X marks the spot and we arrive back in We arrive back in New York on Saturday morning exactly where we left seven days earlier for our cruise. We have a couple of days before our flight home on Monday. As much as we love New York, finding a short-stay hotel for just two nights feels a bit frustrating at the end of a long trip. We’re ready to go home, especially since winter is here and temperatures have dropped to minus six degrees Celsius. We keep our activities local for a couple of days, enjoying lunch at the Reading Room around the corner and catching up with Bob and Cathy one last time over some delicious Chinese food.
Sunday is even colder, so we spend the day packing and relaxing in our room.
For our final dinner, we indulge in sushi at Sushi by Bou. We discovered this small chain of sushi restaurants in 2023, thanks to Bob’s daughter Cari, who suggested one on 23rd Street; however, that location has since closed. Instead, we visit the original on 49th. Finding it isn’t easy, as it’s located down a dark staircase in a basement. The place is tiny, with only eight seats facing the chef. We settle in and enjoy an omakase-style feast. The food is incredibly fresh and delicious, and the staff are wonderful; we chat with other guests while savoring a great night out. Thanks, New York!
Monday dawns, and it’s freezing once again. We finish packing and wrap up our New York trip like any other—by grabbing a quick burger at Shake Shack. With bags in tow, we head to the curb on 44th and grab a taxi to JFK. The cab ride often feels disproportionately long; two-thirds of the time is spent leaving Manhattan, while the last third is on the freeway to the airport.
We arrive with plenty of time to spare, check our bags, and glide through security. Now, we have about two hours of downtime in the lounge. We find a quiet corner, grab some sparkling water, and start the unwinding process, gearing up for our journey home.
If you’ve read the rest of the blog, you’ll know we’ve had an incredible adventure—cruising down the East Coast of Canada, visiting places like Quebec, Saguenay, Corner Brook, and the picturesque Peggy’s Cove (Halifax), among others. Along the New England Coast, we marveled at the Breakers in Rhode Island, walked the Freedom Trail in Boston, and indulged in our fair share of lobster!
We also spent two weeks in New York and cruised to Bermuda, making those last couple of hours in the lounge the perfect conclusion to a long, sometimes exhausting trip.
As we enjoy a drink—Mardi opts for a French 75 while I stick to sparkling water—we snack on hot chips. Before we know it, our flight is boarding, and we proceed to the gate, with seats 3A and 4A awaiting us.
The first seven hours of the flight go smoothly. We enjoy dinner; I watch a movie, read Glenn Maxwell’s latest book, and listen to music before attempting to sleep.
However, with exactly ten hours to go, I wake up in a cold sweat, sitting bolt upright in my seat. Something feels off—I’m sweating from head to toe but freezing. The first urge to vomit hits me. Surely not—I haven’t eaten anything strange. I try to suppress the feeling.
In that moment, it’s a battle with my stomach. Should I make a dash for the restroom, three rows ahead, or grab a spew bag? No—I think I can hold it, but when the urge returns stronger than before, I realize I must act quickly.
I leap from my seat, and the ten steps to the bathroom feel like a hundred. I slam the door behind me just as a Mount Vesuvius-like eruption begins. In my haste, I forget to lock the door. Suddenly, I hear a young girl outside, “Hurry up! I need to pee!” I swing the door open and growl, “You don’t want to come in here. Go somewhere else!” She hurries off.
After several more episodes, I clean the bathroom, feeling somewhat relieved. I speak to a flight attendant and inform her what happened. She gets me some fresh pyjamas and efficiently cleans up the restroom. Little do I know, the next ten hours will be gruelling.
Every two hours, I’m sick. By the time we land, I’m pale and doubled over in abdominal pain. Paramedics board the flight, and I’m even sick while they treat me. It feels like there’s no end in sight to my inexplicable illness.
We decide I’m too unwell to continue. Our flight to Sydney has a stop in Auckland, where we choose to stay. The paramedics call for an ambulance, and I can barely walk, struggling to gather coherent thoughts.
Before I know it, I’m being pumped full of antibiotics and placed on an IV saline drip. My oxygen levels are dangerously low, and the nurses keep asking me to take deep breaths, which results in uncontrollable coughing. Some anti-nausea medication and painkillers help, but I’m still feeling quite unwell. Mardi, ever watchful, stays by my side, exhausted and hungry. She ventures out to find something to eat, but with little available nearby. I drift in and out of sleep until she returns with food.
As I recuperate, there’s a disturbance outside my room—a patient with concerning mental health issues has locked himself inside, smoking and drinking hand sanitizer. We listen quietly as nurses and doctors attempt to reason with him, realizing it’s not an easy job!
At some point during the afternoon, a doctor examines me and orders an x-ray, a CT scan, and an ultrasound. There’s concern over a possible burst appendix. Later, another doctor reassures me: no burst appendix, which is good news, but I have inflamed intestines and pneumonia—a double infection. They’re trying to determine if they’re related or merely coincidental occurrences.
I drift off to sleep again, feeling the exhaustion wash over me.
When I wake up, Mardi is sitting by my bedside. It’s early evening now, and I suggest she go to our hotel to get some rest. She heads out while I doze, and when I wake up again, it’s getting late. A nurse checks in on me and asks about my discharge status. I tell her I’d like to go home, but she informs me that I need a doctor’s approval. She becomes visibly frustrated when she realizes no doctors have seen me since 8:00 a.m., and no discharge paperwork has been processed.
Hospitals operate on their own odd clock; what feels like a few minutes can take an hour or more. After what seems like an eternity of waiting, around 8:00 p.m., a doctor finally comes to see me. He explains that I have acquired pneumonia, likely due to the prolonged vomiting and being cramped on a plane without the ability to stretch. My stomach issues are probably a result of food poisoning, which, while severe, should resolve with the antibiotics I’m receiving.
He clears me to fly home the following day, seeing as it’s a relatively short trip and I’m feeling better, as long as I haven’t experienced any more severe symptoms. I’m relieved but still weak and fatigued, and I can’t help but feel grateful to be discharged.
The next day, we catch a flight home—two and a half hours to Sydney, then a quick layover before heading back to Canberra. We arrive by midday and crash into bed by 4:00 p.m., not even bothering to unpack—our bags can wait in the garage.
The first few days back are tough. The combination of antibiotics, lingering infections, travel fatigue, and lack of food leaves me feeling like a wreck. By Monday morning, just a few days after our return, I visit the doctor, who takes one look at me and says, “Go home, go to bed for a week.” I follow his advice.
Epilogue A week later, after further testing, I’m diagnosed with norovirus, a particularly nasty strain. I’m back on antibiotics as my lungs still crackle. Full recovery is expected to take around six weeks.
Despite the less-than-glamorous end to our trip, we had a wonderful time overall. We have certainly fallen in love with cruising and are already contemplating our next destination. While we think we’ve seen the last of New York for a while, we will return, just not every year. We want to explore the world in new and different ways and have a renewed sense of adventure. Cruising has given us the best of both worlds: the comfort of a familiar hotel room but with the thrill of new adventures waiting to unfold each day as we step ashore.
Stay tuned for our next adventure!
