New York: Days 1-4

Day 1

So we touch down, finally, and file out obediently, herded by officious looking airporty types into the snug comforts of a colossal queue. Being English we feel right at home, comfortably slipping into the guise of hunched and irritated air-passengers, blearily staring at the epic line of cheerio nuclear families with vague contempt.

Ross spots the singer from Editors halfway through the queue with his razor-sharp indie eye. I fail spectacularly to hurl abuse at him for fucking the corpse of Joy Division with such twangy foppishness. We get up to the metal detector thingys and are directed to one each. Typically (and, I can now note in hindsight, pretty much setting the standard for luck distribution throughout the rest of the trip) Bowering is taken away by the JFK Gestapo for a 'random bag search' since all his luggage is carry-on; Ross swans through with some light, cheery banter exchanged with the security guard; I get a stony-faced sentinel who eyes me with disgust; and Mike stands cluelessly in front of his assigned gate with no customs officer actually there to check him in.

After finally linking back up and making sure Bowering's anal integrity hasn't been compromised with a latex glove and a flashlight, we trot on to get our bloody suitcases.

Thankfully this isn't too much of a pain in the arse and we eventually manage to get our bearings and find the exit sort of thing and we come face to face at last with our greatest nemesis: the ATM. Understandably jittery from the fact that the cash machine in King's Cross greedily scoffed his cash card, Ross goes first on the premise that he has traveller's cheques as well and his entire livelihood isn't solely dependent on a flimsy American Express card like the rest of us. Thankfully it all goes according to plan and some maniacal cash-goblin hasn't eaten away all of my savings. Phew.

We then hobble outside to the pretty lengthy taxi queue. It's not like we're not used to it by now though. Finally we get assigned the next taxi by the airport official bloke (having to repeat about 5 times how many of us there were due to the 'Ull / Noo Yawk dialect barrier) and the starting pistol officially fires on the inaugural round of the 'scramble as fast as you bloody can so you don't have to sit in front with the driver' games. Mike draws the short straw and crams himself into the tiny front seat next to the yappy Indian cabbie. Before we've actually said anything, he apparently finds the best course of action to be to scream down the motorway at 70mph with the windows down, intermittently glancing over his shoulder and screaming 'WHERE YOU GO?? EH? WHERE YOU GO??' above the hurricane-like din of wind rushing in through the open windows. Me and Ross scrabble at the flimsy bit of paper, trying our best to stop it flying out the window while it madly flaps like some kind of epileptic origami swan. At the same time, we weedily attempt to shout the address above the in-car tornado to the driver who can't really understand us as it is. By some freak occurrence of fate however, we manage to arrive at the right address. We all stagger out, thankful to actually still have our lives and I walk towards the Comfort Inn, failing to leave any kind of tip partly through post-traumatic stress and partly because he was such an obnoxious wanker.

So we're here. At last. Our first stop. I go to the desk since I paid for this one on my card previously (the only one pre-booked before we freewheel it for 48 more days) and kindly make the acquaintance of the pudgy, sheep-eyed Hispanic bloke behind the counter. He takes my reference number and card and breezily searches the computer with a refreshingly American lack of urgency whatsoever. After probably having found my booking straight away and spent the other 10 minutes playing minesweeper, he casually informs me that my booking was actually cancelled due to lack of funds. Well. Cheers Comfort Inn for letting me know, you twats. Surely though, there's still room at the inn for four weary travellers like ourselves eh? Eh? … No. No there isn't. Bastards. Apparently summoning all her powers of ingenuity, the gum chewing girl leaning on the counter next to him slurs that there's a Best Western across the road, so with steely determination alongside all round general knackeredness, we file back across the road of the industrial estate-ish area and towards the promised land. Oh Best Western! O golden land of the free and cash-light! Thankfully they actually have beds and I pay for the 4 of us in return for my financial cock up with Comfort Inn both in London and New York.

At long last we get to our room and collectively flop onto our beds, revelling in the actual shower, actual beds and actual TV. We argue over Ross' budget estimate which seems to ignore transport costs completely and goggle at the unintentional hilarity of US TV and rummage around to see what free stuff we get, O land of opportunity!

Day 2

After a few half-hearted attempts we finally manage to get up and, after the complex ritual of showering and hair-straightening, we hurry down to get as much bloody free breakfast as we can. Once in we excitedly mill about like fat children in some kind of savoury version of Willie Wonka's chocolate factory. Then again, when I say savoury, this IS America after all, so obviously there's a generous helping of chocolate frosted doughnuts and danishes to wash your toast down with. But there's so much! Too much! My brain just overloads, only used to a dusty box of frosties and soggy toast in the cupboard of my personal breakfast history so far. There's also these sausagey meat patty things which are ridiculously tasty. The tough thing with these all-you-can-eat jobbies is that, being English, we're used to eating until there's nothing left. Thing is, since there's a practically infinite amount of food, we just keep going until we feel sick, at which point we lurch away from the table and absent mindedly leaf through the big pamphlet rack, noting with interest all the fascinatingly entertaining sights that we'll probably never bother going to see.

We then eventually find our room again, and, after jamming the stupid frigging key card in numerous times, the room decides to let us in on a random whim. We then collect the heaving great bastard luggage we were so happy to throw on the floor last night, and make our way to the lobby. Turns out there's a free shuttle service to the airport, so we get into the glorified van and pretend to the Mexican driver dude that we're actually legit airline customers and whatnot. 'Which eeairline you take? Eh? Breetesh Airwaysh?' "Erm… yeah. Here'll do." 'Hyou sure? Breetesh Hairwaysh? Eh?' "Er… yeah. Yeah. Cheers mate." I'm not sure if we were meant to tip him, but we don't anyway; obviously because we're so new to the strange ways of this paying-people-for-doing-their-job tradition: 'Oh cheers for not ejaculating into my burger waiter! Infinite thanks for not turning me into a charred, twisted corpse Mr taxi driver! Have 10 dollars!' Bah.

And… we're back where we started. We head towards the fabled 'air train' which, we're hoping, will catapult us into NYC proper. Thankfully, after a fair slog of milling up and down escalators we eventually find it. However, it takes a fair few incidents of getting on, getting off, and repeated déjà vu to release that we're actually just riding it round in circles around the airport like some kind of particularly crap ride. Eventually we cotton on, and actually step onto the right train, which plops us at last right onto the platform going to New York. Sitting on the train, my suitcase snugly nestled next to me, and cheerily listening to The Eagles on my ipod, I look around and realise how hugely CONSPICUOUS we look. Four gangly white boys – one of whom is listening to country on his ipod – bantering back and forth in blatantly English accents, Against the backdrop of surly looking homeboys and grizzly old black blokes we really couldn't have hoped to stand out any more.

Somehow we manage not to get savagely beaten by the sour crème de la crème that populated the tube train into New York and, after, an awkward period of fumbling and dragging, we emerge into the dirty heat of NYC. After a fair bit of aimless trans-block walking, me and Ross unanimously agree on an out-with-the-crippling-shoulder-strap, in-with-the-double-handles-instead-through-the-arms-like-a-backpack policy for our similar (although mine could probably swallow his and still have room for dessert) holdalls.

We eventually decide to man up and take the plunge into subway land to buy a ticket thing from the little dispenser machines. Apparently you can get a weekly ticket thing for a pretty reasonable price. That is, if you can traverse the obscure touch-screen bullshit that seems designed to deliberately misinterpret every infuriated jab of your finger. Anyway we eventually finish the elaborate pantomime that is the self-service ticket machine, and squarely confront the fact that, from here on in, we've a good 47/48 days to fill before any pre-booked passage home, and the only lead we have as to anywhere to stay is a grubby, dog-eared piece of paper with the address of the Hostelling International NY hostel. I guess this means we have to figure out some way to get there via subway. Thankfully though, some guy notices us squinting and prodding experimentally at the absurdly complex subway map and gives us a bit of a helping hand as to which line we need to get (Red) and which stop to take it from. In retrospect, given the undeniable fact that everyone in New York is an irritable, angry bastard, I can only conclude that he must have been clinically insane, and that actually helping people for nothing in return was merely one of his less sociopathic character flaws.

I won't bore you with the details of how we managed to find the Hostelling International New York, but be certain that it was every bit as irritating and uncomfortable as dragging a single bag of all your worldly belongings across half of a huge city in the sweltering heat can really be. Finding the entrance to the bloody place was half the battle, but eventually we find our way in and our enquiry as to whether there were any beds available is met by: 'So… chu got reservations?' OF COURSE YOU FUCKING MORON; THAT IS, OF COURSE EXACTLY WHY WE ASKED IF YOU HAD SPARE BEDS AVAILABLE, BECAUSE WE'D ALL PRE-BOOKED BEDS. YES, THAT'S RIGHT, FUCKING RESERVED THEM GOOD AND PROPER. WE JUST LIKE TO KNOW IF SPARE BEDS ARE AVAILABLE SO WE CAN PAY FOR THEM AS WELL, FOR NO REASON, JUST BECAUSE WE HAVE A LITTLE COMPETITION GOING WHERE WE TRY TO PAY FOR AS MANY BEDS AS POSSIBLE EACH. IT'S FUCKING THRILLING. YOU TWAT. Of course, that's exactly what I said, in so many words, when I rolled my eyes and looked out of the window. However she then expends her single good deed for the day by pointing at the rack which holds the leaflets with the addresses of other hostels in the area.

Like overburdened camels on some kind of retarded treasure hunt, we then criss-cross the city within something like a ten block radius, going back on ourselves repeatedly as we try to decide which hostel to head for first. We decide on the Broadway Hostel for no particular reason, mostly because it's quite close and also because it sounds a little glitzy, so hopefully isn't manned entirely by goggling subhumans. We reach it, at last and have to give it some credit for the swanky long tarpaulin thing out front (what are they called again?). Inside, we actually have little trouble booking beds, since they're not such Nazis regarding reservations as are the HI schweins. After awkwardly trying to stump up enough foreign currency each we finally tramp up to the room with the dim satisfaction of actually doing the first real thing for ourselves on the trip so far.

Day 3

Began today by realising two important facts pertaining to our merry little box-room dorm, namely:

• Either it's really early or there's been a solar eclipse.

And

• Ross is either in a different bed, or else has become a sprawling, Hispanic lummox with a mullet.

Thankfully it turned out to be the former, as I realised when woken up both by Mike's intermittent yelps of 'candy!' and being mauled by his sausage fingers. Also, since our window, in a nicely picturesque touch, faces a brick wall, we get fairly little in the sunlight stakes. Also, I vaguely recall the midnight visit of some guy (the said mulleted, hispanic lummox) to Ross, impatiently prodding him to get out of 'his' bed, because obviously it really matters after they've all been made by the cleaners anyway. I think Ross was really pleased with that, and so, our first dorm-mate relationship blossoms…

Turns out also there's a pristine, roomy shower just round the corner with actual real hot water and everything, as in - doesn't turn your blood to ice instantly.

Anyway we checked out, but turns out we didn't actually need to and could stay in the same room. Finally wandered out to get cash and marvelled at the fact that what passes for regular size Gatorade here is positively Michelle McManus-esque to us.

Sauntered down later to Central Park, awe-inspiring greenery and the like; think Eden beneath a flood of lycra-clad fitness freaks. Finally made it to the Met as well, and after prolonged discussion as to how much we could really take the piss with the 'suggested donation' we finally dived in.

Total donations: Chris-$8, Mike-$10, Ross-$13 and the man with the golden fingers Bowering at $20.

Day 4

Today we realised an important thing about New York – it rains. And does it rain. Kerrist. Anyhow, our rising from our collective graves was slightly later on given to the fact that our room is like some kind of dorm from Vampire High or something with the turning on of lights was strictly prohibited due to a slumbering Chico (nee Eric/Hispanic lummox) and Serbian actor guy. Sample from Mike's extending of the laurel leaf of peace to said stranger:

Bloke-"Urgh…. What time is it…?"

Mike- "Hello!"

HilArious.

Spent a bit more time indoors today, failing absolutely to ingratiate ourselves with the hostel-going cats beyond the fact that we now know Chico is Norwegian due to Ross' secret pally chats with him. I don't really care though, he's still getting called Chico.

Before this we visited two red hot Springsteen recording spots: primary sources! As Ross would say. Attempted to save money by frequenting cheapo shit shop on the corner, though I manage to fail almost entirely in this, since apparently Tropicana is God's piss and chewing gum is manufactured by NASA. $7! Bastards.

Due to mind-bogglingly huge air prices ($894 DC-Nashville!) we've decided to solely Greyhound it from here on out and cut out the air option in addition to Chicago, Seattle, and possibly New Orleans. Bah. It's a lot cheaper though. I hope they do Greyhounds back to Hull.