Here we come, you great big Apple

Correctional Facility. Do Not Stop.

We don’t.

This is not the first time we’ve seen this message on Interstate highways - along which the traffic rushes at 110kph. It is hardly likely to be stopping for a hitchhiker. And no one hitches on the Interstates, those multilane monster roads which thunder with long-distance trucks and rushing vans and cars.

Why do they post this message?

We ponder it again as we drive towards New York City. Breakouts are so common?

Here’s Old Lyme. We don’t stop here, either. It is the place where Lyme disease, that serious illness conveyed by ticks, was first reported. Ugh.

We hum over a huge bridge across the Connecticut River and power forth between the endless stands of trees. These are softer than the towering monsters of New Hampshire. These are more of a cuddle of trees. Their form is rounder and they reach out softly from the roadsides.

Oh, look. An exit to Clinton.

We know the famous Bill and Hillary Clinton but who knew that there are zillions of American towns called Clinton? They are all over the place.

Now we see Guilford. Hmm. Someone left the “d” out of the name?

And we’re in East Haven where the traffic becomes positively manic. Foolish, impatient, aggressive drivers suddenly abound. It is scary.

We’re passing huge strips of commerce. There is so much commerce in this country, the scale sometimes boggles the comprehension.

New Haven hoves into view with its handsome old buildings, its glamorous cable-stayed bridge. Bruce spent his college time here. It is home to Yale University. He points out buildings where he studied. There’s the Kline Biology Tower on Science Hill.

And there’s the ocean, sparkling out to the left. Long Island Sound.

And here’s a traffic jam. Roadworks. Bruce swears.

I break out the Chex Mix, the snack food which sustains us on our long drives.

It’s a tough old multi-lane highway now. Worn.

The traffic is fast-moving again. Determined drivers.

A road-weathered white truck with "Puta" hand-scrawled in the dirt on the back passes us. We pass it. It passes us. We tuck in behind it. We grow oddly fond of it.

Billboards clamour for attention.

Pay less, buy local; Your Road to Success - education; Delivering Happiness - mattress trucks; Never Give Up Until They Buckle Up - kids: Paying More is Ridunkulous…

We pass on old truck with its own message: Real Trucks Rattle.

Big industrial complexes. Giant fretwork frames of power poles. Railway lines.

Factory buildings in disrepair, ruin. That was Bridgeport.

Now it is Westport.

Norwalk? Is that where that horrid virus came from?

It is hard going for Bruce, this relentlessly furious traffic. He calls for a sugar hit. I break out the lolly stash.

Solid old Stamford is ahead of us. We are fond of this sensible old town.

Its clever motto is: The City That Works.

We exit from the motor madness and drive in for lunch. The car parking is terribly clever and modern. We have to learn how to use it. We find we are at a numbered spot.

We have to put that number into a parking machine along with money for the time we want to stay and also pin in our phone number. Thereafter, somehow a computer knows how long we are parked and it will ring us up if we have overstayed and it wants more money.

We step into Stamford Mall which is gob-smackingly tall and modern. Seven or more floors around a gigantic atrium. It might be sleek and classy but It is very confusing. We have trouble finding our way. We

have to ask security guards. The food court is on the 7th level? OK. We find it and eat some pretty average Panda Chinese. We find Starbucks for macchiatos, find the nice clean conveniences and then get back on interstate 95 where we find ourselves back in a traffic jam. Goddammit.

Welcome to New York says a huge sign.

The road is shocking. Very rough, bumpy, rutted and worn,

Mamoroneck. An odd name. Massive expanses of depressing-looking identical apartment buildings.

Co-Op City. More of the same. They are huge. Apartments for thousands.

Throgs Neck. NO. We got lost there once upon a time. Took a wrong exit and could not find the way back. We finally asked a policewoman and she told us “you can’t get there from here”.

We had images of never getting out of Throgs Neck. Of just giving up, buying a house and staying.

We can’t get past fast enough.

More monolithic buildings. More roadworks.

Now we’re in the Bronx. Huge red brick apartment buildings with little air conditioner bums poking out the windows.

The road condition is dire.

But there it is, the New York skyline, all soft and blue.

Bruce zeroes in on 2nd Avenue, Manhattan, and we drive towards the canyon of buildings.

Fire escapes lattice down red brick the buildings. We’re in Harlem.

Greengrocer stands sprawl across the sidewalks.

Traffic lights are co-ordinated. The road is one-way.

It’s a busy world.

Schoolchildren in a crocodile on the pavement. A trio of Orthodox Jews. A doctor in a white coat. Cops on corners. 56 blocks to go, says Bruce.

Discount shops. Kosher shops. Pizza, smoke, Indian, crepe, Japanese…

Balconies stand out on the sides of high-rise apartment buildings like teeth. Fire escapes hang like lace.

Bikes are chained in clusters to pavement poles.

There’s a Chinese woman in a huge coolie’s hat. An Indian in sari.

40 blocks to go, says Bruce.

White buildings made of bathroom tiles. Flower shops create a riot of beauty on street corners.

A loose-limbed postman lopes along with his post cart.

Ladies waddle with shopping bags. There’s a street cart selling handbags. A jaunty black man in a pink jacket and hat. Nuns dressed in white. A scrawny blonde with junkie written all over her chews gum and pushes a trolly of empty bottles. Men in suits wait at traffic lights.

Rap music blasts from the car beside us.

37 blocks, says Bruce.

The traffic is creeping along. Tall buildings. Yellow cabs. A man walking poodles. Policemen cross in front of us unbelievably overloaded with guns and and belts and two-way radios.

Cafe sidewalk tables laid out with linen napkins. The Euphoria nail parlor.

More balconies serrating the sides of tall buildings.

13 blocks to go, says Bruce.

It’s getting classier. Planter boxes. Pin lights on the trees. Taxis tooting each other.

Suddenly we’re at Park Avenue and 29th - our New York City destination, the Gansevoort on Park Avenue.

Oh sweet relief.