My last day in New York started with a subway ride at 7:30 a.m. The whole car was full, but not a single commuter said a word. I didn’t even listen to my MP3 player as usual. The purest ghost ship on screeching wheels. For the first time I understood what so many people said about New York: cold.
Arriving at the German Embassy, I run through the nastiest 5 ways to register my car with a nice employee. Moving to New Jersey. Shared ownership. Third-party insurance through an American.
Taking out a firearms licence for the state of New York plus setting up a bank account. Pseudo sublease agreement. And finally even applying for a visa with a social security number. But none of that worked.
I go back to Brooklyn, buy a bus ticket to Toronto. Home. Pack my things and clean out the weight. None of it helps. Car sold by the Latino garage. Hopefully. And if it does, then hopefully with a maximum loss of $600. Although the journey to the New York bus terminal is easy, I arrive at 10pm soaking wet. Now I’m stuck in the bus seat to Toronto. It’s raining. There was no more skyline to see on departure.
Frank Woelky, born in 1973. Kitesurfer since 1998. Since 2006, I have been combining kitesurfing and web design on trips lasting several months off the beaten track.