As the Rooster Crows.

Painting the town.

Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas, USVI – Green bumps rise from the turquoise carpet.

They’re jewelled like Christmas trees by brightly coloured houses scattered through the hills with large, rounded storm doors.

The roads, meanwhile, are filled with so many chickens a local brewery has begun naming beers after them. Twenty or so peck around  an alley filled with grain.

It’s conveniently located next to a restaurant called the Chicken Fry.

Shop air conditioning breathes a chill into narrow alleys filled with jewellery stores sparkling with diamonds and other precious stones. They employ a variety of tactics to get you to visit.

“Did you read the news article about wearing open-toed shoes on the island?” one shopkeeper asks, striking a tone of mild alarm. A pause before we realize he’s hoping to create twinkle toes.

“Well-played,” I chuckle. But, not well enough to get me to go in.

Heading back to the ship, a mural outside a housing complex calls to save the reefs.

In what’s likely an apt metaphor, it’s peeling away, too.

In Waves.

The sea is sick.

Sargasso Sea – Blackness heaves beneath us as mountains collapse and re-form with a snarl.

We cleave through 14.5-foot waves, bringing angry exclamations in sprays of turquoise and diamonds that shatter all around.

Beauty lurks in the deep darkness, birthed from violence.

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.

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.

Heated.

No lower cases tried here.

Washington, DC – Sweat beads on my arm in shapes that seem to spell out how hot it is, even early in the morning.

It’s not long before I drip with a clatter against the pavement – noises lost to the sounds of the city.

Crossing the road, a man carries a half-eaten banana, a box of cookies and another freshly pressed shirt. He knows the one he’s wearing won’t make it.

A line of men with the same idea follows – this must be a drycleaner’s dream.

The city’s past, meanwhile, is reflected in countless glass structures being erected in the southern sector of the city. An old red-brick church stands forlornly, temporarily displaced into the middle of the street.

It’s hard to imagine it’s the only thing being displaced during this period of rapid gentrification.

I venture down to the East Capitol Street area, one of the district’s oldest and priciest neighbourhoods. Flowering trees form awnings over the sidewalks, but I preferred gawking at the homes in Georgetown.

As I make my way back behind the Capitol Building, though, I’m struck by how much – even with my distaste for the politics – this building, and this area, are awe-inspiring.

Quite a Row.

I flagged in the heat, too.

Washington, D.C. – Even in the full force of heat, gas lamps dance in daylight – exclamation marks framing monied porch stoops.

You can almost imagine the buxom trees surrounding them to shed $100 bills onto the walkway.

Wandering through Embassy Row and on to Georgetown is a wonder for architecture lovers, even amateur ones. There’s a history told in these pillars, alcoves and archways.

Some of these buildings are so old and tied to intrigue their stories only come out in whispers.

Many are dressed in fresh coats of paint and with modern numbers or open concept interiors that allow the timepiece to shift somewhat, but they retain the beauty of their neo-classical and beaux-arts styles.

Turning toward Georgetown, under the university’s towering structures atop the hill, a group of jovial homeless people tucked into a theatre entranceway spin conspiracy yarns about declassified CIA files. Some things never change.

I’m grateful for the canopies of foliage that shield me from some of the brooding heat. My path is drawn by closely cropped waxy greens and buckled red bricks, crooked like misplaced teeth.

Centuries of roots laid down are now trying to surface.

There’s a parallel to be found in today’s political climate in the U.S., of course.