Off We go

It was touch and go from even before we went anywhere near an airport let alone the other side of the Atlantic due to Sandy, that was hurricane Sandy I should say. On October 22, 2012—three weeks before our departure—a massive storm formed in the Caribbean, eventually spanning over a thousand miles. It intensified as it moved north, making landfall on October 29, battering New York City with powerful winds and a devastating storm surge. Flooding crippled the subway, millions lost power, and the city faced widespread destruction. The storm lingered until November 2 before recovery efforts could begin, marking one of the costliest disasters in U.S. history. Luckily the area we were staying was largely unaffected although it would cause us problems on more than one occasion.

Departure

The night before we travelled was less of a "night before" and more of a long, dark period of staring at the ceiling. I don't think either of us properly slept a wink, our minds buzzing with a mixture of "Are we really doing this?" and "Have we packed everything we need?". The alarm felt entirely pointless when the taxi arrived at a frankly ungodly 2:30 a.m. to begin the 90-minute trek to Heathrow. By the time we pulled up to the terminal around 3:45 a.m., we had an hour or so to spare before our 5:30 a.m. check-in for the 8:30 a.m. flight to Newark. 

Being complete novices, we used this time quite poorly, not realising that the real world of decent shops and comfy chairs lay beyond the security check. This led to a classic blunder: a frantic, last-minute dash to the gate after finally getting through the security scrum. We arrived, flustered and breathless, to join the queue already snaking onto the plane. It was only later we learned that due to Jane's disability, we could have waltzed on first with priority boarding. You live and learn, and we filed that nugget away as lesson number one for future trips!

At least we’d made it. We found our seats, and I was immediately struck by the aircraft itself. I’d always pictured transatlantic flights taking place on colossal jumbo jets, but this was a much more intimate affair—just a single aisle with three seats on either side. It was also surprisingly empty; clearly, not many people fancied a trip to a hurricane-battered city on a cold November morning.

Naturally, the automated seat allocation system, in its usual lack of logic, had wedged us right next to another passenger despite the abundance of empty rows. Jane took the window seat, I was stuck in the middle, and a friendly-looking chap sat on the aisle. Just after the doors shut, he leaned over and said, “I’m moving to the row behind so I can stretch out and get some sleep.” And just like that, we had a whole row to ourselves. What a gent.

The plane pushed back right on time, and then, finally, it was time for takeoff.

Up up & away

For me, the take-off was the best part of the whole experience. There's a real thrill to it, isn't there? That moment the engines roar to life, the brakes release, and the whole structure hurtles down the runway with gathering force. Then, just as you feel you're going to run out of runway, there's a sudden, peaceful quiet as the wheels lift from the tarmac and you're airborne. Absolute magic.

The eight hours that followed were wonderfully uneventful. The cabin crew came around every so often with tea and coffee, and the meal, when it arrived, was perfectly edible – which is about the highest praise you can give to plane food, I reckon. With our unexpected extra space, there was nothing left to do but sit back, watch the clouds drift by, and finally relax. The chaos of the morning felt a world away; we were actually on our way.

Arival

Our flight touched down at Newark about 45 minutes ahead of schedule, a fact we felt quite smug about for all of ten minutes. Our victory was short-lived as we then joined a queue of aeroplanes on the tarmac, waiting for a parking spot like cars at a Tesco superstore. By the time we finally disembarked, the five-hour time difference meant it wasn't even midday. This was followed by what felt like a marathon trek through the airport corridors to immigration and baggage claim. Thankfully, we were travelling light with just two small suitcases, so we were spared the scrum at the carousel.

Newark Liberty International Airport (EWR)

After a surprisingly quick passage through security, we were there. At 12:45 p.m., we stepped outside the terminal and took our first breath of American air. It was a lovely, bright, and sunny day, but with a crisp chill that reminded you it was November. It was just brilliant to be out in the fresh air, and for me, to finally have a much-needed smoke. With that little ritual over, it was time to tackle the next leg of the journey: getting to the Amsterdam Court hotel, right in the heart of the Big Apple.

Our first taste of American public transport was the Air-train. It’s an odd sort of driverless monorail that zips around the airport terminals every few minutes, and best of all, it's free. The "train" is really a chain of little pods, each holding about a dozen people. We managed to get a pod all to ourselves for the five-minute ride, which gave us a fantastic view over the airfield. Watching the massive jets taking off and being serviced while we trundled along in our little bubble felt suitably futuristic.

The Air-train dropped us at the main railway station where we bought tickets for the NJ Transit train to Penn Station in Manhattan. At only $12 (£7) each for a 20-mile, 50-minute journey into another state, it felt like an absolute bargain. What we didn't realise, however, is that two different train companies—NJ Transit and Amtrak—operate from the same platform, both heading to Penn Station. This, it turns out, is a classic trap for the unwary traveller. The sleek, impressive Amtrak train pulled in first, and almost everyone on the platform, us included, tried to pile on. This did not please the sole member of station staff, who quickly transformed into a very unhappy bunny, putting it mildly, as he herded the confused flock back onto the platform.

A short wait later, our actual train arrived, and it looked like it had seen better days. After minding the considerable gap to get on board, we found ourselves in a carriage straight out of a 70s film. The seats were brown, leathery benches designed to sit four on one side and three on the other. They were crammed together so tightly it felt worse than the plane, and there was absolutely nowhere to put luggage. Our two small cases ended up unceremoniously chucked onto the seat next to me. It wasn't glamorous, but it was certainly an authentic start to our American adventure.

To the Big Apple

Newark Railroad Station

The train rattled on, and the view from the window was a real eye-opener. The journey through the
outskirts of New Jersey was a landscape of industry; sprawling warehouses, rusty fire escapes, and what looked like a fairly run-down collection of housing. You couldn't help but assume this is where the people who keep the city running—the bar staff, the waiters, the hotel cleaners—lay their heads at night, priced out of the gleaming island just across the river.

About an hour later, we pulled into Penn Station. The train had descended into the earth, and we got off in a place that immediately reminded me of Birmingham New Street station at its worst: a dark, gloomy, underground concrete warren, teeming with people purposefully striding in every direction. We navigated the crowds and followed the signs for the exit, making our way up escalators towards the light. Then, we stepped out onto the street.

That was the moment. Standing there on the corner of 34th Street and 8th Avenue, with the yellow cabs streaming past and the roar of the city hitting us full force, it finally sank in. We’d made it. The dream we'd held onto for years was no longer a dream; we were standing right in the middle of it. For me, that was a defining moment, the kind that sticks with you.

It was good to be out of the station's stuffy, crowded tunnels, even if the number of people on the pavement wasn't much better. In our excitement, we decided to walk to the hotel. On the map, it looked manageable. In reality, it was a 16-block trek up to 50th Street that, in our post-flight haze, probably wasn't the brightest idea. The walk took the best part of an hour, but it gave us our first proper look at the city: the impossibly tall buildings stretching up on all sides and the truly insane traffic on 8th Avenue.

We found the hotel without any trouble, checked in, and practically fell through the door of our room. It wasn't massive, but it was clean, warm, and home to a super-comfy bed that was calling our names. We flopped down for a much-needed afternoon nap, finally at rest in the city of our dreams.

First Evening

A couple of hours after our recovery nap, we felt human enough to venture out for our first proper wander around New York City. The plan for the evening was wonderfully simple: get our bearings, find something to eat, and, most importantly, locate a source of beer. Priorities, eh?

One Time Sqaure

Our hotel was just a five-minute stroll from Times Square, and honestly, no amount of television prepares you for the real thing. It’s an absolute assault on the senses, in the best possible way. Every building is drenched in colossal, flashing video screens, lights blaze from every conceivable angle, and the noise is just this constant, energetic roar. For me, standing there, right in the thick of it, was the second defining moment of the day. You see it on TV so often, but to feel the buzz, smell the street food, and see those iconic plumes of steam billowing from the manhole covers, illuminated from behind just like in the movies – well, it was pure magic.

We pottered around the shops, which mostly seemed to be either tourist-trap gift emporiums or massive flagship stores for big brands like Nike, Adidas, and fancy watch places like TAG Heuer. They all seemed to operate on a 24/7 schedule, catering to the city's relentless pace. At the top of Times Square, we stumbled upon the M&M store – or rather, it’s impossible to miss. This place is a three-storey temple to all things chocolate and round. We did wonder how much confectionery people actually munch on while wandering its many aisles; it’s not exactly a cheap pick-me-up, especially if you’re tempted by the life-sized M&M characters from the adverts, each apparently boasting its own unique style and personality. Who knew?

Con in the M&M shop

After acquiring a few "small samples" of chocolate (alright, it was far too much chocolate, but who’s counting?), we headed back out into the dazzling chaos of Times Square and decided to climb the TKTS steps. These are a huge set of bright red steps plonked right in the middle, originally a temporary spot for selling discount theatre tickets from a booth underneath, but they became so popular they're now a permanent fixture. It’s a brilliant place to just sit and chill out, offering fantastic views looking south along Broadway towards One Times Square – the very building where the famous ball drops on New Year's Eve. We’ve watched it live on telly in previous years, and while it looks like an amazing place to be, I reckon the reality of being penned in for eight to ten hours beforehand is probably less than glamorous.

Just off Time Square

Next on the agenda was food. For the life of me, I can’t remember what we ate that night, which probably means it wasn’t anything to write home about. What I do remember is nipping into a shop near the hotel on the way back to stock up on some tins of beer. You’ve got to have your priorities straight! Funnily enough, they didn’t ask for ID when I bought them, but they did ask for my date of birth. Without thinking, I gave it in the UK format (day then month). Trying to key '17' into the 'month' field on their till clearly wasn’t going to work. After a couple of my fumbled attempts, the cashier, bless her, twigged I was a clueless Brit, and the problem was solved with a laugh.

We finally stumbled back into our hotel room at about one in the morning, utterly knackered. It felt like we’d crammed a full day’s worth of excitement into just a few hours. But even then, I wasn’t quite ready for bed. I sat up for a bit, sipping a beer and listening to the local radio, with the window open to the sounds of the city. It was a cold night, but the heating in our room was evidently stuck on ‘tropical rainforest’ and we couldn't figure out how to turn it off.

Tomorrow was set to be a long day, all meticulously planned out, of course. I really should have hit the sack sooner, but what the heck. Who knew when we’d get the chance to be back in New York again? So, I sat there, rechecking our plans and nursing another beer, until about 3 a.m. – which, I vaguely registered, was a rather more sensible 8 o’clock in the morning back in the UK.