The Upgrade: A Cautionary Tale of a Life Without Reservations Read Online Free PDF Page A

planning to do any reporting while in the US, I probably should have had an I Visa. The O Visa, on the other hand, is for “aliens of extraordinary ability.” Rock stars, actors, E.T.—people like that. I most definitely should not have had an O Visa.
    “Nah, I’m just on the waiver. I’m not really going for work—more of a vacation. During which I might do some writing. For which I might get paid. But I’ll just brazen it out at immigration; pretend I’m not really a journalist. Which won’t be difficult, given that I’m not.”
    Zoe isn’t really a journalist either. But she’s definitely a writer, and a successful one. A year or so earlier, her blog—a candid diary of her sex life—had been turned into a book: Girl with a One Track Mind . The UK edition had sold a zillion copies and now the US edition was doing well too.
    As befits Zoe’s status as a hugely successful author, the words “Premium Economy” were printed on her boarding card, while I’d be sitting in economy. The memoirist feudal system, as illustrated by airline seating.
    As we boarded the plane I glanced to the left, half expecting to see Dave Eggers enjoying a glass of champagne in Business Class. 11
Realizing that Zoe was on my flight gave me a momentary twinge. The same twinge that I suppose minor celebrities have when they find they’re on the same plane as Bono or George Clooney. The realization that when—inevitably—the plane plunges into the sea or plummets nose-first into a field in Pennsylvania, they’ll just be a footnote in the coverage.
    Does it work the same way for writers, I wondered. If we skid off the runway on landing and burst into flames, would the book industry trade press mourn Zoe’s death and forget about me? 12

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    As it turned out, we didn’t crash, giving me the full seven-hour flight to go over my plans, and to become increasingly excited about them. From the airport I’d take a cab to Manhattan, and the Pod Hotel on East 51st Street.
    I really like staying at the Pod: not only is it centrally located but it’s inexpensive in the off-season and has flat screen TVs, iPod docks, rainhead showers and free Wi-Fi. And for all of those reasons it’s incredibly popular with young foreign travelers, making the place one giant pick-up joint.
    With just a couple of emails to their reservations department, I’d managed to negotiate a double room for $89 a night. I’d decided to set my accommodation budget at $100: about equal to the amount I’d be paying to stay in London if I’d accepted the increase in rent.
    I’d also agreed with myself that savings could be carried over, day to day, month to month, so each night I stayed at the Pod I was saving $11 that I could use for wherever I went next. After my month at the Pod, I planned to head south.

    Although I’d visited America a dozen times or more, I’d only ever been to the coastal states—New York, California, Florida: the usual. Like an overgrown backpacker, I wanted to see the “real America” so, like that same backpacker, I’d bought a book at the airport bookshop called USA by Rail with the intention of plotting a journey that would take me to all of the places I’d seen in movies but never visited. Places like Utah, which I’ve always imagined is like a safari park filled with Mormons.
    Flipping through USA by Rail , I was sucked straight into the dream. In the UK, traveling by train has lost all its romance—no one will write a love song about taking the 6:15 p.m. from Glasgow to London St. Pancras but in America the love affair lives on: the book listed routes with names like Texas Eagle , California Zephyr and Empire Builder .
    My plan was to take the two-day Crescent service from New York Penn Station down to New Orleans, arriving in time for Mardi Gras at the beginning of March. I feel horrible admitting this, but at the back of my mind I figured that after Hurricane Katrina the city’s hotel prices had probably gone down a