Mykel Goes to India Day -1 and counting

Entry One , October 1, 2018


I’m in the train from Penn Station to Newark Airport. Newark is usually my airport of choice from New York. Physically, it’s the furthest, but it’s only three stops on the train... Nine dollars for the comforable miles (old people’s discount)... so here I sit. A medium sized backpack and an over-stuffed computer case at my feet.

Next to me… to my left… is an attractive young woman-- mid twenties… sweatshirt.. jeans. In front of her are two huge suitcases. Next to her is a slightly macho guy over 6 feet tall, with decent shoulders, and an intense focus on the cellphone in his right hand... Not much to look at for me… but as I look at the young woman… she shifts in her seat moving further away from me, closer to the other guy… she leans over and talks with him…. He laughs.

The woman reaches into her purse and pulls out a small bag of Riccola. She offers one to the macho man. He shakes his head. Then she takes one wrapped Riccola opens it... slowly... fold by fold… as if relishing the reveal.. Once opened, the brown lozenge lays in the middle of the wrapper a brown square stark against the white. She holds it up to her face. Her pink tongue darts lizard-like from between her full lips. Bending her head, she touches it to the lozenge on the paper. Withdrawing her tongue, she pulls the paper to her lips and sucks it into her mouth.

Suddenly, the woman turns and looks at me… then shifts even closer to the macho man.

Scene shift:

Newark airport: Some hugely fat guy has been talking non-stop on his iphone. I now know where Florence’s birthday gift is, what to tell Albert when he calls, and that Marty is a money grubbing asshole. I’m at the gate 2½ hours early as is my custom. Lots of trouble with SECURITY-- as is my custom.

“Thanks for your passport. I need your visa,” I pull it out-- the visa that is-- and hand it over to the woman on the other side of the Air-India counter. The not Indian woman smiles as she takes the paper. Then she looks at it... her sculpted eyebrows move closer together. Her non-botoxed forhead wrinkles. She squints... raises a finger in a just a minute signal (which these days could mean anything from Jesus is the one way to White Power.) Then she runs down to another clerk-- this one Indian-- to check with her. There is some conversation and she heads back to me... trying to force a smile.

“I’m sorry,” she says. (How did I know?) “But that isn’t a visa. That is only a confirmation of application. Your actual e-visa should have come in an e-mail.”

I open my phone and go to the email app. 10,345 emails. I search on INDIA. 653. But wait! I fiddle about in my wallet. I find ANOTHER printout… It say E-VISA on top. YES!

 I hand it over to the agent. She holds up a finger again and runs off.

NOTE: I do NOT hold up a finger.

She returns with another woman… much more supervisor-looking. The other woman manages to make her smile look almost authentic.

“This is not an e-visa,” she says. “It is only an email telling you that your e-visa has been granted.” She points to the blue CLICKABLE text on the page. THAT’s where you have to get your visa from.

I remain non-violent.

“Don’t worry,” she says, “we can print out your visa for you… just move down to the last agent and she’ll print it for you.”

I moved to the last agent. She (you guessed it) holds up a finger and disappears. She returns with a small cart. On the cart is a printer.

“Just a minute, I have to set this up.”

She plugs in the printer… turns it on… connects a cord from the printer to something on the desk in front of her… flips a printer switch…

It takes awhile. I use the time to practice deep meditation and breath control.

BRRRRRR ZIP BRRRRR ZIP BRRRR ZIP

The paper comes out. I hold in my hand… an e-Visa. I think.

“Have a nice day,” says the woman handing it to me.

“You too,” I say.

-proofread on the plane… so I got this far-

Postscript (written on the plane): Is this the world’s only airline without a magazine in the magazine holder? In any case, the lights, stewardess call, movie volume are all exclusively controlled by a remote tucked into the armrest. It don’t work. The stewardess has asked everybody to lower their window shades, but only two people in the cabin have figured out how to turn on the overhead lights.

We had dinner… curry of course… not very good. I ate the salad and drank the water… I figured on the plane it must be okay, right? We’ll see. In the meantime, I opened my window shade… we’re over a sea of clouds. That’s all. We’ve been in the air about 2 ½ hours. 11 more to go.

  

The Best Worst Day of the Trip or Diary Supplemental

Mykel's Journey to The North

Supplemental Entry: 

The Best Worst Day of The Trip

by Mykel Board

CAPTAIN'S LOG STARDATE 23 September 2016... Supplemental:

AASIAAT, GREENLAND

Blog entry 8 will introduce you to Inuaraq, my couch-surfing host here in Aasiaat. Right now you only need to know that he's a musician (quite well-known in the country) and an Eskimo. (Western hemisphere language police require INUIT... but the locals don't care.)

I've just arrived back on the ferry from DISKO Island. You'll read about that adventure later. First, I need to get this one out... while its still fresh in my ever more senile mind.

Inuaraq's house is close to the port/ferry terminal. Straight ahead from the boat... across the street and up the wooden staircase. It's a massive blue house, over-looking the harbor. You can see whales from his living room window.

Inuaraq gave me a key to the house, so I can let myself in... the lower entrance... closer to the room I'm staying in. I take off my shoes, as they do in Greenland.. and Japan... and France... and in an increasing number of places around the world. I enter “my” room and hear a shuffling upstairs.

A voice: Are you there?

“Yes,” I shout back, “I just got back.”

“Come upstairs,” says Inuaraq, “dinner is ready.”

It's muskox fajita: heated tortillas, salad, ready for self-folding. No hot peppers... but this is NOT Mexico. Best muskox fajita I've ever had.

“You want a beer?” asks Inuaraq.

“No, I hate beer,” I don't say.

“Sure,” I say. “What goes better with fajita?”

He laughs and brings me my first beer of the evening. I finish dinner, showing my satisfaction with escaping gas... fore and aft.

“Sounds like you're ready for another one,” says Inuaraq.

Before I can agree, a second Carlsberg is on the table in front of me. Inuaraq gets one for himself, and we toast to Greenland, Eskimos and Aasiaat. Cheers in Greenlandic, by the way is KAZUTA!

The second beer disappears even more quickly than the first.

I guess there's a beer surplus in town, because when I've finished that one... Inuaraq is on cue with another. He prefers a glass. Me? I'm a bottle drinker.

One more... then it's time to go to bed. Not that I have to do anything special tomorrow, though I do want to contact a great Eskimo lady I met at the local Tourist Information Center. Turns out she's Inuaraq's cousin. I want to ask her to rub noses with me. That's one of my goals in Greenland... to rub noses with an Eskimo.

After emptying the last beer, I slam the empty bottle down on the table... beer drinker talk for That's all she wrote.

Inuaraq gets it immediately.

“Last one?” he asks.

I nod.

“Okay, then get dressed... we're going out,” he says.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

”To a bar,” he says, “the one I was telling you about. The one we plan to overtake.”

“You mean take over,” I say.

He nods.

“Can we see it now?” I ask. “Isn't it abandoned or something?”

He shakes his head.

“No,” he says, “it's just a regular bar. We plan to overta... er... take over next year and turn it into a music bar. Come and take a look at it.”

It's pitch black outside. I'd been hoping for an aurora, but so far none on this trip. Inuaraq leads me via cellphone flashlight through “a shortcut”... over ice-covered rocks, up and down rickety wooden staircases, across unlit streets. I think we're walking in a straight line from the house... any barriers... we just climb over them. A pair of very slippery boulders in the way... we climb them... a rickety wood stair case... we climb it... swamp grass next to a highway guard rail... over we go. Over to the other side of the “highway”.., there it is: TULUGAQ.... it means raven. And it's a bar. Here's the local airport ad for it:

It's around 10pm. There are fewer than a dozen patrons. The bartender is a rotund Danish-looking guy. Grey hair and beard... could be a bartender anywhere in the world. Inuaraq speaks to him in Danish. Two beers appear on the bar in front of us. Inuaraq pays for them.

“Min Dansk er ikke ret god,” I tell the bartender. “Kan vi snakke på Engelsk?”

“Sure,” he says, “English is fine with me.”

He looks like a story-teller. He is a story teller. Telling about his hotels in Illuset and his other property here and there and how he can't wait to give up this bar... It's just too much at his age.... His wife is annoyed that he's away from home so much.

Two more beers come.

An Eskimo-looking guy-- tough oriental face, hint of a mustache, thinner than most of the Inuit persuasion-- comes into the bar and sits next to Inuaraq. It's unclear whether they know each other but they strike up a conversation... in Greenlandic.

Inuaraq tells me the guy is from Illuset and he's been hunting. He just shot 3 caribou,,, two of them died instantly, but one was hit “in a bad place.” So the hunter had to kill it by hand. He couldn't shoot it because that might scare any other approaching animal. So he slit the beast's throat... then sliced through the back of the neck to cut the head off. He says he has a video, but doesn't know if I'm... er.

“I don't know the English word,” says Inuaraq.

“Check squeamish in the dictionary,” I suggest.

He does.

“Yep,” that's it.

“No,” I tell him. “I'm not squamish.”

I order three more beers. Give one to Inuaraq, one to the hunter, and keep one for myself. I pay for this round.

Sitting at the end of the bar is a rather chubby girl, wearing an orange INUIT t-shirt. Nice design-- and I want to make conversation. Maybe get my chance to rub noses.

“Nice t-shirt,” I tell her.

“Thank you,” she says and smiles like a heart-breaker. She tells me her name... which I immediately forget. I tell her mine. Inuaraq taps me on the shoulder.

The focus returns to the hunter. Here's the video: A snow-covered field... two dead caribou, one other... bleeding from the side... raising and lowering its antlered head... Big doe eyes looking pleadingly as the hunter lifts that head and plunges a long knife into the spine. Then, he again plunges in the knife... slicing around, snow turning red... a full view into the throat of the almost dead animal. Like a medical textbook...Wow!

This is it! It's why I travel. I can see buildings and landscapes in photos. But I can't meet the people. I can't see saftig girls in INUIT t-shirts. I can't see homemade videos of silent caribou killings. Yes! Yes! Yes! This is exactly it! My best night in Greenland. Better than rubbing noses.

By now, I'm completely plastered. Six... or is it seven... bottles of beer in two hours. I close my eyes and begin to drift off in thoughts of bloody caribou and the terrific beer-shit I'm going to have tomorrow morning. I'm not sure I can walk.

“One more for the trip home,” says Inuaraq, putting a 200 krona note on the bar. The bartender gives us one each.

We talk more about caribou hunting. I show I'm a member of the tribe... dropping big words like rifle and antler. Oh yeah, I'm in on the hunt. We three promise-- next time I'm in Greenland-- to take a hunting trip together. We shake hands. The hunter and I are almost teary in our parting. What an adventure... a drunken night with the locals... as local as you can get. Pure non-tourism, THIS is what I travel for. Oh yeah.

The only problem right now is figuring out how to stand up. The bar has started to swirl around me. The bartender has begun to look less like a bartender and more like a polar bear. I feel a pressure in my bladder, but can't get the energy to trek around the corner to the men's room. Even if I could manage that, I'm sure-- after opening my fly-- I'd be unable to find what I'm looking for.

“Okay Mykel,” says Inuaraq, “shall we go back?”

I nod... I think. The trip back is a blur. Maybe we teleport. I can't remember one second between leaving the bar and arriving back downstairs where “my” room is. It's about 1PM, Iguess.

I'm ready to pass out when I hear a clumping on the spiral staircase that leads from upstairs to downstairs. It's Inuaraq.

“Do you mind if I invite two girls over?” he asks.

“Do what you like,” I say. “But I'm drunk. I've got to go to sleep.”

“Ok, Mykel,” he says. “See you tomorrow.. ah... today.”

“See you,” I say, closing the door and dropping onto the bed, fully-clothed-- except for my boots. How I found those, let alone removed them-- I don't know. I wonder if I'll be able to find them in the morning.

4AM: The pressure in my bladder awakes me... at least I think it's the pressure in my bladder... It could be the noise upstairs. It sounds like a political debate... two loud male voices... the a female's screaming laugh... more voices... another scream. I'm gonna have to walk into the middle of this. In a contest between embarrassing myself and relieving my bladder-- the bladder wins, every time.

I check to see that my pants are really still on. They are.

I pad upstairs and see the gang at the diningroom table. There is Inuaraq, two pretty Eskimo girls, a big guy I've never seen before, another guy who may have been in the bar (not the hunter)-- and the fat girl with the Inuit t-shirt.

I wave to them and head to relieve myself. On the way to the bathroom, I trip over a case half-filled with beer. No doubt it started all-filled.

From inside the bathroom, the noise is louder now. There's some kind of sing-a-long... in Greenlandic... top of the lungs... everybody knows the words. A boisterous, drunken choral... a roof-raising worthy of a German beer-hall.

Downstairs, the sound is slightly muffled... no it's not... it echoes off the hard wood... rings like a church choir. I scramble for my toiletry kit. There are a pair of earplugs there. I'm sure.

No there aren't. There is ONE earplug.

I shove it in... deep as it will go. I pile pillows on the bed, put my plugless ear against them...pull the blanket over my head And fall asleep... Yeah right.

6AM Gunshots interrupt my attempts to doze. BANG! Laughter. BANG! More laughter. I drift from semi-consciousness to full. BANG! BANG! Okay, I'll clean up the blood later. Right now, I need to get to sleep.

8AM Again awakened by my bladder. I debate getting up. The bladder, as always wins. It's quiet now. No sounds. I go upstairs and it's empty. No blood, no bullet casings. On the table is a YATZHI pad and dice. THAT was the BANG! BANG! The sound of dice being slammed on the table.

I can see into two of the three upstairs bedrooms... they're empty. The bathroom door is closed... from inside I hear the sound of running water. I'm guessing Inuaraq is trying to shower off the night's excesses. I'll give him some time.

8:15AM I try again, same sound from the bathroom. Sounds like a long shower... with a strange lack of movement.

8:30 AM I try again. The same sound. It doesn't seem like anyone is moving under the shower. The shisssssh of the water is steady... and unbroken stream. I knock on the door. No answer. I try the handle. It's locked. My bladder's gonna explode. I'm gonna die.

9 AM This is it. Do or die. Back to the silent upstairs. Everything's the same. Door locked. Water sound. Otherwise... er... the sound of silence. I don't know what to do. There are no trees in this whole country. Where can I piss outside?

I walk through the house, tracing where I think the bathroom is. Behind it, is the laundry room... makes sense because they both need water pipes. There's a window... not to the outside, but, from what I figure, to the bathroom. It's open... probably to let out the shower steam and the smell of beer shits.

The window is way above my head. There's no way I can look through it... or is there? Maybe if I climb on the washing machine, then lean way over to the left-- I can see something.

I put my palms on the washing machine and boost myself up. I see a bit of the bathroom. I can see a wall rack, and a piece of the floor. Water sloshes on the other side of the window. On the floor, lying on his side-- apparently naked-- at least from the nipples up... that's all I can see... is Inuaraq. Unmoving, as the water splashes over him. Skin pale. He's dead. Alcohol poisoned... the shower water washing away his death liquids.

Damn, I'm dealing with the first corpse in my travel career-- human corpse, that is. We're not counting caribou. Think fast. What needs to be done? I know what's most important.

I run downstairs past my bedroom... to the recycle room. There, placed neatly in a box on the floor... are various jars, bottles, other glass containers. Here's a juice bottle... maybe a little small, but we'll burn that bridge when we get to it.

I piss into it. Just make it without overflowing. Ahhh.

I screw the lid on, put on my jacket, take it outside to try to find a place to hide it. I don't want the cops to find a bottle of piss and start asking questions. I put on my coat, and walk outside, piss-bottle in hand. I walk onto the wooden porch. Shit, there's someone coming up the stairs. I gotta ditch this sucker now.

Fffftunk!

I throw it under the staircase, where it probably lies to this day.

Then, back upstairs to deal with the corpse.

I know... I'll go downstairs... stop someone on the street... ask them to call the cops for me. What do I know? I've never dealt with a naked corpse before... let alone a naked corpse in Aassiaat Greenland. They're gonna think I did it? Check fingerprints with the FBI... find my stomach medicine and think I'm a drug dealer. This is just awful! The worst day of my life.

Back at the bathroom door. I try the chain punch I learned in my Wing Chung class. POW-POW POW-POW POW-POW POW. One after the other... like a machine gun. Loud enough to wake the dead... I hope.

No response.

Ok, time to transfer this to a higher authority.... ah... there are my shoes. I put them on... hear a door open.

“Hello? Hello?” It' Inuarq, leaning through the open doorway, using the door to hide his lower nuditute.

“Fuck,” I say. “I thought you were dead.”

“No,” he says, “just in the shower.

9:45 I go back to bed

11;30 I get up, the sun shining through the curtainless windows as it does every day. Usually at 7:30! [ASIDE: It's amazing how few people here have curtains or shades on their windows. Besides providing a show of intimate adventures, the lack of curtains is a soundless morning alarm-- in the fall (and spring, I guess). But in the summer, it's never dark. In the winter, it's never light. So how does lack of curtains help with that?

Upstairs, Inuarq sits on the couch watching a soccer game on his huge TV. The maid is mopping the floor in the bathroom. Just another quiet day in Aassiaat.

“You had a wild night,” I say to him.

“You could say that,” he answers.

I head for the bathroom to take care of what old men have to frequently take care of. The maid is now washing the kitchen dishes. After bleeding the hose, I flush and leave the bathroom.

A stirring comes from Inuaraq's room. I figure he's changing clothes, or cleaning up after the rough night. I figure wrong. Out of his room come two girls--- the two pretty ones-- from the party last night. They're barefoot... slightly disheveled.

“Good morning,” I say to them.

They smile at me... wave... go down stairs... and before long I hear the back door slam shut.

Wow!

--To Be Continued

Special note about Inuaraq: As you can guess from reading this, he's an amazing guy! I feel like he's my long lost Eskimo brother. Besides his bar-- that'll feature live music-- he's organizing a festival-- twice a year (summer and winter)-- in Aasiaat. If you're in a band... or know a band... that'll be in Europe touring, especially Northern Europe or Germany, you should contact him at: inussuit@gmail.com

If, for some odd reason, you like my writing and want to see more (opinionated, political, punkrock), you can check out my other blog here.

You can subscribe to my writings (get email when something new is posted), by sending a subscribe email to: readmboard-subscribe@yahoogroups.com.

Mykel's Journey To The North: Part One Day One

A Log Of The Trip To Greenland

Entry 1

by Mykel Board

When something can go wrong, it will go wrong. --Murphy's Law

Even when nothing can go wrong, it STILL will go wrong. --Board's Law

SUNDAY August 14, 2016 (Trip Day Minus 2)

LOCATION: JFK AIRPORT, TERMINAL EIGHT, the MEDALIST BAR between Gates 4 and 5. TIME 9:30pm

It's like a sportsbar in an airport... expensive... obnoxious patrons... mostly fratboy 20s-30s... the ones who 30 years ago would have called high school punk rockers “faggots.”

They're flag waving Americans, watching the Olympics on the big screen TV. Maybe that's not true. Maybe the audience was a bunch of Jamaicans cheering Usain Bolt. I wasn't there. But whatever it was the crowd was manic... cheering the runners on... someone starts banging on the table. POW! POW! POW! The next table picks it up. POW! POW! POW... On the bar top... POW! POW! POW! Urging the runners on.

Down by Gate One a grandmother, not the least bit interested in Usain Bolt, hears the POW! POW! POW! She dials 9-1-1.

“There's gunfire... here in Kennedy Airport... terminal eight. I hear it down the hall. We need help fast.”

POW! POW! POW! Riot Gear Cops... announcement to all terminals: PLEASE LEAVE THE BUILDING. THERE MAY BE DANGER. YOU ARE REQUESTED TO LEAVE THE TERMINAL IMMEDIATELY.

The cops herd the panic-stricken out of the building. In comes the bomb squad... human armor... guns drawn... ready to kill the shooters. The terminals fill with screams... check-ins stop... flights are canceled... planes on the ground don't leave... the people outside sweating it out in the heat... Hours pass... more flights canceled.

Voices on the loudspeakers talked about an ON-GOING SITUATION... and people should stay calm. This makes more panic.

The panicked populous returns home, flights missed, TVs on to see what happened. Well, nothing happened... Nothing, in a big way.

I don't know about this until....

FLASH TO TUESDAY MORNING 9:30AM: I'm scheduled to leave at 11:30 tonight. I have nothing to do all day. I'm an anxious traveler anyway, despite the amount of traveling I do. Every year, my friends know to expect a call from me... from the airport:

“Could you run over to my apartment? I think I:

A. Forgot to lock it.

B. Forgot to turn off the AC

C. Brushed up against the stove and turned on the gas.

D. All of the above.

Of course, none of that ever happens. This year, I make myself a checklist so I can... like an airline pilot... check off everything one-by-one after I've done it. 

I've even included a “knuckles rapped” remark after locking the door. This way, I'll slam my fist against the door after I've locked it... and the pain will remind me that I have, in fact, locked the door.

One by one, I go through the list, checking everything except DOOR LOCKED. It's 1:30PM... my time.

(Note for people who don't know me very well: All the clocks in my apartment are 40 minutes fast. I do this because the average trip in Manhattan takes 40 minutes. The clock setting lets me teleport. I have to be someplace at 9PM. I leave at 9PM. I'm on time.)

These days, airlines recommend you be at the airport 3 hours early... especially for international flights. That's an 8:30 arrival. The train to Kennedy takes more than the usual 40 minutes... almost an hour more. That means I should leave at 7:30 my time... in six hours. What can I do? I tried to download and print my boarding pass, but I couldn't find it on line. There was a message about “a situation at JFK Airport.”

Check with the airline for further information. says the message.

Ok, I guess I should just go and talk with the Norwegians at the airport. They should be a nice crew... they're practically Danish.

The computer's packed away, and I've read the BBC news twice already on my smartphone. I could dip into my pile of last year's copies of THE NATION, but my brain just isn't up to that.

How bout a nap? I'll sleep for a couple hours then go.

I lie down on my freshly made bed. And I fall asleep... for 20 minutes.... awakening with a start from some nightmare involving a fish. It's 2:10pm. Fuck it. I'll leave anyway... I hate airports but I hate sitting around at home more.

I check the weather in Copenhagen. It's 57^{o .} Wow! Sure beats the 90's. I can take my raincoat and fedora... dress like Mykel Board... oh yeah. So I stuff the raincoat between the suitcase and my small carry-on, put the fedora on my head and leave for the subway.

The subway ride to the airport stinks. The Bleecker Street station is un-airconditioned and the elevator from the street goes to turnstiles that are too narrow for my baggage. I have to slide the bags under then jump over the turnstile like a fare-beater. On the other side waits a cop.... actually not, but it would have made a fucked up story even better!

There's a change of trains at METRO TECH. (What kinda name is Metro Tech? It's not a street... not a building... what is a TECH, for fuck's sake?) The A-train runs in two branches. One goes to LEFFERTS BLVD, the other to the ROCKAWAYS. (Yeah those Rockaways.) Only the Rockaway branch stops at the Airtrain at Howard Beach.

At Howard Beach station is one of those electronic public-private joint ventures. It's an electric advertisement for a bunch of stuff you don't want. Can you say, Bvlgari? If you touch the screen, you can see a subway map with a few options. If you touch the SCHEDULE option, it will lie about trains arriving during the next ten minutes or so.

There are two French girls (both attractive... late 20s), both with suitcases. They're trying to figure out the screen. Unlike print signs that you can just look at for information, with these signs, you have to wait for the information you want to flash... then quickly remember it before the next group of trains flashes. I point to the A-train schedule. The next one says LEFFERTS BLVD.

Cette train va pas à l'aéroport,” I say in my best French. “Il va a Lefferts. Vous avez besoin d'un train a Rockaway.” I stress the WAY in Rockaway, so it'll sound more French.

Merci,” says the taller of the two.

Non problem,” I reply.

In five minutes the next train arrives. Above the window, in flashing red lights is FAR ROCKAWAY.

C'est ici! Celui là!” I tell the girls, motioning to the train. I pull my bag into the train and make sure the girls are following me. They have this cute hard luggage... white with little animals all over it... like something you'd expect to see a Japanese tourist with.

Ow doo you know ziss eeez ze right tren?” the shorter girl asks, tired of my bad French.

I point to the ROCKAWAY sign, then to other passengers in the car with suitcases. They nod as the doors close behind us. Inside the crowded car, they stand next to the door. I stand with them, until the first stop when some seats open up. I sit in one. They move to open seats at the other end of the car, whispering in French something I'm sure that means, “Let's get away from this creep.”

At Howard Beach we switch to the Airtrain. I have to buy another Metrocard because my old-people's card isn't good for the $5 Airtrain. There's an extra $1 fee for the new Metrocard. Here, the turnstiles open flat, like someone had the idea that people might be carrying bags to the airport.

I notice that the French girls are in the same car with me-- at the other end. I wave to them. They pretend they don't see me. We all get off at terminal 1-- the international building.

Now, to find the plane. There is another electronic sign. It lists the airlines in alphabetical order, along with their check-in aisles. Unlike print signs that you can just look at for information, these signs you have to wait for the information you want to flash... then quickly remember it before the next group of airlines flashes.

After a few screens, there it is NORWEGIAN AIR... now where is the aisle listed? Fuck! The sign changed already. I've got to go through the whole alphabet... AIR FRANCE, BELGIAN AIR... blah blah. Finally, got it. NORWEGIAN AIR AISLE H. I head down the letters. Of course, H is the last aisle.

A lot of Orientals are on line-- and it's a huge line. Strange for a Norwegian plane going to Denmark... but this is the modern world. I look for the end of the line, then see a cardboard placard that says CHINA AIR CHECK-IN. Then two guys in red uniforms.

You looking for Norwegian Air?” asks the shorter of the two.

Yep,” I say.

It's in Aisle D,” he says.

But the sign over there...(I point), says Aisle H,” I tell him.

It's Aisle D,” he says. “The usual eleven o'clock flight is here. But that's canceled...”

“What?” I say.

He corrects himself. “Not canceled,” he says. “It's just that the time was changed to 5 o'clock.”

It's now about 4pm. What would've happened if I'd gotten to the airport at a reasonable time for an 11:30 flight? I'd have been 6 hours late.

I run for Aisle D. At the end of the aisle, at a check-in counter with no airline listed, there is a guy with the same kind of uniform as the guys at Aisle H.

Is this the check-in for Norwegian Airlines?” I ask him.

“Yes,” he says, “for the 5 o'clock flight to London.”

“London?” I say. “I'm going to Copenhagen.”

“That flight is at Aisle H,” he says.

But they sent me here,” I tell him.

“We don't have any information on that flight yet,” he says. “Come back after five and we'll let you know. We'll probably have hotel vouchers for you. But you'll have to go to Aisle H.”

A very proper-looking man stands with his suitcase by the desk. “Is this Premium Check-in?” he asks with an English accent so thick it could exit Europe.

“You're going to London?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “It's bloody terrible about the canceled flights.”

Then he tells me about the chaos two days before. It was the first I'd heard of it.

I sit on the floor, less in protest than in confusion. Next to me do not sit the French girls from the train. They've left this story. But there are some other people frantically poking at their cellphones.

I pull out mine... cellphone, that is. I talk into the Google speaker. “Norwegian Airlines customer service,” I say.

There's the number. Along with a little blue bar that says “private mail for your eyes only.”

Usually, when I get messages with that subject, I figure it's MaryEllen Looking for An Older Man or a Nigerian with a bundle of money he wants me to hold for him. But this one is not.

We're sorry to tell you that your flight has been canceled due to A SITUATION at Kennedy Airport. You are eligible for a full refund or you can reschedule

I try to call, but can't make out the garbled instructions. I push ONE, and some music starts playing. I don't want to talk on the cellphone. The sound quality is so bad on those things I'll never understand anything. But wait, there are some COIN PHONES on the wall over there.

I hang up the cellphone and go over to the coin phones. I dial the 800 number, and in less time than it takes to read the entire Bible, an agent is on the line.

“Norwegian Air how may I help you?” he says in a thick Indian accent.

“I'm calling from the airport,” I tell him. “My flight was canceled and I don't know what to do.”

“I'm sorry,” he says. “There is a very bad connection. Can you tell me again why you're calling?”

“MY FLIGHT WAS CANCELED!” I yell into the phone.

“I understand your flight was canceled. Is that correct?” he asks.

'Yes,” I say.

“Pardon me?” he says.

“YES!” I shout.

I shout my ticket number and “record locator” into the phone. He looks it up.

“You are correct,” he says. “Your flight has been canceled. We can offer you two options. You can reschedule the flight for another time or you can receive a full refund.”

“Can I rebook for tomorrow?” I ask.

“Tomorrow, did you say?” He asks.

“YES!” I shout.

“Please hold,” he says.

In less time than it takes to build the Second Avenue Subway, he's back on the line.

“I can book you for tomorrow,” he tells me. “For security purposes, could you give my your birthday?”

“One-thirty-one-fifty” I say.

“I'm sorry. This is indeed a bad connection,” he says. “Could you please repeat that?”
“JANUARY THIRTY FIRST NINETEEN FIFTY!” I shout.

“Thank you for that information. And may I know your telephone number.”

By now the whole airport is looking at me... standing by myself at a bank of payphones, shouting at the top of my lungs. I'm afraid they're going to call security. The airport crew must be quite on edge these days.

After shouting the last four digits of my social security number, my email address, and the spelling of my name...

Is that M-I-K-E-L?” he asks.

“No! M-Y... like in YIPPIE-- K-E-L!” I say.

Thanks you for that information,” he says. “There should be a confirming email in your inbox within the next few minutes.”

I shout... and hang up.

I check my email. Nothing new there except an offer from some Nigerian asking me to hold his money.

On the train back, I have a nice talk with Ari, a Guyanese guy. We talk about Kaiter Falls and where to get good pepperpot in New York. Yeah, Sybils is the place, we both agree.

I make it home in less time than it takes for dinosaurs to become extinct. By then, there is a message from Norwegian air with “confirmation” of my flight tomorrow. I have dinner and start writing.

It's now about 3:30AM, my time. I'm going to post this and try to get some sleep. I'll let you know what happens tomorrow.... er... today... later. 

BUT WAIT THERE'S MORE:

Today I checked the Norwegian Air website well in advance. This was waiting for me:

 

That means I have to get up at 5AM my time... and I arrive just after midnight in Denmark! My poor hostess... my poor circadian rhythm!

I've written before about how I hate it when everything goes right. That always means a disaster later. Right now, I hope I'm getting my disaster out of the way... even before I leave.

--Mykel

Oh yeah, you can read my other-- more controversial-- blog at mykelsblog.blogspot.com. Comments are welcome.

I Had A Dream... Landing in Manila

CONQUERING THE PHILIPPINES

Mykel Board's Philippine Blog

Entry Two

Posted December 16, 2015

The only way we know it's true is that we both dreamed it. That's what reality is. It's a dream everyone has together. -Jeffrey Eugenides

I woke up this morning at 9:30... from a nightmare: I am in a park... city unknown... walking through... a shortcut to somewhere. A big colored guy, wearing black clothes... steps in my path. He doesn't touch me, but I know he wants to rob me... to hurt me. He's standing close, blocking my path.

I briefly consider throwing a leg behind him and pushing him over... judo style. I discard the idea. Other people are walking in the park... wearing trenchcoats and fedoras...detective style... my style... no one notices us.

I open my mouth to scream HELP!... like I really did in Italy when surrounded by people who didn't like having their picture taken... In this dream, I can't scream. My throat freezes... only a whisper escapes... A few people pass us. I don't remember their race but they're mostly dressed like students... in school uniforms. I look at them pleadingly. They pretend not to notice.

A white guy in a inform... mostly white fabric with a cop-like hat and epaulets on the sleeves... passes... I beg him with my eyes. He turns to us... steps between my attacker and me... The attacker leaves... I'm relieved... at first. Then I see this man is blocking my path...looking menacing into my eyes.

I wake up.

WHAT THE FUCK?

I leave this country in 2 days. I have NEVER felt in danger here. What is this dream about?

Okay, I'm superstitions to start with... I'll cross the street to avoid a black cat. I don't make any plans for Friday the 13^th. I never open an umbrella inside. A broken mirror has me looking over my shoulder for weeks. I know it's not logical. I know it's primitive... infantile... but that's my inner being. You can't teach an old punk new tricks.

In Japan, Buddhist temples offer fortunes... you pay a few yen and shake a jar full of sticks. One of the sticks falls through a hole in the jar lid. That stick has a number on it. The number matches a drawer in a large wood cabinet. Inside the drawer is your fortune:

CARELESSNESS LEADS TO BROKEN BONES

Great! Just what I need. I was picturing stumbling on wet leaves, or being drunk and missing a curb. Suddenly the meaning changes... becomes more sinister... Make the wrong moves with the wrong people... and you'll have someone else break your bones.

There was that girl in THE HOUSE OF THE RISING SUN. I plan to go back there tonight. I promised. Mabel, the manager gave me her own phone number. The day after the club I texted her:

Great to meet you last night. I was a bit too drunk and in love with that girl who sat next to me. Now I only remember her beautiful face not her name. Could you tell me? Thanks and see you soon.

The answer came in a few minutes:

Her name is Dovie. Where are you now Mykel?

I ANSWER

Ok Mykel, we just wait your promise to us to comebak soon! Take care your self!

Tonight I plan to keep the promise... make my own farewell party... go with some friends... introduce everyone to Dovie... You know... get my leg broken for not paying her “surcharge.”

FLASH TO THE AIRPORT... LANDING... December 1... or was it 2?

In New York, no one every meets you at the airport.

“Take a subway/bus/cab, get off at your hotel/my place/grand central,” that's the way we do it. It's different here.

“How do I find my way into town?” I facebook Hil... one of the Pinoy friends I made on facebook.

“I'll meet you,” he says. “Manila airport is the worst airport in the world. You'll never get out of there without us.”

“How will I know you?” I ask.

“I'll come with a friend... Johnny Deadbrain... and we'll hold up a big sign that says:

MYKEL BOARD.”

“Great,” I answer.

“And watch out for THE BULLET,” he says. “It's usually a problem leaving-- not arriving... but you never know.”

In a conversation with another Filipino facebook friend, Emmanuel, I suggest he come to the airport too. You can't have too many back-ups and insurance friends. I figure, if the other guys come, Emmanuel will see the MYKEL BOARD sign and join the party. I figure wrong.

Great, something else to worry about. Though I'm an experienced traveler, I'm a worry wort. Besides being superstitious, I always expect the worst. USUALLY, nothing happens, but just often enough I have to go through a ton of shit... bribes... delays... strip searches... by very unattractive people... it stays with me.

I get off the plane in Manila, immigration is easy. Inside the terminal... there are a bunch of cab-driver-looking people holding up signs with people's name on them. No punk rockers. No MYKEL BOARD. I walk out of the terminal. It's HOT! Japan was cold... sweater cold... when I left. The weather here is tropical... I mean... what the fuck? It's the tropics!

There doesn't seem to be anyone waiting for family members at all.... just taxi drivers.

“Taxi? Taxi”

“Where you goin'?”

“I'm waiting for a friend,” I tell 'em. They go off to hustle someone else.

I keep looking.

I explain the situation to one of the drivers.

“Do you have your friend's phone number?” he asks me.

“Yeah,” I tell him, “but I don't have a phone. I can't call him.”

“I'll help you,” he says. “I'll bring you to someone who has a phone. Write down the number for me.”

Suspicious, but out of alternatives, I follow the driver to a group of his co-workers. He shows the number to one of them, a short guy... about my height... with a thick Greek-looking mustache.

The guy takes his cellphone... dials... waits... shakes his head.

“Your sure it's the right number,” he asks.

“It's the only number I have,” I tell him.

“Let's try a different phone,” he says, pulling me deeper into the crowd of drivers.

What the fuck? I was supposed to meet the guys right outside the airport. That's where I am... I smell scam among these drivers.

“Sorry,” I say, and walk back to the airport, figuring he's just very late as people from hot countries are apt to be.

Still looking, I try to reenter the terminal. A guard stops me. It's like a rock club... no readmission. I'm screwed... fucked... stranded...

The same cab driver returns to me. Walking from a pack of his fellow drivers. What does he want now? New scam time?

“I contacted your friend,” he tells me. “He's waiting for you just at the exit of the airport. He's standing under a sign that says TAXIMUS...” He writes the name down on a piece of paper. “Follow me, I'll show you how to get there.”

He takes me to the entrance to a tunnel, that leads... I donno where.

Here it comes. The kidnapping... the body part harvesting... the jihad beheading.

“Just go down that way,” he says, pointing to the tunnel entrance. “And I hope you can give me something to say thanks.”

I open my wallet. I have a few bills I got when I changed some money in New York. Of course he should get something. He either saved me or got me killed. In either case, a few dollars won't hurt. I shuffle through the bills... all thousands... I don't have any idea of the currency here, but I just want to meet my friends and get out.

“How 'bout one of those,” he says, pointing to the thousand peso bills in my wallet. I take out one of them out and give it to him.

“Thanks,” he says, and I head down the tunnel.

It opens somehow onto a street. There are a ton of other people waiting for friends and relatives. Evidently this IS the human waiting place. The airport itself is reserved for taxi drivers only.

There is the sign: TAXIMUS... and there are two guys, one a bit usual, just a friendly guy looking... the other long hair, black leather jacket, punk rock. Between them they hold a sign:

MYKEL BOARD

I wave... walk over to them... shake hands.

“Hil! Johnny!” I say to the guy in the leather jacket... I guessed right.

There's no Emmanuel, but 2 out of three isn't bad. When I explain my 1000peso tip to Hil he laughs.

“That's $20, Mykel,” he says. “The guy is probably just gonna take that and call it a night.”

“Shit,” I say, “well, it's my first minutes in Manila... things like that always happen at first. How much will a cab cost to Johnny's?” (I expect to stay with him, sleeping on the floor.)

“Fuck cabs. You're going to learn the REAL Philippines, Mykel,” Hil tells me.

Johnny takes my bags (way too much! Usually I travel much lighter.) We're going by jeep. (Click on the image below for some more pictures)

Jeepneys

More precisely a JEEPNEY, the most common and cheapest way to travel in Manila. A jeepney is a modified jeep... extended and painted-- often beautifully... sometimes with Christian themes, sometimes with family figures, zombies, super-heroes you never know.

It's just one of the Philippine mind bogglers. They travel in art... moving art.

In the jipney windshields are small signs with the destination of that particular jeep. You flag one down and get in. Inside there is a row of benches along either side. There is room for 12 people. Usually there are 19... and their too-much luggage. In addition to the sweating passenger bodies, the driver usually plays music louder than a city SUV.

Once you wedge yourself inside the jeep, you fish around for some money. Then you say BUY PO (or something like that) and pass your money to the next passenger who passes it forward. Sometimes the driver takes it. Sometimes he's (always HE in my experience) got a helper to take it. If there is a helper, that guy raises his eyebrows when he gets your money. You shout over the music: your destination and how many people you're paying for. If you pay the driver, he looks at you either in the rearview mirror or directly when the traffic is stopped... which is often.

My Philippine friends say Manila has the worst traffic in the world. People in the near suburbs get up at 4AM to be at work by 9. It makes the LA freeways seem like speedways by comparison. The air pollution is so bad that my sometimes cough instantly morphs into bronchitis.

The air is so dirty, that scratching a mosquito bite will leave your nails black. Headlights reflect what looks like a permanent fog. In the morning, you pull from your nose thick black boogers... as long as a tapeworm.

The locals seem used to this pollution. Every-once-in-awhile you see someone on a jeepney with a surgical mask... the kind that Japanese wear as a matter of course... or just a washcloth over their mouths. Usually, it's business as usual no acknowledgment of the air.

I have a theory: Manilans have evolved to NEED pollution. Their body uses it as nourishment... stimulation... aphrodesia. Their lungs crave it like a penis craves stroking. The proof is in the smoke.

I have never seen a group of people who smoke as much as the Manilans. Two... three... more... packs a day. Not chain smokers, but machine gun smokers. POW! POW! POW! Everyone! Restaurants, bars, home, everywhere... hangs smoke from tobacco. Turning down a cigarette here is as strange as turning down cash.

The reason? Lungs! Manila people are allergic to clean air. It cripples them... makes them impotent... weak... sick. The natural air in the city usually takes care of the need to breathe dirt... but what about inside? Or on a deserted street in the middle of the night? Clean air can creep up on you anywhere... Cigarettes are the best defense.

Three hours later, we arrive at Johnny's place. I get the futon. Johnny sleeps on a cardboard box on the floor. (Yes, that's how great the people are here.) After Johnny smokes a last cigarette, I say good night.

These guys... never met 'em before... they spent eight hours to meet me at the airport and take me back. 8 hours! That's just one of the things you learn about the people here... other than they need filth in their lungs.

And oh yeah, Emmanual WAS at the airport. Waited all night for me, tried to contact me by facebook. I fucked him over. Damn. These people are great. I feel like shit for HIS eight hours.

--More next time....

And don't worry, I haven't forgotten Japan... it's just that if I don't start going backwards... I'll never catch up!