Driving to New York

“Hmm,” I said to Rusty, my old Golden Retriever. “I don’t know how many hotels New York USA offer pet accommodations, but we will give it a whirl.” Rusty looked at me and gave me his paw. I was going to visit some old college roomates from back in the day and wanted to stay in Manhattan, maybe around Chelsea. I have always thought of New York as dog friendly, at least you see a lot of mutts when you visit, happily walked by their owners. And unlike, say, Paris, there is not evidence of dog activity everywhere, so to speak, as New Yorkers seem to responsibly look after their dogs. I did find a place on in Chelsea that was not so cheap and would allow Rusty to stay if I signed a waiver and of course paid thirty five dollars extra per night. So we packed up the car and drove down from Syracuse, a long drive on the Thruway, so we took back roads and as few Interstates as possible, arriving in Manhattan at two in the afternoon. I still knew the city fairly well when I used to come here on weekends and bum around during college. I knew a girl who went to Columbia and I would visit, triumph-ally driving my white Mustang on the some times mean streets around the campus, parking on the street, never having a problem with the car from anyone, never damaged or stolen. That is more than I can say for leafy upper class Amherst, New York, the last place you would expect your car to get stolen, but it was right in a drug store parking lot, along with my camping gear, my favorite fly rod, and a cooler full of Canadian beer.