The NYC Diaries- Day 1: "If I Can Make It There..."

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American Airlines flight 712 touched down ahead of schedule at LaGuardia. Now came the trip to the Park Central Hotel on 7th Avenue.

I had a voucher for ground transport, and half an hour after I showed up at the shuttle desk, a man in a bright blue jacket arrived, his scraggly brown hair combed over his balding head and matching his personality.

"You," he said pointing to a couple to my side. "To Washington Square. And you," he said, pointing to me, "Park Central Hotel." I caught a wink in his eye at the end of the sentence.

He tossed our luggage in the back and got things rolling with a growl at his dispatcher.

"You ask these people a question and then ten minutes later they call you back, " he said, merging into the congested LaGuardia traffic. "How long does it take to say yes or no?"

We rolled onto the freeway and into Queens, the driver alternating between pedal and brake with haste enough to sway us forward and back in the stop-and-go traffic. The scenery rolling by us could have been lifted straight from the title sequence of The Sopranos: red brick neighborhoods with flags flying outside doors and people sitting on porches, and other walking everywhere amongst sidewalk delis in the 80-degree April heat. One pedestrian caught me with my camcorder up against my face and waved cheerfully. Really, he did.

On the other side of the iron giant known as the Queensboro Bridge, we were in Manhattan. Thirty minutes later, I was checked into my room overlooking nothing but a central core of four-window lined sidewalls. At least I had an LCD flat-screen TV in the room.

The first stop: Times Square. The electrical heart of Manhattan with its towering billboards and neon signs is Las Vegas without the gambling. Hundreds of people walk every way, any way they can amongst the theaters, restaurants and ubiquitous camera shops. Lines for the TKTS Broadway show outlet stretched for at least two blocks down Broadway. No way was I going to stand in that. Not yet.

Police have a presence here trying to direct traffic and prevent accidents, but they are constantly overpowered by the multitudes who willingly sneak across on red lights whenever they can to the honks of taxis and limos.

"What, are you ignoring the lights now?" one harried traffic cop called out as a crowd walked through a red light on 47th Street.

Street hawkers run their game 24/7, pushing purses, hats, framed Broadway playbills and the iconic I-Heart-NY shirt. Scientologists got into the act today in the Square, offering a "free stress test" alongside copies of Dianetics, which had to be part of the deal.

I walked all over the Square, pausing once to send a video e-mail and shooting pictures while making sure nobody's trying to lift my wallet. I hear Times Square is one of the safest places in New York City, if not the nation. Everybody's probably too busy standing in line for Broadway tickets.

My stomach rumbled. They don't feed you much on planes anymore, and not for free. I'm lucky if I can do it during a layover. Around me are the franchised corporate-restaurant players: Hard Rock Cafe, Planet Hollywood, TGI Friday's, Applebee's, ESPN Zone, and at least three McDonald's. However, I wanted a real taste of New York City.

I found it in a hole-in-the-wall called Bella Napoli off 7th Avenue. I walked in and craved a sausage pizza sitting behind the glass. One slice would not get the job done.

"Can you do this in an 8-inch," I asked the tosser behind the counter.

"Sure, I do that for you," he replied in an accent sounding more eastern European than Italian. "You got time?"

"I got plenty of time."

He invited me to sit down while he rolled up the custom pie.

My feet got a break and my ears got some entertainment, overhearing a regular tease the manager about the place's lone waitress and how he wasn't allowed to flirt with her.

"You want talk to her, you put a dollar in," said the manager, hinting at the tip jar.

"What is this," the regular grinned at me. "A dollar? She not married!"

"Oh come on, man," I said. "One dollar."

The pie came 10 minutes later, delivered to my table by the man who tossed it, and he insisted I eat first and pay later. "No, take you time."

That sausage pizza was loaded thick with sausage -- lumps of it. But it went down good. Now that's worth a dollar tip on top of the $8 I spent.

"I love you guys," the regular called out as I was finishing up. "You make best pizza in New York City."

And I had my first real bite of the Big Apple.



Central Park buzzed with walkers and children this evening, digging in the sand surrounding mazes of climbing equipment and swing sets on the south end. Hopefully nobody had to use the restroom -- it's fenced off.

I made a call to the folks in California as the sun set behind the Manhattan skyline. Thirty-four years old and my mom still shudders at me crossing the street alone. Wish you were here. Wish you could see this. I'm fine. I'm safe. I'll be careful.

A walk through the enormous green of Sheep Meadow required weaving around several simultaneous games of catch and frisbee tossing. Couple laid out in blankets, some in various stages of deep kisses. A swing through Columbus Circle and some more streetbeating and my feet surrendered.

Tomorrow we get formal. Tomorrow we start the tours.