Music writer Keith Spera traveled to New York City with Fats Domino last week. This is his sixth and final report from the road.

Fats Domino is ready to roll.

He arrives in the lobby of Le Parker Meridien hotel in mid-town Manhattan precisely at 3:30 Saturday afternoon, packed and bound for home. "Rollin', rollin', rollin'," he sings, borrowing the old theme from "Rawhide."

He seems none the worse for wear after yesterday afternoon's misadventure. Exhausted following a Thursday night tribute concert, an early-morning Friday performance on "The Today Show" and an appearance at a luncheon in his honor, Domino's fingers began to swell. So badly, in fact, that he couldn't remove his bulky star-shaped ring.

It fell to Roland Von Kurnatowski, Tipitina's owner and trusted Domino confidant, to cut the ring off with bolt cutters borrowed from the hotel maintenance staff. Seems the maintenance guy didn't want to assume liability for cutting around Domino's most valuable fingers.

The episode left Domino exhausted. He went to bed early, and slept through a scheduled Friday evening autograph signing at the Border's at Columbus Circle, much to the disappointment of the 100-plus assembled fans.

By Saturday afternoon, he's rested and in good spirits. His entourage consists of Von Kurnatowski; Walter Miles, Domino's friend, favorite cab driver and designated valet; Tipitina's Foundation executive assistant Lauren Cangelosi, the mother hen of the group and the person Domino teases almost as much as Miles; and me.

We pile into a limo and head south through the heart of Manhattan. Domino is game to stop at Times Square to take a couple of pictures. Up to this point, he's had little interest in, or time for, sight-seeing. But as he exits the limo on 45th Street, he starts singing, "On Broadway..."

Amidst the bustle on the sidewalk, he is unrecognized. Fifty years ago almost to the day, he would have been mobbed had he stood on this spot near the old New York Paramount, which he headlined to sell-out crowds in November 1957.

He's eager to actually see a street-sign that says "Broadway." That accomplished, he heads back to the limo. We drive past picket lines of striking Broadway stage hands; this morning, their strike effectively shut down New York theater. We plunge into the Lincoln Tunnel, bound for Newark's Liberty International Airport and Continental's direct evening flight to New Orleans.

As soon as Domino exits the limo at the airport, he's b um-rushed by a half-dozen professional autograph hounds. These are not fans, but opportunists who traffic in autographed items.

Sources at hotels and airlines tip them off to the comings and goings of celebrities. In anticipation of Domino's arrival, they likely cleaned out every used record store in the tri-state area of his old LPs, which are much more valuable signed. And they always insist on taking a photo with him, too, to prove the provenance of the signature.

They have aggressively stalked Domino from the moment we touched down in Newark three days earlier. So relentless are they in their pursuit that they tried to make the 79-year-old legend stand and sign in the freezing rain outside the "Today Show" studios Friday morning, then followed his car to a deli and ambushed him in the entranceway.

Domino is willing to sign everything offered, even when one person hands him a dozen albums. So it falls to his entourage to keep him moving.

He finally reaches the safety of the Newark terminal, and is processed via a private security screening. Our group is led to the private Continental Club lounge, a peaceful oasis above the gates where the leather chairs are plush, the apples are crisp and delicious, and the drinks are free.

Only one problem: The draft beer doesn't taste like Heineken, Domino's preferred brand. This is the only beer available in the private lounge, Miles tells Domino.

"I'd rather be down there, where I can get what I want," Domino says.

Overall, the trip, his first to New York since 1991, has been good. He's mostly enjoyed himself, even if he didn't find much food to his liking. And he definitely reveled in the spark of performing on "The Today Show." "As long as they're satisfied, I'm alright," he says.

Domino's only post-Katrina performance has been a 32 minute set at Tipitina's in May, but New York seems to have invigorated him.

"Maybe I'll start working again," he says.

When leaving New Orleans Wednesday morning, Domino was in no hurry to make the plane. The flight was nearly delayed when he lingered too long in a gift shop buying sunglasses. But he's eager to board Continental Flight 810; as departure time nears, he's antsy. When the time comes, he moves briskly to the gate and takes his seat in first class.

Three hours later, at precisely 8 p.m. Saturday night, the plane touches down on the same north-south runway of Louis Armstrong International Airport from which we departed. The reception awaiting Domino in the baggage claim in New Orleans is much different than in Newark.

There are no autograph hounds. Instead, Von Kurnatowski's three-year-old daughter, Mary Grace, bounds over to Domino and grabs his leg, as if he were her long-lost grandfather. Domino laughs: "She remembered me!"

The only other people to approach him are Lorene and Dwayne Billiot, a couple from Cut Off who were on the same flight. They had celebrated their 20th wedding anniversary with a trip to Niagara Falls, and are longtime Domino fans.

"We were worried about you after Katrina," says Lorene.

"Oh, thank you," says Domino.

Outside, Miles' son has arrived with a well-worn, mid-size gray sedan that is considerably less luxurious than the long black limo in Newark. Domino piles into the backseat. He's smiling and waving.

"There's no place like home," he says.