Arrival in New York

Arrival at JFK

Flying into New York JFK we were quickly off the plane and straight into the process of clearing border control. After a short wait, it was time for passports, fingerprints, and a few questions. The officer really only asked one—twice—about how long we were staying. Ros said about a week. Meanwhile, the people next to us were being grilled about every detail of their trip.

I couldn’t tell if the information I’d given earlier was available to them: hotel and contact details had already been provided as part of the Advanced Passenger Information System on Qantas, the US Government’s contact tracing requirements, and both the pre-check-in and check-in processes.

Bags and Border Check

Bags came off quickly and within minutes we were at the bag check area. It was almost empty—just a few people being searched. One of the officers was literally asleep in his chair. I muttered to Ros, “don’t make eye contact and just keep walking.” A few steps later we were through and meeting our driver, who told us it would be about an hour and fifteen minutes to the hotel. If he took us to the right one.

The Hotel Mix-Up

Traffic was bedlam from the moment we left the airport—stop-start the whole way. When we finally pulled up, the driver announced we were at “the” hotel, the Intercontinental. Wrong. Our tour company had everyone booked at the Marriott Marquis Times Square. My bet is his company gave him the wrong address.

Fifteen minutes later we were parked on Broadway, the driver insisting we’d arrived. Technically, we had. Across the street, hidden between massive billboards, were multiple “Marriott Marquis” signs.

The hotel was huge—2,000 rooms and about 45 floors, with reception on the 8th floor. (For the record, the lower levels are home to the Marquis Theatre, ballrooms, and meeting spaces.) We scored a room up high with a view over Times Square. The room itself was nice, but the view was spectacular—New York really does excess like nowhere else.

Pizza Pilgrimage

By now it was 7pm, so we headed out to find pizza. My research had pointed me to “Joe’s Pizza,” a 5–10 minute walk away. On the way we passed a guy holding a sign: “Honest guy needs money for pot.” At least he was upfront. Another had one saying he needed money for a “penis reduction.” Sure, mate—whatever helps. Maybe honesty would’ve worked better for him too.

The line at Joe’s stretched out the door and we waited about 30 minutes. Four slices later, we carried them back to the hotel. They were good—even if a little cooler by the time we got stuck in.

Lights of Times Square

After some TV, Ros was shattered. I switched the screen off so she could sleep, only to realise the brightness was coming from outside—Times Square’s billboards lit up the room like daylight. Thankfully the curtains worked, and before long we drifted off—finally in New York.