldn’t stand blue cheese.

Vitals:

• Time: 9.5 hours
• Distance: 959.3 kms
• Weather: Fog, rain.
• Provinces/States: Ontario, Quebec, New York, Vermont
• Wildlife: Deer

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.

No Words.

Times, Squared.

The times, they are a-changin'.

New York City, New York – The colours shimmer, even with eyes shuttered. They blink in spasms, blending with guttural hurls from below.

Falling asleep, the light show is reminiscent of shelling over Normandy.

At all hours, angry New Yorkers carry out conversations over car-horn blasts, but it’s the jackhammers that finally split my sleep with finality. It’s good to have an urban rooster. We have been staying at the Night Hotel Times Square – close enough to tan by the light of giant television screens, but far enough to still be able to get in the front door.

I feel so alive, despite not normally liking cities.

Flat light.

Filled by a fancy breakfast on the patio at Sarabeth’s overlooking Central Park, we dive back into the crowd, which flows like a school of fish: always moving and stuck together until one gets confused. A young lady in black nylons, micro shorts and a derby hat flashes a smile and hands us a paper fan emblazoned with graphics announcing the musical, Chicago. It will be useful in the 32-degree heat.

A roar rises from the other end of the square. Like a bowl of colourful, plump jujubes, it seems sports fans don very different costumes. It's Saturday morning and a set for ESPN’s College GameDay has attracted raucous football fans who stab signs into the air and chant on demand for the cameras.

A wave of cheers, and another commercial break.

We opted to line up for discount Broadway tickets as a kaleidoscope of light cascaded over the streets. While we had no plan for what to see, the fan was prescient. Half-price tickets: sixth row at the Ambassador Theater.

Just another benefit of attending one of the longest-running shows in Broadway history.

State of Mind.

Same spot, different shot.

New York City, New York – The balloon pops – the gunshots – are silent now.

But, they still reflect off the concrete like dull hammers in my mind.

It has been more than 20 years since I last visited the Empire State Building. Twenty years since an aggrieved Palestinian teacher stood beside me in a tan trench coat – short, dark hairs bristling at the nape of his neck – and opened fire into the crowd on the 86th floor, leaving a young Danish musician doubled over, fatally shot.

Others fell around him, seriously wounded.

He then put a bullet into his own head as I lay below: the slow melt of a crimson puddle at my feet in those seconds-that-felt-like-minutes has stained my memory – likely forever. Time had stopped.

For some, literally.

Twenty years to return to this place, where life was a fleeting flash for some, fortune for others. Where falling, rising and falling again held the key to future stories and the ability to make memories anew. The key to return, even after 20 years.

Same spot, then.

Where one photo is all I had to distance me from nightmares. Or clutch me to its bosom. Rest in peace, Christoffer Burmeister, who did not have that opportunity.

I had, presciently, become nauseous moments before the shooting began. The feeling returned as I took a tentative first step onto the windy deck, unsure if memory lurked around the corner, now filled by unknowing visitors.

It did, but was gentle with me.

The blood is now scrubbed away, but the memory permanent. Oddly, the spot the shooter fell still appears to be traced by an abundance of sand. Even 20 years later, the deck seems to haunt me. But I am free.

Add to this day the hollow shells of melted fire trucks and ambulances stuck between twisted steel rising like gnarled fingers at the 9/11 memorial and museum, and a visit to Ellis Island, and it has been a really heavy day.

But one to remember.

In a positive light.

Plead the Fifth.

In-spired.

New York City, NY – Morning was born early.

Mourning will come later.

The day’s grey may have been caused by clouds, or by concrete buildings reflected in the tinted sunglasses of security detail perched on every corner. Despite furtive glances, officers’ bird-like neck gestures don’t appear to make them inconspicuous.

The United Nations is in session and roads are gridlocked by long lines of NYPD cars, bikes and tow trucks framing similar convoys of blacked-out luxury vehicles. An African General in dress whites stands in contrast, a gleam of medals bursting from his ample chest.

Much like when we were in Washington D.C., Turkish security has decided to physically attack protestors. Somehow, impunity in the U.S.A.

Isn't that what travel is about?

Given heightened security, sights like the Empire State Building and Statue of Liberty are apparently closed to visitors, so we wandered through Times Square, Grace’s eyes lighting up like the screens themselves. Her excitement as a first-time visitor was as easy to read.

Tracing a journey through the Art Deco line art of Rockefeller Center, we visited Saks Fifth Avenue and wound our way around Central Park. The Strawberry Fields memorial for John Lennon continues to carry with it a pall, despite a never-ending line of visitors jumping onto it for photographs.

The 30-degree heat grows hazy, yet still serves as a magnet to activity as runners blend into those sporting cardboard boxes from Waffles and Dinges sitting on park benches hyphenating the park. Bicycle touts compete for business with horse carriages as pigeons flock into buckets of feed placed before some nonplussed mares.

Around the corner, carnival music pumps from the 145-year-old carousel.

Suddenly, the day has some colour.

The Road Less Travelled.

What came first: the chicken or racism?

London, ON – The fog hangs like a veil as we drive like an arrow through the nothingness.

Having been here before, I know tremendous beauty lies behind it; we must only move beyond this early hour.

Three baby turkeys make us slalom more than the roads’ hips as we make our way past parted-out car hoods propped against crooked trees. They have been spray-painted with slogans like “Make America Great Again” and “TRUMP!” Looking at the industries folded into many of these valleys, it’s easy to see these are areas most vulnerable to some of the current government’s policies.

I can only hang my head.

A church sign, meanwhile, says it represents “a separation between church and hate,” but it’s a message missed by too many these days. Still, it restores a modicum of hope.

Beyond the 10-hour drive home, we still need to pick up our car in downtown Toronto and return the rental to Pearson International Airport, 30 minutes away. Again, thanks, Porter.

Naturally, we have arrived in Toronto just in time to be greeted by roads clogged like pipes as traffic pours into the city for the afternoon’s Blue Jays baseball game.

So tired. So much for vacation.

Vitals:

• Time: 10 hours, five minutes
• Distance: 782.6 kms
• Weather: Foggy, breaking to sun, with intermittent sprinkles of rain
• States/Province: Pennsylvania, New York, Ontario
• Wildlife: None