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.

PASSAGE TO AFRICA Chapter 7: Ryan Air

PASSAGE TO AFRICA

Chapter 7... Ryan Air!

I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air. I hate Ryan Air.

Oh yeah, did I mention that

I HATE RYAN AIR?

I start this blog entry in the airport in Karlsrhue Germany. Xavier, a heroic figure, not only booked my flight from here to Malaga, but used his credit card to pay for it. (Yeah, I paid him back), He also got up at 3AM to take me to Germany to catch a plane. Aw, he shouldn't have... you bet your family jewels he shouldn't have.

I'd heard stories about Ryan Air before I left. Worst airline in the world. They charge you to use the toilet on the plane. Evil. Evil. Evil.

Xaviar didn't know. He thought he was helping me. He found a cheap flight and the quickest way to get close to (sort of) Gibraltar... my next port of call. The flight was only 60€, cheaper than the train... and way faster. You have to leave at 6AM, Xavier'll drive me. And what the fuck if it saves a bundle, right? Wrong.

Text from Xavier: Mykel I need to print out your ticket, I need your passport number.

I text it to him.

Text from Xavier: Mykel, I need the expiration date. And your date of birth.

I text them to him.

Text from Xavier: Mykel, I need to know how much baggage you have. They only allow 15 kilos on board.

Text from Mykel to Xavier: I don't know the weight, but it's pretty close to that. Just a backpack and a computer bag.

Text from Xavier to Mykel: I made a mistake you only get 10 kilos on the plane. You'll have to check one bag. Let's hope it's less than 15 kilos.

Back at the house, I take out some books and pack them to mail home. Then weigh my bags. They're almost equal weight.... about 9 kilos each. I'll have to check one... there goes another 15€. Price of the flight just rose from 60€ to 75€.

While at work, Xavier prints out about 10 pages of information and ticketing stuff. I look through it. Geez! Check-in starts 2 hours before departure, and closes 40 minutes before departure. That doesn't leave much of a window. Get there between 4 AM and 5:20 AM or your stuck! Normal airlines allow you to check in anytime before... up to 20 minutes. This is not a normal airline.

Since Xavier is the one going out of his way, I tell him I'll do whatever is convenient for him. He wants to go at 11PM, dump me and then go home and get some sleep. Fine with me, I only ask him to check to make sure the airport's open at night. Even LaGuardia closes for a few hours.

“Mykel,” he tells me, “the plane leaves at 6. You check in at 4. Do you think they'll close for only two or three hours?”

“Call and check,” his mother tells him, in French. He looks up the number on the internet. He calls, and checks... in English. The airport is closed from 11PM to 4AM. So the airport opens and check-in begins the same time. I can imagine people locked out-- then the rush. I wonder if you can even drive in front of the terminals before they open. Security. Security. Security. God do I hate security.

Well there's nothing to do but time it to arrive at 4. Earlier and we can't get in. Later and I risk missing the tiny Ryan Air window-of-check-in. No choice.

The doorbell rings at 3AM. There's Xavier, not exactly bright-eyed or bushy tailed... but ready to serve me. (He has to work today, but he's taking me just the same... an hour there and then he has to come back. I tell you, he's a Superman!)

We arrive at the airport at 3:45, pretty good timing. No blockades on the outer roads. He pulls up to the terminal. I pull on the door to the waiting room. It opens. Xavier opens the trunk. We take out my bags... do that French kissy here... kissy there thing. He takes off and I walk inside.

The place is empty... abandoned. I take a seat... reserved for handicapped... but it's only me... in the whole airport, I don't feel guilty. At 3:55 I get up to check the ticket counter, look around. That does it for the seat. Mom, kid, and baggage... the whole row... monopolized by a hausfrau and kind. I move my bags to be first in line for the Ryan Air check in. It's not long before there's a line behind me.

The counter is scheduled to open at 4:05AM. At 4:07AM comes the click click click of professional women's shoes. The counter opens. The woman behind the counter calls me to her. He's young, pretty in a professional way, decked out in a blue uniform. I hand her my passport and the sheaf of paper Xavier printed out. She checks my bag and sends it through the x-ray on the conveyer belt to the back. Then she shuffles the pages. Then she shuffles them again.

“Did you print out your boarding pass?” she asks me in English.

“That's everything I have,” I tell her. “My friend printed it out.”

“After the check in,” she says. “We sent you an email with a boarding pass. You have to print that out.”

“I have no printer,” I tell her. “My friend printed out what was available. He has no printer. He had to do it at work.”

“We can print a boarding pass for you,” she continues. “But you'll have to pay sixty euros.”

“SIXTY EUROS,” I say, loudly enough to turn heads. “That's how much the whole ticket cost. A normal airline prints out a boarding pass for free! How can printing a boarding pass cost the same as the entire fare?”

She shrugs, which I guess means this is not a normal airline.

I throw down my Delta-Amex card. At least I can earn some miles on a normal airline.

“We don't take Amex,” she says.

The next part should be unprintable, but I manage to keep control enough to get out of there. Times like this make me glad there is gun control in Europe. Probably saved a few lives.

“Have a nice flight,” says the agent as I leave.

I do not kill her.

Then I get to SECURITY.

In a normal airport, passengers empty their pockets, take off their shoes, fill plastic trays at their leisure, take off their coats and-- when they're read-- put their hand bags and trays through the x-ray machine. This is not a normal airport.

Here, they take passengers one at a time. Give them each three trays. Then watch-- individually... one at a time... while they take off their belts, empty their pockets, pull their laptops from their computer bags. No one else can approach the x-ray until each person is watched, and disposed of... one by one.

I keep a lot of stuff in my pockets. I tie my camera and cellphone to my belt. It takes me awhile at the trays. In a normal airport, half a dozen people pass me by while I fill the trays. At least they don't make you take your shoes off here... that'll save a bit of time...t's always a struggle with my boots.

Finally, empty pockets, empty belt buckle, empty computer bag, the trays slide through the machine. I walk through the metal detector.

BEEP BEEP BEEP

A tall guy, looking a lot like LURCH in the old Adams Family TV show, stops me.

“Arme hoh!” he says.

I raise my arms. He presses his e-paddle against me. It beeps as it hits the snaps on my shirt and then something in my pocket... a coin I forgot perhaps. I reach to get it.

“Nein!” he shouts, pushing my arms back to the crucifixion position they were in. He feels around the pocket... from the outside... and satisfied... motions for me to turn around.

“Deutsch, Fransozich, oder Englisch,” he commands.

“English,” I say.

“GET OUT YOUR BOOTS,” he shouts.

I do not make any cracks about “Germans.”

I take my boots off. He runs them through the x-ray. Then he runs his paddle over my stocking feet. It doesn't beep. When the boots come back negative, he hands them to me.

“Enjoy your flight,” he says in English.

I do not kill him either.

It's 5:35, I'm on the plane. No seat numbers on Ryan Air... just scramble... like musical chairs... without the music... I've got a place behind an empty seat. What luck! Yeah, this is a lucky flight all right. I just want to shut down and go to sleep. I slept 3 hours last night... less. I'm also depressed about paying full fare... twice. I could use the extra two hours sleep that this flight offers... Yeah right.

First, it's bright in here. 5 AM and the cabin is lit up like the inside of a McDonalds. The decor is bright yellow, just in case you were getting drowsy. Sleep? Fuggedaboutit! Think you can get away with a hat over your eyes. Fat chance... the loud... and I mean LOUD... speaker comes on.

First, the emergency instructions... Jeezus! Is there anyone outside of a few Mongolian yak farmers who does not know that you fasten a seat belt by inserting the tab into the buckle and pulling on the belt to tighten it. To release, flip the front of the buckle. And we all need a demonstration of dropping oxygen masks. Where are we supposed to stick that thing? And how do we keep it attached?

Ok, maybe that stuff's required by law, but in normal airlines, it comes through headphones and you can unplug it. This is not a normal airline.

But wait there's more.! Non-stop. They're trying to sell you things. First, the food, Water or coffee 3€ (about $4.50)... what is this, Starbucks?, A Marsbar for 2€. Slice of pizza 5€.

Sure, I'm gonna eat on Ryan Air. If I get sick they'll probably charge me a Euro for the barf bag.

But wait... there's more! After the food commercial comes a pitch for Ryan Air's own Scratch-off Lottery... only 2€ a ticket... 8 for 14€. What a deal! Then comes the Ryan Air Phone Cards (I shit you not.) And Ryan Air Souvenirs.

The stewardess delivers each sales pitch in really bad English. She sounds Dutch, her accent is just the other side of intelligibility... her voice as pleasant as the sound of a blowing nose. And then, each pitch is repeated, first in German, then in French. Does anyone buy this crap? Maybe if they sold Ryan Air Parachutes , they'd get some customers. I'd jump. Why can't they let me sleep?

So far I've paid 135€ to be tortured. And I don't even get an attractive girl in black leather to do it! I've got to put away the computer, now. We're landing soon. I bet they lose my luggage.

--end-

This is a continuation of Mykel's travel blog for his trip to Africa. You can read the earlier entries here:

Episode 1 here

Episode 2 here

Episode 3 here

Episode 4 here.

Episode 5 here

Episode 6 here

Pictures: France

LEAVING NEW YORK

For an increasingly updated look at the PICTURES of my life in Trinidad and Venezuela, click on the picture below:

Trinidad

 According to the little digital clock in the corner of the screen. It is exactly Midnight between August 14 and August 15. I can't sleep. Last night, I slept 4 maybe 4 ½ hours. I never sleep the night before a trip. But this is two days. My brain's on fire. Maybe I have a tumor. Encephelitis. Something.

 Lately I've been... off. Ever since I had the worst hangover ever after spending a day with some Mexican punk rockers... The Sunday after-- they all slept on my floor. Were gone when I got up. Me? I couldn't move for more than 12 hours, except to expel some liquid or semi-solid... 

 Since then, I've been feeling nauseous at least once a day, and not too hot the rest of the time. Nerves I tell myself. I hope I'm right.

 It's strange that I would be a nervous traveler. I do so much of it. It's my passion, my life. But it's not the journey that's the passion, but the adventure. I hate airports: the expensive bad food, the security on security on security. The boredom, the clock watching. I'm usually hours early.

The planes are hours late. The weather forecast is thunder storms. Mmmm yeah!

 My apartment smells of cigar smoke from my nephew Kirk who'll be staying here while I'm gone. The plan was to have him move in on Monday, introduce him to the neighbors, show him the post office, take him to the bank, let him be seen with me. Ease him into it. Hang out a bit. I love the guy and don't get much chance to see him. Such was the plan. 

 I've seen him for 10 minutes... maybe an hour. I did get to introduce him to the post office staff and we went out for a Chinese dinner. No landlord. No neighbors. No hanging out. 

 In the middle of our Chinese dinner there were huge thunderstorms. CRACK! Torrential downpour. Like in the tropics. A welcome to Trinidad? Not New York weather. I bet it'll rain like this tomorrow morning. The flight will be delayed. Canceled. I'll miss the Trinidad connection. Be stuck in Atlanta. Moved in to the airport for a day.

 Where is Kirk he now? 12:07AM. The Shuttlebus is scheduled to pick me up in 4½ hours.Out for a walk? Comforting his girlfriend with a sick mother? Who knows? It's not his fault. There is no fault. It's only the way it works... or doesn't.

 It's been a hell of a summer. My mother died. Kirk's mom lost her apartment in The City and was traveling homeless, until recently. Now their car broke down and they're living out of boxes in New Jersey. A few hours ago, I called my long-time pal Helen on her birthday. The news? Her mother died in June. I hope G-d makes the big change on Rosh Hashona, before would be nice. This has not been a good year. (And there's still an election to go through!) 

  4:07PM (NY-- 5:07PM Trinidad) I'm in the air on the way from NY to Port of Spain (for some reason I keep thinking Port of Soul where does that come from?) Kirk returned at about midnight. We sat together for a quarter hour, waiting for the Airport shuttle that was only 15 minutes late. And the guy called to say he'd be late. It's not raining. The night is bracing. Not cool, but not warm. A perfect temperature. Something will go wrong.

 Kind of ridiculous to schedule a 4:30 pick-up for a 9:00 flight, right? Wrong! There are only 3 passengers on the shuttle. The trip speeds through queens. We arrive at 5:15. The airport looks more crowded than usual. There's a huge line at the ticket counter. I'm lucky. I have an e-ticket and only carry on luggage. I can check in by machine. Just run my credit card in the slot, punch in my flight number and read the information on the screen: 

NO SUCH FLIGHT NUMBER, PLEASE REENTER.

 I try again. Same message. I get on the end of the line huge line-- extending way past the end of the barrier ropes. The thunderstorms of last night have caused dozens of cancellations. The people on line are waiting to talk to an agent to get rebooked as best they can. And then again there are those of us to just want to check in. I put my bags at the end of the line and walk over to the flight screens. I look for my flight number. I see the dozens of cancellations. My flight is not among them. It's not among the scheduled flights either. It's just not there. What can I do except wait on the line and see what's going on. I look at the clock on my cellphone. It's 5:30AM. 

 At 7:22 AM I reach the front of the line. 

 “No problem sir,” says the clerk as she prints out boarding passes for a completely different flight number. “Why didn't you check in automatically?”

 I don't hit her...

 I sleep about half an hour in the plane to Atlanta. I got another hour so far on this plane. That plus the 3 last night gives me a total of 8... combined over the last 2 nights. Aren't vacations to relax? Catch up on sleep? Yeah, right.