The weather presenter in the tight purple dress on CBS says it would be sunny today, with rain returning tomorrow and Tuesday, so the consensus was that we’d better make the most of it. I can’t get used to commercial tv in the mornings; for some reason, it makes me want to buy a Chevy. Speaking of which, Toyota must have some subliminal thing going, because every second car I’ve seen in Manhattan is a Camry. Shame on you, Toyota!

So the sunny weather option unfolded as follows: after breakfast we strolled down to the Rockefeller Centre and joined a line to get a ticket to join another line to get to the 67th floor of the selfsame building. The elevator took half a minute to take us to the top, wobbling on its cable just enough to give my wife the cold sweats. The top of the building, too, had a slightly vertiginous sway about it. I didn’t have to ask her twice if she’d seen enough before it was time to shoot back down again, my wife concentrating intently on the patch of worn carpet between her feet and squeezing the bejesus out of my hand. But she’s okay on a trans-oceanic flight thats 11 kilometres above sea-level! Go figure.

We exited, and stopped by Bluestone Lane for a proper Australia fat white, which we enjoyed in Bryant Park. After that, we followed W42nd Street to Pier 83 in Hell’s Kitchen, which I have to say was unimpressive. Vibe aside, the day so far was all blue skies and sunshine, and so warm that we joined the queue for the Best of NYC Cruise early to nab a seat under the canopy to escape the sun; instead, we spent 150 minutes in the freezing wind, barely thawing for the views of the Manhattan skyline, the SoL and the Brooklyn Bridge, which were world-class. The last 90 minutes of the cruise was ineffably dull, and while our guide gets an ‘A’ for effort, he wasn’t funny at all; by the time we returned to the Hudson River I wanted to tip his ass overboard and watch him get chopped up into funny pieces by the propeller.

Hungry and tired, we sped home through the slough of despond that is Time Square, narrowly missing some celebrity thespian escaping out the back door of some Broadway matinee, and veered right at 6th Ave to check out the menu at Bryant Park Grill. Chilled to the bone, we opted for an easy dinner and warmed our souls with cocktails and yummy eats. With about eighty shots of liquor in us, we staggered back to the room where I now type this, my wife already asleep, having vaguely planned out expedition to Lower Manhattan tomorrow. Our greatest fear is that we’ll waste a day, but it hasn’t happened yet.

End of Day 8, and an end I hope to one of my pet peeves, the lines into any and all worthwhile attractions. Cooling my heels in one of the many human assembly lines I found myself in today, I grumbled that the city should be renamed ‘Queue York’. She liked that — said I had to put it in the blog. Ask and ye shall receive.

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