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.

Court of Approval.

Baseline for a great experience.

Pok Fu Lam, Hong Kong — I emerge from the rainforest and onto a basketball court, looking to rain jumpers.

I’ve always wanted to join a pickup game during my travels and have only ever found soccer. Even at mid-morning, it’s 30 degrees, with 87 per cent humidity. And, the court is longer than normal.

“You wanna play?”

The request, in stilted English, comes my way not long after I start leaning on the fence to watch the game already underway.

Perhaps I should have had breakfast.

From five-on-five to four-on-four and two-on-three, the heat dribbles off us more than we do. The ball moves. We catch passes, and our breath, swallowing steam.

The men speak Cantonese, but a screen is a screen in any language — especially with my size. Together, we applaud each others’ efforts and enjoy the boundary-breaking nature of sport. In this case, travelling takes on a couple meanings.

Turnarounds, a game-winning three to cap the day, and smiles all around.

I’ve imagined this moment through many countries.

Foul.

A monumental homerun.

Washington, D.C. – I’m greeted by the fetid smells of a humid city on trash day.

It seems I’ve been here enough the past couple years to fall into the city’s rhythms and to navigate the bustle of the off-to-work crowd and the heat alike. To know the roads well enough to know the ‘do not cross’ signal is a mere suggestion.

But, to watch out at roundabouts.

To find coffee, food and good beer (best of the lot: Churchkey).

It still doesn’t prepare me for how large my peppered salmon bagel from Bethesda Bagels is going to be – the thing must be four inches thick. Naturally, this is the one time I’ve forgotten to grab some napkins.

At least the pigeons, pecking around me with a suspicious and eager eye, will love me as I clumsily eat it in installments, first at a tiny pocket park at Dupont Circle, then at the Washington Monument. It does, however, fuel my six-mile walk to the ballpark, where I find myself surrounded by the snap of ball-to-glove and square-shaped fans clutching tall cans.

I must be getting old: I’ve opted for shade over proximity to the field of play. As the day drags on, the usher pushes the crowd farther back and under the overhang. Then, a storm brews in the distance.

For the moment, however, the only brews at the game wear jerseys like Budweiser and Shock Top. So much for the craft beer invasion.

I may have found my rhythm, but it turns out it doesn’t matter what city you’re in: baseball is still boring.