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?

Bourbon and ON.

Reserved.

London, ON – The rolling green hills around Versailles, Kentucky are stitched together by raw boards: braces holding prized racehorses in place.

Appropriately, the endless pastures are the colour of money.

For miles, the grass is stained white by fresh paint. One farm, in all black, stands in contrast, like Johnny Cash.

We cling to tight corners on country roads before pulling through the stone and iron gate at Woodford Reserve. The name is relatively new, but a distillery was first built here in 1812 and the location is listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

We’re immediately drowned by fresh cut grass and sweet sour mash.

Oak barrels teeter down tracks between long, thin stone buildings, headed for a rest.

We left booking a tour too late, so the rest of our day looks similar.

Homeward. 

Vitals:

• Time: 9 hours, 20 minutes
• Distance: 779.9 kms
• States/Province: Kentucky, Ohio, Michigan, Ontario
• Weather: Sunny and warm
• Wildlife: None

Off the Wall.

Monopolizing Big Apple references

Asheville, NC – The entrance to Asheville’s Wall Street is wedged open by a flatiron building built in the Beaux Arts style in 1927.

A large, black statue of an iron stands firmly on the sidewalk like an oversized Monopoly piece.
 
It’s obvious the city doesn’t take itself too seriously.

The street itself is named less for the American financial mecca than for the – you guessed it – wall that lines it, keeping the infill in place. The former back alley is now home to several quirky shops – including one devoted to vintage belt buckles – and trendy restaurants.

It seems to be indicative of the city's South Slope District, which, like many gentrifying areas, clings to the past and brings with it the arts, culinary experimentation, modern culture and a more progressive attitude. 

Not to mention rising prices.

They called him Wilt.

Ghost signs trace brick buildings like faded Yellow Pages, harkening back to a time where this was the city's automotive centre. Now, strings of Edison bulbs and clay-potted plants sway over cozy patios ringed by original iron fences.

Large graffiti murals stand in bright contrast to old buildings of an eclectic mix of architectural styles.

Former garages host artisan treats like Vortex Donuts, art galleries and a glassblowing studio I lose myself to for an hour. The city is also home to the most craft breweries per capita in America, including top-rated Burial Beer Co., where we happily shiver under the patio's space heaters for big IPAs and even-bigger stouts containing adventurously unique ingredients.  

Every restaurant seems to feature a James Beard-nominated chef. 

Asheville reminds me of bit of Austin or of Deep Ellum in Dallas: progressive enclaves in states known to be stuck very much in the past –  ghost signs in and of themselves.

We hadn't planned to say, but are glad we did.

Going Whole Hog.

Dressed how you like it.

Asheville, NC – A cartoonist has drawn a bubble in our minds that Charleston may not in fact happen this time.

We’re wet and we’re cold. Moreso, we’re tired and comfortable in this surprisingly progressive enclave in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

For a moment, I exhale.

The hearty smoke of barbeque breathes stories into our noses, and we’re drawn, again, into Buxton Hall Barbeque. James Beard nominations fall from the ceiling, and onto our bills.

Here, we learn the bourbon-infused Cheerwine slushie does not actually contain wine.

The buzzing historic building in the South Slope was a roller rink in the 1930s and has seen various lives as an auto shop, a boat showroom and a paper company. Skaters chase galloping horses along the walls in a race that hasn’t ended in more than 80 years.

I chase pulled pork and brisket.

That race lasts far less time.

Good Fry Day.

Where they started lickin' fingers.

Corbin, KY – Hugging the slopes of the Appalachian Mountains, we pull up to a vintage gas station that welcomes us with a white-sided café. The neon outside is quiet this misty morning.

It’s Good Friday, and only a slight detour.

The pumps haven’t worked in years and the café is, of course, not just another forgotten roadside restaurant now. It’s ground zero of a restaurant chain that has grown to offer more than 55,000 locations in 55 countries and territories around the world.

Now, it slings the origin story of Kentucky Fried Chicken.

The once-noble building’s windows are etched with the name “Harland Sanders.” Ever the marketer, Sanders ensured the etchings faced inward, so you’d learn his name as you ate.

The attraction is now predominantly a museum focused on myth-making and brand-building, and it provides models of the Colonel’s hotel rooms, his customary white suit and other memorabilia, including a Harlequin novel where he rescues a damsel in distress, and Crocs pinned with fried drumsticks.

Even the stick figure for the bathroom wears his customary string tie.

But it still sells chicken.

And fries.

Vitals:

• Time: 7.5 hours
• Distance: 470 kms
• States: Kentucky, Tennessee, North Carolina
• Weather: Rain, cold
• Wildlife: None

De La Soul.

C'est (bour)bon.

Lexington, KY – As the bottom of the rust belt falls out, spring greens pitch tentatively skyward.

Eastern redbuds are sprinkled like confetti in the fog, welcoming the new season and accompanying freedom that floats on the breeze. Between winter and a global pandemic now in its third year, the rebirth hits close to home.

Moving south, Ohio’s skyline becomes an abstract of greys crisscrossed by beams painted ochre and soft blues. Many of the art deco bridges are topped by ornate iron work, whispering to a bygone era.

We hadn’t planned to drive, but studies and life got in the way of fleeting plans and here we are, suddenly on a tour of the bourbon trail and pointed toward Charleston, South Carolina.

A tasting at the modern New Riff Distilling, just over the bridge from Cincinnati, is followed by a stop at Boone County Distilling. I’m driving, so just a sniff and a shot of history.

Boone County, founded in 2015, boasts walls dressed in charred barrel staves, blackened but smooth to the touch. It claims inspiration from a distillery opened in the area in 1833 and uses the tagline “Made by Ghosts.”

“Spirits, Distilled by Spirits” was right there.

C'est (aussi) bon.

The best part of the day, though, has been pulling up to a strip mall in Lexington, looking for dinner. Mimi’s Southern Style Cooking is lined up out the door even though the dining room – which seems to double as a dance hall – sits empty.

There’s no obvious menu, but aluminum catering trays shimmer with fried chicken, mac and cheese, collard greens, green beans, corn bread and various other items. We can immediately tell it’s a road trip gem.

Conspicuous, we’re invited to the front of the line and handed a cafeteria tray.

Everyone else is waiting for the pork chops.

Vitals:

• Time: 11 hours
• Distance: 762 kms
• Province/States: Ontario, Michigan, Ohio, Kentucky
• Weather: Persistent rain, fog and cold
• Wildlife: None

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

Column Maybe.

Capital I, Capital I, Capitol I.

Washington, DC — With each swing of my arms, I water the plants dotting narrow gardens that extend like long, manicured fingers from colourfully painted homes.

Sun flits through the leaves, casting shadows that slow dance across the sidewalk like awkward sixth-graders, languid and tentative. It’s that hot. Even first thing in the morning, the air folds its grasp around my lungs.

It’s a greenhouse.

But I push on through Truxton Circle and NoMa, past Union Market and on to Ivy City. I've been through prettier, and apparently much safer, parts of the city. 

Arriving at the United States National Arboretum, my reddened face is in stark contrast to all the green.

Twenty-two Corinthian sandstone columns rise before me like chess pieces, seemingly misplaced in a vast meadow buzzing with crickets. I have come across the final resting place for most of the original columns of the United States Capitol.

Built in 1826, they served as the backdrop for countless historical events, including Presidential inaugurations from 1829 to 1957 — Andrew Jackson to Dwight Eisenhower. Now, they stand solemnly, a human creation set in nature, whispering stories amidst the low rustle of leaves.

Fitness, stubbornness and a love of exploring still have me walking everywhere. 

At 41 degrees, however, this may not have been the wisest day to hike 23 kilometres.

But my reward: top-notch beers at Other Half Brewing.

Czech Mark.

Will that be Visa or Mastercard?

Washington, DC — Beer? Check. Cheese? Check.

Embassy visit? Czech.

It may not be my conference, but I'm not often afforded opportunities to attend receptions at embassies. Think of the stories! Unsurprisingly, it doesn't take much convincing for me to tag along this evening. 

I’m still an Uber newbie, though, and am a little surprised when a Tesla pulls up. I fumble about the recessed handles, not entirely sure how to open the streamlined door. When I finally do, the dash-mounted screen blips with cars and pedestrians caught in the radar as they cross in front of us.

Space Invaders has come a long way.

Na Zdraví!

We wind through green hills in the north end of the city and slalom down a curvy road into which a few embassies have tucked themselves. My glasses dim with fog as I arrive at the gate framing the Embassy of the Czech Republic. Everyone files though security but me.

My passport is in another car.

We’re greeted with local Czech-style beer and wine, plates of cheeses and meats, and goulash with dumplings. Beef, salmon, pasta and salads. It’s a nice spread in a room lined with an inordinate number of nude sculptures and paintings.

We’re told that the grounds are largely devoid of flat spaces to prevent people from jumping out of windows in attempts to escape with information. Lessons learned, apparently.

Despite the conviviality, all I can think of as I look around the room at everyone eating and drinking without masks is the all-too-reality that someone here has COVID and is passing it around. I regret for a moment deciding this was a story I wanted to experience.

But there’s no escaping now.

(Postscript: COVID was indeed present and several attendees have since become sick.)

Fortitude.

Sentries past.

San Juan, Puerto Rico — The city’s walls jut out to sea like jagged teeth.

The looming facades of Castillo San Felipe del Moro and Castillo San Cristobal — the largest Spanish fortification in the New World — have been chipped by years of defence and conquest, salt air and earthquakes. Built between the 16th and 18th centuries, they still stand proud.

As strong as you are, though, you’re bound to show your age eventually.

The two UNESCO World Heritage Sites are punctuated by domed sentry boxes at angular corners and dark tunnels that once carried troops to cannon posts atop the forts. As closing time approaches, the parade ground stands still.

I stand, at the centre, history pages flipping through my mind.

Rays sparkle on the waves like lit gunpowder. Blue cobblestone streets flow through the old town as though the dark depths of the sea have washed over them and never receded. The distinctive bricks, now worn and cracked, were made from furnace slag once used as ballast for Spanish ships.

You’re literally walking on colonialism.

Heavy bass thumps from an apartment above as a dreadlocked man dances on the balcony. Below, tourists line up for the local delicacy, mofongo.

Today, Spanish influences remain in the architecture, colourful tile and wrought iron balconies. Various cultures are reflected in the food and the music.

Puerto Rico may be American.

But in so many ways, it's not.

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.

Angry Seize.

A storm a-piers to be brewing.

Williamsport, PA – Foaming at the mouth, the sea lashes at the shore with angry tongues.

Waves are expected to surpass 10 feet this afternoon. Even now, winds average 50 km/h, with gusts double that.

As it was only two hours from Philadelphia – and home to Dogfish Head brewery – we decided to head back to Rehoboth Beach, Delaware yesterday.

A beer, and the sea: bliss.

Pots of palm fronds have blown over, however, and the red ‘No Swimming' flag cracks a loud warning from the lifeguard station. The pole bends like an inflatable tube man outside a used car lot.

And Hurricane Dorian is only as far as North Carolina.

I love the sea and, even with the storm, feel incredibly at peace as the sand shaves my legs. I lose myself in the churn and never want to escape its grasp.

As tempting as it is to stay to watch the fringe of Dorian, though, we’ve caught the tailwind out of town, winding along the Susquehanna river, and into the sunshine.

We’ve pulled up into Williamsport, Pennsylvania – home to the Little League World Series – which is alive with music and art on the street.

And no hurricanes in sight.

Vitals:

• Time: 6.5 hours
• Distance: 441.6 kilometres
• Weather: Rain, leading into sun
• States: Delaware, Pennsylvania
• Wildlife: None

Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.

At what cost, liberty?

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania – With all the driving I've done lately, I appreciate that public transportation will carry us out to the Mann Center for our Vampire Weekend concert tonight.

A young boy pops onto the bus, his smile wide.

His shirt reads: “Shoot basketballs, not people.”

I’m immediately reminded I’m in the United States.

Lit.

A Rose by any other name.

Newport, RI – Waves lap at the shore with the caress of a saxophone.

We’re spending the night at the historic Rose Island Lighthouse, and the Newport Jazz Festival is in full swing across the bay. I had never thought of Common as jazz.

Constructed in 1870, the lighthouse is part of a 17-acre island comprising the remains of Fort Hamilton, which was first built during the revolutionary war in the late 1700s. Throughout the years, its bunkers and bomb-proof barracks have also served as munition depots and as quarantine for cholera patients.

Today, many of the structures across the island are in disrepair and used as a refuge for the countless birds nesting nearby.

View from above.

Double-crested cormorants jackknife into the waves, resurfacing great distances away with silver squiggles trapped in their beaks. Seagulls the size of small dogs caw their pleasure at the musical accompaniment across the bay, while a canoe see-saws on the break after a speedboat passes.

The property, accessible only by boat, is a museum by day, but offers overnight stays.

With the day’s visitors gone, I climb the lighthouse tower, prying myself through the tiny door to the widow’s walk. There are no storms to watch today, just an opportunity to embrace the panorama – views of blue peppered by sailboats cutting into the sea breeze.

Night falls, and there are six of us alone on the island. In a lighthouse.

What an incredible experience.