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- Meg, on Iberia's gift to her as a passenger to Madrid. |
 When 33 Takes Over For 24 • When one travels internationally, especially when going against the time gradient, there's always going to be that feeling you have a day that never ended. It's what causes jet lag, which I've discovered is one of the only foolproof excuses left in the modern world: Guy: "Jet lag." Lady: "I'm sorry. Can I get you some soup?" Up until one p.m., my Friday was going like any other: geography class in the morning, hour off, then two in the Mail Room. But that was it... the whirlwind kicked up and I wouldn't land until the marble steps at Club Casablanca, some 3,200 miles away. It hadn't been a very good morning, between the computer in the office not working, my getting shafter on the exchange rate for Euros ($300 only bought 318 Euros, when theoretically it should have gotten around 340), my not having packed yet, having no time get a haircut... plus soon, I would have to listen to Bethany and Meg bantering back and forth with gems like this: - Bethany, a name you'll see attached to a whole lot of quotes as we go along. Once we finally got a cab, the ride to Logan was entirely uneventful - no traffic, no luggage falling out of the trunk, no cabbie trying to get to Logan by driving through Springfield... nothing. The security checkpoint was also eerily simple - I hadn't flown since before September, so I was expecting nothing short of having my body stripped and doused with lye a la The Shawshank Redemption. An MP checked my tickets and ID, I walked through a metal detector, got wanded... and that was it. I didn't even have to take my shoes off, though the way the guard was looking at the tiny key to my golf club carrier, you'd have thought it was made of nitroglycerin. Note To Would-Be Terrorists: Meg went through the security line twice - the first time, then again when I sent her back to the ATM - and didn't get so much as a wanding. Apparently little Californians aren't deemed worthy of dastardly acts. With our first flight being just a commuter jump to JFK, the portion of Terminal B we waited in was dismally boring. In the hour plus we spent there, the most excitement came my discovery of Dole Fruit & Juice Bars being on sale at the Cafe Boston: -- However, they were lacking in the 'fruit chunk' department. We were eventually shuttled by bus to our plane, something that apparently only happens due to "construction" or "somebody famous" being on the plane. We were at Logan... you guess which of those it was. I remember before I stepped off the ground and onto the steps to board, I looked out to the houses of the North Shore. To the Air Traffic Control tower. I genuinely did not want to leave Boston... why this is escapes me, both then and now. It was as though I thought I'd never be coming back; funny, considering after two days on Tenerife, I didn't think about Boston until I was in it again. Our plane was about what you'd expect from a commuter plane: the kind of bird that makes my mother vomit with fear just thinking about it. * One seat, aisle, two seats - I had to duck any time I wasn't sitting down, and given the air vent was roughly six inches from my head the whole flight, I almost had to duck them too. * - My mother, far as I know, has never vomited from fear in her life. She has, however, sat on pizza, which was much more entertaining for all involved. Flight 4085 - Boston (Logan) to New York City (JFK): Flying internationally is all about keeping yourself entertained. Each passenger has a limited number of diversions available to them, diversions which grow tiresome if overused. You know what I mean: magazines, catalogues, CD players, computers... it's all about pacing. With fourteen hours of travel ahead, the possibility of blowing out entertainment wad early was great. Pre-flight the three of us: me alone on the left of the plane, the girls paired on the right, decided to have a crossword race using the two puzzles in our complimetary issue of "American Way." A half-hour in, it was over - I went from expecting a breezer to wondering how the hell many Upton Sinclair references can be worked into one set of puzzles. American Eagle, shame on you. Thankfully, the flight provided it's own reward, as our low cruising altitude gave me the coolest view ever on a flight - at least until the landing in London a week later. Taking off, a plane landed below us, with all of Boston and the North Shore providing a backdrop. I saw the whole Cape at once: from the Bourne Bridge to the Providence queers in a huge crescent. I saw Martha's Vineyard, and thought of Mary Jo Kopeckne and my mother's favorite JFK Jr. joke: Because he knew he'd wash up on Martha's Vineyard. We're a crude people. Don't judge us. I followed Long Island in my own world all the way to our landing, while the girls talked about how exciting it would be to buy the European version of Cosmo "because it's bigger!" It was around here I decided I wanted to take this plane all the way to Spain, and that my ears were bleeding. Other Thoughts: • If you live near Montauk Point, at the eastern edge of Long Island, and you want to go to Connecticut, do you really have to drive all the way to NYC and then back again? It could honestly be quicker to just swim the damn Sound if that's the case. • This would be the first time I'd been back to JFK Airport since the first time I ever flew: July 18, 1996, on a trip to London that eventually put me in Cardiff for three weeks. The astute will notice this was the day after TWA Flight 800 crashed off the coast of Long Island in a fireball, less than an hour after leaving JFK. My family and our neighbor, who had come over to bring me a disposable camera and wish me well, were sitting in my basement when the news first broke. I don't actually remember what I thought, but I recall it involving bricks being shit. I've always felt some misplaced connection to this event, even though they were going to Paris and I wasn't flying TWA. For the record, I think a missile brought it down, as military training exercises were going on in that area that day. Anyway, I thought about that as we flew over LI. • Why exactly is JFK Airport in New York City and not Boston? He lived here! The family still lives here! There's probably a large hunk of history I'm missing here, but, dude! We were twenty minutes early landing in New York, which was nice because it allowed for more of the three B's of aviation: bathroom stops, battery buying (plus more magazines) and bitching (between Meg and I over which way to go to find our departure gate). There were portions of this trip where, by our own admission, we both came damn close to breaking up with the other. But, we didn't. Lucky you. You thought I was bitter before... Our getting lost left us with little time to dawdle in the airport, but still leave enough time for me to notice two distinct things: • Boston MP's carry little black batons. New York City's MP's carry large metal AK-47's. Welcome to the Big Apple, Ahman. • You know how every travel story has an annoying guy? The one who never shuts up and is always saying all the things you're thinking, but aren't dumb enough to vocalize? Ours found us in the security line. I should have known when I first saw him, because he was wearing a dress shirt, tie and sandals. Show me one guy who has worn this outfit and isn't an asshole somehow, and I will buy you a nice, new hemp necklace. Here's what I learned about him, from the checkpoint to Madrid: He's from ten miles south of Allentown, Pa., and on his way to Seville. Got a plane to catch in Madrid, so these Spaniards, who should be speaking English because he can't understand Spanish, need to throw it in hyperdrive (like from Star Trek. You ever seen Star Trek?) He'd aslo like to know why the fuck Jayson Williams would shoot him limo driver. Thank you, fate. | ||
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AOL IM: JonCoochBU |
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