A boring rental Camry doesn’t usually make for a memorable story, although on this occasion, it played a small part in what turned out to be a pretty eventful journey from Canada to Manhattan, last year (August 2018).
There we were sitting beside a beautiful lake, in the French-speaking countryside near La Peche, Quebec. We’d been staying in an idyllic cabin for a few lazy days and loved it so much we stayed for an extra day. No problem, except our next stop, was a week-long stay in Manhattan and we were now in a hurry to get there.
We checked out on the maps and realised that we’d have to miss out on taking a scenic route via New Hampshire and Massachusetts. The only way to get to New York City in time to make our hotel reservation on time was to hotfoot it all the way down the main highway.
Our adventure actually started a few days earlier, when we picked up our rental car in Toronto. It was a US Georgia State registered Toyota Camry.
Now you’d think something as bland as a Camry would fly under the radar anywhere. So, as we drove down Ontario highways, we didn’t expect the reception we received. Why was that man giving us the finger? Why did that woman roll down her window and scream at us? Why were we being regularly hooted at?
These were Canadians – the politest people on earth. I was driving at speed, adhering to road rules and not making a nuisance of myself.
Then it dawned on us – the Georgia plates. They thought we were Trump supporters from the deep south. At the time, there were heightened tensions between the US and Canada regarding the North American trade agreement (amongst other things).
Throughout the Canadian portion of our journey, we were abused and generally harassed in a way you’d never expect from Canadians. My wife’s lovely Canadian Aunt didn’t believe us until she experienced it first hand after she came along for a quick ride a few days previously. “Oh, my”, she said, in her polite Canadian voice.
So, we were in the previously unheard of position of leaving ‘unfriendly’ Canada and heading to the USA, where our car would hopefully just blend in with the rest of the traffic.
As it was a long 8-hour drive, we planned to take the shortest highway route and stop as little as possible – NYC was waiting for us! We set off early, got the car fully gassed up and travelled with the fastest moving cars, cruising at about 120 km/h. As usual, the plan was to drive at the speeds the locals do and all should be okay – in theory.
Despite losing a good half an hour going through US Customs at Wellesley Island, we kept up a good pace towards our destination. We realised we could take a brunch break and still make Manhattan in daylight hours. With time in hand, we took an exit to a cute, old town with American flags on every house and stopped at a characterful old pub. Fed and watered, set off down the highway once more.
Our route took us over the Catskills, where the skies suddenly opened and the traffic slowed down. It was a long weekend in the US, so there seemed to be more than usual State Troopers pulling people over at regular intervals. This also slowed the traffic down, but we weren’t in a desperate rush.
After six hours at the wheel, tiredness was setting in. Suddenly, I was buoyed by a large sign that indicated we were one and a half hours away from Manhattan. At last! “Hey, not too bad,” I said to my wife, “I’m pretty stuffed, thank goodness we’re nearly there.”
But then, something struck me like a bolt of lightning. I asked my wife to look on the back seat for my bag – as expected it wasn’t there. It had been left behind at the pub restaurant, a good two and a half hours back up the road, complete with my driving license and credit cards.
There was no alternative, we had to turn back and go get the damn bag. The only good news was that we called the restaurant and they were keeping the bag aside for us.
Understanding we shouldn’t drive without my license on a road crawling with Highway Patrol cars, my wife took over the wheel and we headed back. As we climbed over the Catskill Mountains, it was still pouring with rain. Eventually, two and a half hours later, we had retrieved the forgotten bag. Back on the road again, it was now dark as we drove over the Catskill Mountains for the third time in one day – still pouring, limited visibility. In all, the diversion had added five hours onto the journey and our schedule was blown to pieces.
By the time we were getting close to the Big Apple once more, it was late at night and the traffic was really heavy. It was Friday night when everyone was seemingly headed for the centre of Manhattan to hit the night spots.
The ‘glow’ from the lights of NYC was becoming brighter and brighter, along with our mood as we appeared to be nearing our destination at last. Suddenly, we saw a sign, ‘George Washington Bridge Ahead’. Knowing this would be a test, we braced ourselves. We were on a critical bridge that would bring us close to midtown, where our hotel was located.
The only problem was the GPS wasn’t updating quickly enough and we passed our exit. Then, we somehow took another exit that brought us back over the bridge in the direction we had just come from. We turned around and tried our second attempt at entering Manhattan. Rest assured, crossing the George Washington Bridge, with its many exits, is not for the fainthearted tourist.
As we hit Manhattan, my wife continued to swear loudly at the thoroughly confusing directions from our GPS. What I hadn’t told her was that we were now running on empty – the fuel gauge hovering at a crucial point.
After going around in circles on flyovers to nowhere, it was time to tell her we needed gas. Immediately!
Shouting at each other, we just winged it, turning off at a sign to Harlem and keeping our finger’s crossed we’d find a gas station nearby.
Harlem isn’t quite as scary as it used to be, but there’s still some no-go areas for tourists or even most New Yorkers. And, of course, that’s where we ended up – in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Every corner had groups of suspicious-looking young guys checking out every passing car. We noticed even the cop cars didn’t want to stop at this end of town.
Now, running on fumes, we stopped at the first possible opportunity. We came across the kind of gas station you only see in movies: broken concrete, some ratty, old gas pumps, a small shed with smashed glass windows for the sole attendant and some extremely rough-looking individuals hanging around.
It was the type of place you had to pay upfront (makes sense). Bravely, my wife dodged the shady-looking characters and went inside to pay the attendant, while I pumped gas while trying not to make eye contact with the local populace. The poor attendant apparently looked shattered. He shook his head and told my wife, ‘bad night’.
She asked why.”I’ve been held up three times today, once at gunpoint.”
We got out of there quickly before the next hold-up occurred. Making an illegal U-turn, we tried to retrace our steps once more.
From there, we battled with more traffic, continuing terrible GPS reception and, by some miracle, pulled up right outside the Roosevelt Hotel, near Central Station, at about 12.45 am. Somehow, the idea that we’d just driven directly through Manhattan from Canada seemed surreal. We threw our bags in our room and headed down to the hotel bar for a well-earned martini or two.
Actually, the driving isn’t so bad once you’re actually in Manhattan. The grid system makes it logical, so it’s much harder to become lost than on the roads leading to the island. You’re also best advised to just drive the way New Yorkers do: you never hesitate, use the horn constantly, as if you’re in a major hurry (everyone else is), and look grumpy – not difficult in the circumstances. Do that and everything is just fine. Well, it worked for us.
The next day, we went to reception to fetch our rental car, which we were meant to return the previous night. “Oh – there’s a marathon was taking place outside our hotel and all traffic was being re-routed.” said the clerk. We told her our plight and she excused herself to make a phone call. “OK it’s arranged – go to the car park in the building across the road”.
Off we went. The attendant gave us our keys, but the exit boom gate was blocked by an NYC Police car (a Smart car, of all things). We pointed this out to the attendant. ‘Oh, they’re waiting for you!”
Believe it or not, the patrol car waiting to give us a police escort through the marathon!
With a wave out of the window, he duly escorted us through the marathon route and onto the unrestricted route beyond. Another unique New York experience, that set the tone for a brilliant week.
Flying into the airport and grabbing a cab is the usual ( and recommended) tourist introduction to New York. However, as we can attest, it’s far less exciting than driving there (although we managed to make it all too nerve-wracking).
If you’re game, to try it, we would highly recommend it. Just don’t forget to fill up with gas before you enter Manhattan.
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