Erikka Askeland: There’s always time for martinis in Manhattan

The weather was grey and muggy and the plan decidedly iffy. Even worse, the first leg of my flight had been delayed, which meant I had an hour less at Newark Airport, 16 miles away from Manhattan’s Penn Station, than I had originally planned when I concocted the scheme in the first place.

But while I am a more seasoned traveller these days, I couldn’t be so blasé as miss the chance for even a fleeting visit to a city which is so familiar, but to which I have never been.

As I stood on the platform waiting for a train, it reminded me of the first time I had proved my good fortune as a traveller.

It was about 15 years ago, and, in retrospect, my plan to get from Cardiff to Heathrow, on a National Express bus, on the same morning I was due to fly, should have set alarm bells ringing.

It was the return journey of my first-ever trip abroad. I was alone, I was completely skint and I had brought too much luggage. This included a hair dryer I couldn’t use because the plugs were surprisingly different in the UK than they were in my home country of Canada.

I’d had to stash one of my bags at my cousin’s in London while I continued my travels in the UK. As a result, on my odyssey back to the airport, I had to take a detour to his grimy flat south of the river to pick it up. Yet in my naivete I was completely relaxed, with enough change for the red Routemaster, a one-way ticket for the Tube and an ability to enjoy the novelty of cheese and pickle sandwiches.

I strolled up to the gate just as the final boarding call was being announced. If just one thing had gone wrong or been delayed, I’d have been completely stuffed. But it was only a few years later that the thought had even occurred to me.

This time, my circumstances were a little different. Flying business class meant I was able to lie completely prone on the long-haul parts of the journey and be one of those people who were allowed to whizz through the special, shorter airport queues reserved for berks.

I shamelessly took full advantage of being able to  waltz in front of everyone else via the empty “priority” line.

But a recent news bulletin I had seen on my hotel room telly made me feel less guilty. Researchers had test crashed a 747 into the desert to see where most of the damage was sustained. It turns out that in the event of a plane falling out of the sky, it’s the people in the front end flying first and business class that get it.

The further back you are  in the cattle class seats, the  more likely you are to survive. Which suggests there is some form of justice in this era of ever-reducing legroom.

In the end, I had all of about 30 minutes in Manhattan. As I emerged from the train station, my senses were assaulted by loud crowds of people and the smell of hot dog grease and exhaust fumes. I wouldn’t have the time to make for some of the places I had wondered about visiting – Rockefeller Plaza, Central Park, 5th Avenue. Too far away.

Instead, I walked west, I think, not sure where I was going or how far I’d be able to strike. Luckily, you don’t go very far in Manhattan without hitting some sort of landmark.

So there it was, the Chelsea Hotel, somewhat grimy and unassuming – and currently behind scaffolding. It was where the poet Dylan Thomas raged, raged against the burning of the light after bout of pneumonia.

It was the temporary home of singer Janis Joplin, which was, in turn, sung about by Leonard Cohen. I had a brief chat with the friendly doorman, who was clearly accustomed to and relaxed about tourists with questions. I had time for a quick martini before I legged it back to the station ten minutes away.

I made the train back to the airport just before it pulled out of the platform and got back to the airport in time for my priority boarding. I’m pretty lucky that way.