I’m a Supercommuter. Here’s What It’s Really Like.
The money, miles and stamina it takes to work in New York and live in Columbus, Ohio
The money, miles and stamina it takes to work in New York and live in Columbus, Ohio
Sometimes I sleep in a different New York City hotel room every night.
On a recent Monday, it was a Midtown Manhattan Hampton Inn. The next night, a budget hotel downtown. Then I moved to a Hyatt in Queens, near John F. Kennedy International Airport, where I waited to check in behind a group of pilots and flight attendants.
The reason for this madness: My job is in New York, but my apartment is in Columbus, Ohio. When hotel prices are high, I property-surf to find a lower rate.
For more than a year, to the bafflement of family, friends and colleagues, I have attempted to live and work as a supercommuter. What began as a postpandemic experiment of flying to and from New York each week has turned into what I am hesitant to call a lifestyle.
Like many, I moved out of the city early in the pandemic, relocating near family in the Midwest. When it came time to return in 2022, I was underwhelmed at the housing options in my price range. I toured one-room studios facing brick walls and climbed crumbling staircases to reach dank apartments with ancient fixtures. I also had grown accustomed to midweek evening walks with my sister in Ohio, and a short drive to see my parents. I didn’t want to fully give that up.
Using back-of-the-envelope math, I thought I could keep my expenses—rent in Ohio, plus travel costs—at or below the price of a nice New York studio, or roughly $3,200 a month. The Wall Street Journal requires office attendance at least three days a week and, since I commute by choice, I pay all my travel expenses.
The challenge felt oddly thrilling. If anybody could find a way to subvert high New York real-estate costs, while remaining close to family, I thought it might be me. For years, I’ve been an on-call travel guru to friends and co-workers, coaching people on how to navigate flight cancellations and play the credit-card bonus games. I memorise aircraft configurations and spend hours reading mileage blogs and industry sites like Airliners.net.
Before mileage runs became useless, I obsessed over reaching top-tier airline status by spending as little as possible. (Family members still roll their eyes at the six hours I spent in Anchorage one December afternoon to requalify for Delta’s Diamond tier.) When a flight is oversold, I am quick to volunteer my seat in exchange for a voucher. (My best-ever haul: $2,000 after giving up my seat on multiple oversold flights one Saturday in San Francisco.)
Nerding out about this stuff has allowed me to travel farther and in more rarefied air than I could otherwise afford.
Entering my supercommuter era, I had visions of flying to New York on a weekday morning (8,500 points one way on American Airlines), spending the day meeting sources and filing stories, and retiring to one of my favourite points hotels—the Beekman. Mornings would begin with a free breakfast thanks to my Hyatt status, before a short subway ride to the office. After two nights, I’d return to Columbus and my roomy apartment, half the price of a Manhattan studio.
Shocking no one, that fantasy soon came crashing down.
Burning points on fancy hotel rooms was the first problem. The life of a journalist is hard to predict. I repeatedly found myself on deadline and having to rebook flights or stay an extra night, costing me money or miles.
Once I was back in the city, it also got harder to say no. Stay an extra night to attend a friend’s birthday party or meet a CEO in town just for the day? Sign me up. I didn’t want my living situation to strain relationships or interfere with my job, which I love.
To conserve hotel points, I swapped the Beekman’s elegant rooms in lower Manhattan for a Hyatt attached to a casino in Jamaica, Queens. My rooms overlooked a sea of empty parking spaces, but required half as many points as Manhattan alternatives.
By summer, with my miles dwindling and New York hotel rates rising, I reluctantly began to rely on the kindness of those around me. Hearing I might need a place, one friend mailed me the keys to her family’s unoccupied apartment in New Jersey. Another let me stay in her smartly designed Brooklyn one-bedroom for weeks as she traveled. A cherished deskmate, known for her tell-it-like-it-is demeanour, repeatedly offered a bedroom in her Chelsea loft, handing over the keys with a sometimes expletive-tinged reminder to: “Get a f—ing apartment.”
I watered plants, walked friends’ dogs and fed their cats while they were away. Still, working in a city without a permanent home took a toll. I came to dread the go-to question asked at parties and work events in New York: “So where do you live?”

If I admitted, “it’s kind of complicated,” I got sucked into explaining my life as a supercommuter. Sometimes, I’d just tell people the location of that evening’s hotel. (Chelsea!)
Costs mounted in the fall, New York’s prime tourist and business-travel season. Friends teased me for embracing a life of chaos. They weren’t wrong. Without a refrigerator or stove, late-night dinners often consisted of yogurt and fruit purchased from a 24-hour CVS. Needing to pack light, I stored shoes under my desk and left spare outfits on an office coat rack.
To get to the office on time, I set my alarm in Columbus for 4:15 a.m. and hustled to the airport for 6 a.m. flights. When everything went according to plan, I made it door-to-door in three hours. If delays occurred, I scrambled to rebook on other flights.
My obsessive tracking of New York hotel prices taught me that dynamic pricing isn’t reserved for airlines. Hotel costs can fluctuate half a dozen times on the check-in date, so instead of booking in advance, I’d wait to pull the trigger until 10 p.m. some days after the rates fell.
In the end, the math didn’t work. I blew my budget by 15% and drained my miles balance. But I flew so much and stayed in so many hotels that I kept my elite status with Hyatt and American.
I still enjoy having one foot in the Midwest and one on the East Coast, though I’m not sure how long I can keep it up. I’m writing this from Columbus, where I overlook a beautiful park outside my picture window. My lease is up, but hotel rates in Manhattan this winter have plunged now that the holidays are over. Maybe that New York apartment search can be put off a little longer.
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China is launching the first regular Arctic cargo route to Europe, offering faster journeys and lower fuel costs as melting ice and Red Sea risks reshape global shipping.

Shipping cargo through an Arctic shortcut never made economic sense—until now.
Climate change and war in the Middle East are flipping the math that previously kept ships plying longer routes from Asia to Europe. A Chinese company on Saturday is starting the first regular cargo service to Europe through Arctic waters, seeking to reap the benefits of quicker travel time and less fuel use.
The shipper Sea Legend will dispatch the Dubai Tower from Ningbo, China, to Felixstowe in the U.K. on what it calls the Arctic Express, following a route along Russia’s north coast. The voyage by the vessel, which is capable of carrying 1,740 20-foot containers, is the biggest commercial step in the Arctic since a Maersk containership first completed the route in 2018.
Global warming is a big factor behind the new route, but it is not the only one. Nearly half the Arctic region’s summer ice—an area four times the size of Texas—has melted over five decades, clearing a fairly reliable path in the summer months. Meanwhile, high oil prices and attacks by Houthi rebels in the Red Sea have made the traditional routes costlier and more dangerous.
Beyond that, Beijing has ambitions to play a role in the Arctic’s future, lending a geopolitical dimension to the Chinese company’s shipping route.
Last year Sea Legend completed a trial run from Asia to Europe in a record 20 days. That is roughly half the time of a voyage via Africa’s Cape of Good Hope that many carriers now take because of the Red Sea uncertainty.
Fuel accounts for 70% or more of the costs while at sea, said Alan Murphy, a former Maersk analyst who runs research firm Sea-Intelligence.
Saving fuel by shortening the journey doesn’t automatically make a route profitable. Insurance premiums for the Arctic are 40% higher than the Cape of Good Hope route, said Jonathan Steenberg, an economist at credit insurer Coface. Sea Legend’s Arctic vessels are relatively small. And even after warming, an icebreaker is still sometimes needed to help the cargo ship.
But if the ship can go without an icebreaker, Coface said the Arctic route is now cheaper than a Cape of Good Hope voyage in some circumstances. It estimated that at current oil prices of around $90, the cost of shipping liquid bulk such as liquefied natural gas could drop roughly 33% compared with the Cape of Good Hope route, while dry bulk goods such as cereals would cost about 8% less.
The route is only passable in the summer and fall. Sea Legend plans eight voyages between August and late October, before conditions get too icy.
“It’s not the Suez Canal but it’s a significant number for the Arctic. It shows there is potential,” said Malte Humpert, founder of the U.S.-based Arctic Institute and author of a book on Chinese shipping in the Arctic.
Even in summer, ships have to navigate around dangerous ice floes and deal with rapidly changing weather. By the end of the shipping season in October, the sky is dark most of the time.
A Russian tanker suffered serious damage to its hull while sailing along the Arctic route despite being assisted by an icebreaker, its insurer, AlfaStrakhovanie, said Thursday, adding that it paid out roughly $650,000.
Coface estimates 3.5% of trade among East Asia, Europe and North America will be able to use Arctic routes within the next five years, representing $64 billion in goods.
Last summer, a record 23 cargo ships transited the Northern Sea Route, which hugs Russia’s north coast. That is tiny compared with the Suez Canal, where more than 30 ships transited daily.
Western companies that want to follow in Sea Legend’s path have to navigate treacherous politics. Russia claims sovereignty over the entire Northern Sea Route and permits for ship traffic are issued by its state-controlled nuclear operator, Rosatom.
“Western companies are in a tricky position,” said Humpert of the Arctic Institute. “At what point do they jump back in the water? When does it become economically necessary, and how do you weigh that against environmental risks and the political dimension?”
An alternative Arctic route, the Northwest Passage that connects the Atlantic and Pacific oceans via the Canadian Arctic, is less passable because it is dominated by narrow waterways where ice gets bunched up. The highest number of cargo ships completing the passage in a year was 13, in 2023.
China has declared itself a near-Arctic state despite not having access to Arctic waters. It depends on Russia’s goodwill to use the Northern Sea Route.
“Beijing is concerned that if they don’t establish a significant strategic presence in the Arctic now, it’s going to be more difficult in the future,” said Marc Lanteigne, expert in polar geopolitics at the Arctic University of Norway in Tromsø. However, he said, “China needs to be careful not to give the impression that they are trying to challenge the strategic order in the Arctic.”
Sea Legend didn’t respond to requests for comment.
Any polar venture contributes to China’s quest to master Arctic travel. The country also has three icebreakers and a support vessel currently on a monthslong scientific expedition north of Greenland. Scientific and commercial voyages can yield data about natural resources awaiting below melting ice caps and information for positioning nuclear-armed submarines.
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